simonmarcrobinson
She didn't agree with him one bit, but the thing that really jarred was his always beginning it every time. Every time. Why couldn't he just let things lie for once?
Through the failing light, they could see mist closing in on the lake.
The petri dishes had been autoclaved, but, even now, special precautions had to be taken to minimise cross infection.
The alarm clock rattled him out of his sleep. After some time, he tried to lever his limbs over the edge of the bed so that he could swivel into sitting upright. He found that he was stuck in this position, almost asleep once again, five minutes later. Why was it was proving so difficult to get going?
He stood still and seemed to be taking in the view. He stayed transfixed, too long for me to believe that he was looking at anything particular. What was he doing?
From out of the trenches he went, his comrades either side a comfort, the rum now cold inside, and the whistles' shrillness from deep behind reaching up as they ran over the broken wires.
He should have had a double, in fact he really had needed it. He swilled the remains of the straw coloured spirit around in his tumbler. The ice cubes still clinked.
The offer was a clear sign. Jack had never considered working for the secret service, but, put on the spot, he found that he was less keen than he might have been.
As gnarled as an olive branch, and as wily as he was wiry too.
Ever since the traumas of his childhood, he had found it difficult to express his anger, anger sparked by any number of triggers. His typical response was to 'swallow' difficult emotions. So they would lie dormant, festering just below the surface.
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writing since 2014 · 41 entries · 39 days shown up
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