Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Two-Fifty Tuesdays #9

Excerpts of my writing consisting of 250 words. No more. No less. 

The following passage was taken from Chapter Three of my novel, Guinea Pig Maverick. 

        I fall against a boulder the size of a small car to catch my breath.  A large red streak drips down the front of my leg from when I tripped, but I ignore it for now.
Maverick is acting noticeably different.  He stands hunched over with his hands on his knees, his body shaking.  His breath comes in raspy gasps.  Sweat pours off his forehead, even more so than mine.  He lazily gestures with his hand for me to come over. 
Together, we squeeze down into a small cleft in the rocks.  This hiding place is both hard to spot from above and impossible to find from the ground.  Maverick drops to the dirt and leans his head against the rock.  He moans.
     “You okay?” I ask in a hushed voice, though I can’t imagine anyone can hear us.  Instead of responding, Maverick reaches up and yanks something from his shoulder.  He holds the object up in front of his face and blinks slowly.  It is a tiny silver dart.  He lets it fall from between his fingers to the ground.
     “I was hit,” he says.  His words are slurred. 
     “Is it poison?” I ask.  Might as well know the worst right off.  I check my own body for a dart.
     “Tubocurarine,” he says, his voice trailing off.  I pause from checking my back. 
     “Sedative,” he says, just barely getting the word out.  His head rolls to the side and he’s out.  I reach into my back pocket for ...

God bless,
~Amy Rochelle

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