A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: After Image

A Writer’s Book of Days Exercise: After Image

Someone was calling him. Liev couldn’t tell who it was through the high-pitched whine that surrounded everything. It wasn’t a fire alarm, didn’t rise and fall like sirens, couldn’t match the sheer annoyance of a public warning broadcast. He tried to cover his ears, but his hands wouldn’t move. They felt heavy, like the time Tomas had loaded all the weight bands on his wrists when he got too cocky during a workout.

He opened his eyes, but it took almost as much effort as a sit-up. His lashes were crusted over, his vision blurred. There was smoke in the air.

Right. An explosion. That would explain the whine in his ears. He’d been standing right beside the briefcase. Actually, that would explain why he couldn’t move, too. There’d be a lot of damage. Some emergency room doctor would probably try and explain it in words he didn’t understand, but he’d get Tomas to rephrase it in plain English afterwards.

If they got him to the hospital in time. Breathing felt like someone was sitting on his chest, and he still couldn’t see properly. It seemed like someone was lying beside him, her head turned his way. She could have been someone else caught in the blast, except she was transparent. He could see the broken wall through her head, and a piece of charred bench impaled her neck. She was smiling.

That probably wasn’t a good sign.

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