Tuesday, March 20, 2012

A Hundred Word Story

The air pressed down into his throat pincer-like and oppressive. He felt deformed and grotesque; his eyebrows felt singed and his fingers distended. He attempted upward movement only to meet his chest pressing downward in violent fashion. He pushed his voice out and heard in the distance a faint echo of self. Trying to fight the urge to delay consciousness, he counted in his head, each number interspersed with a hundred pointed splinters, tearing and shredding the surface of an unfelt body.

And then he heard someone say, “He will live. It will take a while. But he will live.”