Sunflower

Because it's cold and miserable outside, I'm going with something warm and lovely.  Here's a picture prompt from my summer.  Maybe if I stare at it long enough, I'll forget the winter weather outside.

 

 

Enjoy!

 

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My response:

 

He watched her climb the hill in the dying light.  She'd managed to finish her chores before sunset, her Mama's requirement if she was going to visit him.  Her amber hair, escaped from her bun, stood in wisps around her face, reflecting the light of the sun like a halo.  The hem of her blue dress hung, heavy with mud, over her bare feet as she trudged up the hill.  She was too old to go around without a pair of shoes anymore, but no one had told her that.  Her apron had a smear of soot from the charcoal stove, and a matching spot stained her cheek.  When she looked up and smiled at him, she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on. 

 

He picked up the small bouquet of wildflowers he'd gathered on his lunch break.  They'd wilted, sitting too near the forge.  He held them out to her, anyway, and earned another smile.

Fire Prompt

I went to Google Images to find a picture of fire for the prompt today, and I found way too many ideas!

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.



Ruins

Let's go with a picture prompt this week:

 

Enjoy!

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My response:

She padded softly across the stone, the mossy surface damp under the pads of her feet.  She kept to the shadows, where she was less likely to be seen.  Hunting in the daytime was difficult for her.  The tall trees of the canopy cast long shadows over the jungle, but her prey had sharp eyes, and her shining black pelt shimmered in the light.  It was much easier in the dark.

But tonight she was hungry.  Only two cubs remained of the three she'd born half a moon ago.  They were so small and helpless, and they drained her strength from her with their own hunger.  She was exhausted, but she didn't dare rest out of sight of her den.  She wasn't the only shadow out hunting this day.

(I know this is shorter than my typical responses, but I'm going to exercise my right to say, nope, I'm not feeling this one.  Maybe it's because I haven't written anything anthropomorphic since elementary.  No offense to Kipling, I just don't think it's my thing.)