The first one that caught my eye had this yin/yang thing going on, all abstract and pretty.
The next one that stood out to me was similar in the two opposing colors, but entirely different, with the two fists.
Then there was this one, with the hand. The immediate feeling I get from this one is desperation.
This one would make a fabulous cover for a contemporary love story.
Or this one for an Asian themed action story.
For our fire prompt this week, choose whichever one appeals to you, and use it as your prompt.
Enjoy!
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My response:
(I'm going with the one with the hand.)
I yanked my mask down and slammed my hand into the swinging door of the surgical suite. One more patient gone, and I wasn't any closer to finding out why this was happening, or what we could do to stop it. A trail of blood stained the door, and I felt a twinge of guilt that someone would have to clean it up, but I was too tired to worry about it. The order came down from the hospital director that we weren't to lose one more patient, pull all the stops, use whatever measures we needed, we had to save one of them, and soon.
I peeled off both layers of gloves and tossed them into a hazardous waste container. My surgical gown and mask followed, my body moving with muscle memory as my mind churned. There had to be something we could do.
Across the hall, the surgeon's lounge was empty. Someone had left the TV on, and news coverage of the epidemic flashed across the screen. Protesters filled the courtyard in front of the hospital and crowded the streets. They wore masks and carried signs that read, "Down with BioWarfare!" "Doctors should HEAL, not KILL!" and "The end of the world is upon us, and it is our own doing!"
As I watched, the crowd parted. Two people supported a third between them. They made their way slowly to the front door. The police barricade parted to let them through.
I wondered how long it would be before he ended up dead on my surgical table. And it would be me, because I was the only one left. The doctors who designed the virus had gone in the first wave of casualties. Next were the general practitioners who saw the first cases. Then the surgeons started dropping. For the last forty-eight hours, I'd been alone in the battle.
They'd said they were going to send in more doctors, but who would agree to come? The nurses were disappearing just as fast, some simply refusing to show up for their shifts. I couldn't blame them. They have families and lives, too.
Had it really been forty-eight hours since they rolled Maya away, limp on the gurney? I did a quick self-assessment. Heart rate: seventy-two. Not bad. A little high, but I was under a lot of stress. Blood pressure: 112/65. Again, not as good as normal, but still well within normal ranges. Temperature: 98.3. It was a bit chilly in here. I stood in front of the mirror and peered at my eyes. They were a little bloodshot, but that too was expected. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept. Maybe it was for an hour or two before the last patient.
What had we decided the incubation period was? Twenty-four hours? Not more than Forty-eight.
Too many questions. Not enough answers. The cot in the corner never looked so inviting. I dropped down onto it, letting oblivion sweep over me.
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