1. Sweat stings his eyes, running in pulsating streams over his sodden eyebrows. Sweat itself is odorless, the noticeable and socially offensive musk is caused by excretion from bacteria feasting on the sweat.
Leaning back, he lets gravity and momentum carry his flailing limbs down the hill. Kicking up dust in exaggerated strides, he struggles to keep his mouth and eyes closed.
2. Hope sparkles in the crimson rims of her tear stained eyes. Brushing bangs away from her face, she reloads the Glock G22 and turns around. Blood clings to her hair and clothing like congealed syrup. Floorboards creaking under her approach, destroying all intentions of surprise.
3. He awoke with the taste of salty iron lingering in his mouth and a pounding headache. Shakingly rising off the forest green plush rug, he struggled to get his limbs to work in sync with each other. His vision became hazy, and only managed to stagger a few uneven steps before his head met carpet again. It was only after a few tries he noticed the chain around his ankle. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been in this room. Hours? Weeks? All he knew was that he had what he could only deduce as the worst hangover ever, and with the room lacking any windows, he had no idea what time it was.
Created: Jul 14, 2010Document Media