(no subject)
So I gave the Write or Die website a try, just for kicks and nickels, because I've never done it before. Apparently, when I have no idea what I'm going to write about (or why, for that matter) I do things like this:
"She has too many hearts," and then they're off on a whirlwind adventure. Eight doctors, three cities, and twelve years.
"So you think this is a problem," Bayer says, as a protest, as a possibility. Because it wasn't for the longest time. It used to be alright, things used to go along fine, till it came to the days when Andri just couldn't get her breath. It wasn't even that she couldn't breathe, not really. It was that she was breathing someone else's breath, and someone else's heart was beating in her chest, and one in her stomach, and one ensconsed carefully in her left arm, and another somewhere no one could ever find it. He guessed she kept it under her bed.
The doctor, this particular doctor, this one who knows nothing about them but knows everything about hearts, is scrutinizing him, head lowered, eyebrows furrowed, and chin hesitant.
"You're a relative of the patient?"
"No."
"Hm." He shakes himself a little, nods to the side in a quick jerk of a tic, in what may be characteristic or may be a signal to some unknown watcher. Bayer hasn't been with him long enough to know. But the result never comes, if it's a direction to someone behind him, and instead the doctor, what's his name, Pritchard or something like that, instead Doctor Pritchard looks concenrned. Bayer hates it when people look concerned. It's never a good thing. "And you met how, then?"
"We were on a Tube. Eames to Ealing, to be precise."
"And you struck up a conversation."
"Not exactly."
"No?" The doctor is curious now; he hitches up a hip to lean against the examination table, wrinkling the clean white paper laid down in readiness for the next heartbitten victim.
Bayer swings his hands. Tips his head to the side, and pretends he's nodding in affirmation to a remark that hasn't been made.
"We were thinking what an odd thing it was. That the Tube went to two places that both started with E-A."
"Independently thinking this, or together?" prompts Doctor Pritchard.
"Independently, and then together. And then she kind of fell forward, like someone had cut her knees out from under her and replaced them with noodles, and no one was helping her."
"Nobody?"
"It's not the friendliest of cities," says Bayer, but he wants inexplicably to defend his home town. Sure, it has its rough spots, but what cradle of civilization doesn't? But he focuses on the important part, for now. "So I picked her up, and that's when I realized."
"Too many heartbeats."
"All over the place, bouncing off the walls and reverberating in my ears," says Bayer, and as bad as it is, as everything is, he's smiling. "So what do we do now, Doc?"
Doctor Pritchard twitches, hilariously. It's a whole-body jerk, as though he's been jolted by an electric current. "I hate it when people call me Doc," he says woefully.
"Sorry," says Bayer, but he isn't. Not really.
"My suggestion," says the Doctor, wearily, "is this."
487 words in 10 minutes. Maybe I should use the site more often?
"She has too many hearts," and then they're off on a whirlwind adventure. Eight doctors, three cities, and twelve years.
"So you think this is a problem," Bayer says, as a protest, as a possibility. Because it wasn't for the longest time. It used to be alright, things used to go along fine, till it came to the days when Andri just couldn't get her breath. It wasn't even that she couldn't breathe, not really. It was that she was breathing someone else's breath, and someone else's heart was beating in her chest, and one in her stomach, and one ensconsed carefully in her left arm, and another somewhere no one could ever find it. He guessed she kept it under her bed.
The doctor, this particular doctor, this one who knows nothing about them but knows everything about hearts, is scrutinizing him, head lowered, eyebrows furrowed, and chin hesitant.
"You're a relative of the patient?"
"No."
"Hm." He shakes himself a little, nods to the side in a quick jerk of a tic, in what may be characteristic or may be a signal to some unknown watcher. Bayer hasn't been with him long enough to know. But the result never comes, if it's a direction to someone behind him, and instead the doctor, what's his name, Pritchard or something like that, instead Doctor Pritchard looks concenrned. Bayer hates it when people look concerned. It's never a good thing. "And you met how, then?"
"We were on a Tube. Eames to Ealing, to be precise."
"And you struck up a conversation."
"Not exactly."
"No?" The doctor is curious now; he hitches up a hip to lean against the examination table, wrinkling the clean white paper laid down in readiness for the next heartbitten victim.
Bayer swings his hands. Tips his head to the side, and pretends he's nodding in affirmation to a remark that hasn't been made.
"We were thinking what an odd thing it was. That the Tube went to two places that both started with E-A."
"Independently thinking this, or together?" prompts Doctor Pritchard.
"Independently, and then together. And then she kind of fell forward, like someone had cut her knees out from under her and replaced them with noodles, and no one was helping her."
"Nobody?"
"It's not the friendliest of cities," says Bayer, but he wants inexplicably to defend his home town. Sure, it has its rough spots, but what cradle of civilization doesn't? But he focuses on the important part, for now. "So I picked her up, and that's when I realized."
"Too many heartbeats."
"All over the place, bouncing off the walls and reverberating in my ears," says Bayer, and as bad as it is, as everything is, he's smiling. "So what do we do now, Doc?"
Doctor Pritchard twitches, hilariously. It's a whole-body jerk, as though he's been jolted by an electric current. "I hate it when people call me Doc," he says woefully.
"Sorry," says Bayer, but he isn't. Not really.
"My suggestion," says the Doctor, wearily, "is this."
487 words in 10 minutes. Maybe I should use the site more often?