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The Outbreak: Letters (1)
#WritcoStoryPrompt86 (80)
P.S. This is one of my self-indulgent lengthy works (Off topic warning).
O Sweet Mina,
Ay, good bidings from ye, thy worries unraveled; whence t'is disheartening pain, from thy soul to yonder. Your second trimester hath come, thou art assured - your tender words speak true to thy fragile mind.
Good grief, enough frolicking about; you'd say. I guess you didn't know how much relief your mere words (slanted: /yes, mere words!/) brings and means to me. Can't help grinning from ear to ear - thou shall be the father of the Abigail, child o sweetest like flowing milk and honey! Should she bear even a fraction of her mother's splendor, she'd shine gloriously like the morning star, yielding jealousy from Venus, overshading Adonis, beaconing and towering over the night as the only light!
My frolick-ness apparently cannot be stopped without you putting sense into me, my Saint; the lack of your serene, imposing presence in your last letter saddens even the strongest of man. Have I, beautiful Adonis, lost my charm over you, my lady? Over countless restless nights, turning and tossing over my blankets - I decided I missed your scathing comments (slanted: /have you finally LOST it?/), got up and wrote you this, which I hope is a pleasant surprise.
I am well, North Antarctica, the land of ice and snow, has an overabundance of floating glaciers. No, I have yet to see the-polar-bear-of-your-dreams, which is a good thing I suppose, since it wouldn't end without a strife in jealousy or animosity between it and I - one cannot live while the other survives. If I happened to meet one and cannot return, mourn for your husband killed-by-love-rivals-including-bears.
Worry not, I enjoy the highest tier of life quality: all-year-round freeee (-zing) open-air conditioning, atmospheric flickering LEDs, and a nice background ambience (my fellow researcher/roommate screamed and threw a pillow at me) where I write this 'frolicsome' letter that you laughingly called.
The only one missing is you. My irritable mind can only (and barely!) hold together with the thought of you. Wife WANTED. If this persists, at the end of the year, you'll hear the death of me in the mouth of keen neighbors gossiping, that a handsome-young-man-died-prematurely-out-of grief-without-words-from-his-wife all because of your cruelty, your cold shoulder!
How could you bear such a thought? That your husband'll meet such an unhonourable, unsightly death?
It's about time for you to snap (slanted: /haven't you had enough!/), and the thought of you still makes me smile and my stomach warm despite all the cold and death threats. I run through so many of your lines a day, that I wonder if I would be fully capable of a one-man show to entertain you by the time I arrived home. This is perhaps a thought I can entertain.
I missed you a lot; you couldn't imagine the half of it (words blurred by unknown moisture). Most of the time I stare into the vast expanse of the barren land, and it stares back at me, somewhat embodying the fact that you will not be here somewhere waiting (crossed: my chest would seize in pain without you; my breath would choke in my throat, and stuck for days - I don't know how I'll live without snippets about you, I). Then perhaps you'll receive the news of me dying of boredom on the radio.
By now, your husband has died bloody, painful deaths thrice; if this does not quench your fury - nothing will; in fact this poor pilgrim suffers from three severe dismemberments, lying underground awaiting your call of mercy. You can stomp to further amputate, but this miserable pilgrim cannot be already deader than that (dead).
O gentle Saint, let your sweet lips condemn thy unworthy name; thou art insignificant, thou art ashamed - let your thunderous rage rain on thee, and thou shall die a thousand deaths from your mouth's arrows if it does please. For it is thy sin to have loved, it is thy sin to be pained - thou, a sinned servant, pledge thy soul, for thou have sinned in speaking your sacred name.
I could see you across the walls, I could see you in the wavering light, I could see you standing all night. I am sorry to have replaced you upon request - I couldn't bear to see you heartbrokened, giving up your dreams due to unfair constraints - I could at least stall the seats and perhaps work from within, so you'd still have a chance. I am sorry to have left you in pregnancy (crossed: you wanted to surprise me, and I didn't know), I am so sorry.
I hope you're doing well without me, and that our child is safe and sound. I can only sit in my seats and impatiently await your news. How I'd hate my inability to be there when you needed it most. Your husband is pathetic, isn't he?
Love you,
Felix
25th February, 2010
(received at 6th March)
(forfeited drafts)
Some news you might want to know - in the icecaps, we retrieved the mythical virus. The ice drillers are set across the grounds, and the site is in high security. The patrols are three times a day, circulating the large site in shifts. As you might expect, it emulates a dreadful prison-like atmosphere. Even a bird couldn't get in this one (crossed: but I might try and sneak you in, though that wouldn't be possible, and that'd be dreadful for).
Geography scientists busy themselves with samples of ice across layers - they all look identical, like twins, to me. Couldn't figure a thing out. The cliché is, that there's actually survival specialists drilling (slanted: /yes that's right, after all this time, drilling, really?/) us in case of emergencies: ice cracks, encounter with dear love rivals and, you wouldn't believe it, the danger of gas leaks - guess something's still the same everywhere, broken pipes are a real hazard.
There was several weeks until the discovery of late. Routined exercises and bland canned food, this could be another death of me, but well, I suppose, thrice is more than enough, right? I kinda drifted off the whole way, picking up old Victorian files, and read in amusement. They are imaginative, and some outright ridiculous! You would like the sound of it. (Why does the site keep these things anyway?)
Anyhow, as I mentioned, the virus wasn't discovered for weeks; the crew grew agitated (when booze supplies went out, I wish I could get hold of some) as the operation is quite costly, and they had optimized the equipments and every hands on the project. The detection machines were doing their job, but not well. The morale ran low, until the virus was made the dramatic discovery.
That fateful day, we were told that there'd be a blizzard raging from the annual monsoons in the Southwest. Anxious and fatigued, we were sleeping and shifting in the slightly swaying croutch, having slammed every creak close with tapes and furnitures all night. A shallow veil of sleep - before the detection machine's high shrill piercing through the thinly disguised silence and tension mid-air!
Like a trigger being pulled, the gears were running and everything was set into motion. Technical staff immediately notified, they separated into streams scattering over the places, as if chasing time. We were arranged into search groups into the subsiding snow storm before it moves away. Experts led the way, and we collected samples under the orders of the crews holding one of those extendable, mobile detection sticks.
With my goggles on, I could hardly see a thing, nonetheless in a completely white environment, hence bands between members are necessary. I remembered tying the designated elastic band with my partners, all the while joking. I remembered double-checking if the knots were properly done, and if the band could withhold the pressure. I remembered touching the bands and feeling the strain from the opposite side, feeling reassured. Surely, nothing could go wrong - or so I thought.
The wind was roaring, with intimate sharp shrieks against my plugged ears; my fur-adorned hood was billowing, the dusts of snow found their ways into my woolen coat -
'Move ahead!' I remembered the Expert's gruff voice muffled in the snowstorm and by my plugs; I'd have to put all my mind to it. My life was on line. And that was that. I grudgingly moved along, already feeling the numbness of half of my face, and the soreness and weight at my feet.
But the funny thing of life is, thoughts are one thing; reality is another. Before I knew, my mind habitually drifted, and my feet were instinctively dragging along in the white sand. I sensed something was wrong, (slanted: /terribly wrong/). A cloud of dark shadow lurked in my mind, that hidden uncertainty tugging at my nerves.
I pulled the band, but there was nothing straining it; I looked down - I barely saw it, but it was dancing in the wind -
My mind went blank. All of a sudden, the world crashed around me.
to be continued…
#LifeChangingContest
© Elvin
P.S. This is one of my self-indulgent lengthy works (Off topic warning).
O Sweet Mina,
Ay, good bidings from ye, thy worries unraveled; whence t'is disheartening pain, from thy soul to yonder. Your second trimester hath come, thou art assured - your tender words speak true to thy fragile mind.
Good grief, enough frolicking about; you'd say. I guess you didn't know how much relief your mere words (slanted: /yes, mere words!/) brings and means to me. Can't help grinning from ear to ear - thou shall be the father of the Abigail, child o sweetest like flowing milk and honey! Should she bear even a fraction of her mother's splendor, she'd shine gloriously like the morning star, yielding jealousy from Venus, overshading Adonis, beaconing and towering over the night as the only light!
My frolick-ness apparently cannot be stopped without you putting sense into me, my Saint; the lack of your serene, imposing presence in your last letter saddens even the strongest of man. Have I, beautiful Adonis, lost my charm over you, my lady? Over countless restless nights, turning and tossing over my blankets - I decided I missed your scathing comments (slanted: /have you finally LOST it?/), got up and wrote you this, which I hope is a pleasant surprise.
I am well, North Antarctica, the land of ice and snow, has an overabundance of floating glaciers. No, I have yet to see the-polar-bear-of-your-dreams, which is a good thing I suppose, since it wouldn't end without a strife in jealousy or animosity between it and I - one cannot live while the other survives. If I happened to meet one and cannot return, mourn for your husband killed-by-love-rivals-including-bears.
Worry not, I enjoy the highest tier of life quality: all-year-round freeee (-zing) open-air conditioning, atmospheric flickering LEDs, and a nice background ambience (my fellow researcher/roommate screamed and threw a pillow at me) where I write this 'frolicsome' letter that you laughingly called.
The only one missing is you. My irritable mind can only (and barely!) hold together with the thought of you. Wife WANTED. If this persists, at the end of the year, you'll hear the death of me in the mouth of keen neighbors gossiping, that a handsome-young-man-died-prematurely-out-of grief-without-words-from-his-wife all because of your cruelty, your cold shoulder!
How could you bear such a thought? That your husband'll meet such an unhonourable, unsightly death?
It's about time for you to snap (slanted: /haven't you had enough!/), and the thought of you still makes me smile and my stomach warm despite all the cold and death threats. I run through so many of your lines a day, that I wonder if I would be fully capable of a one-man show to entertain you by the time I arrived home. This is perhaps a thought I can entertain.
I missed you a lot; you couldn't imagine the half of it (words blurred by unknown moisture). Most of the time I stare into the vast expanse of the barren land, and it stares back at me, somewhat embodying the fact that you will not be here somewhere waiting (crossed: my chest would seize in pain without you; my breath would choke in my throat, and stuck for days - I don't know how I'll live without snippets about you, I). Then perhaps you'll receive the news of me dying of boredom on the radio.
By now, your husband has died bloody, painful deaths thrice; if this does not quench your fury - nothing will; in fact this poor pilgrim suffers from three severe dismemberments, lying underground awaiting your call of mercy. You can stomp to further amputate, but this miserable pilgrim cannot be already deader than that (dead).
O gentle Saint, let your sweet lips condemn thy unworthy name; thou art insignificant, thou art ashamed - let your thunderous rage rain on thee, and thou shall die a thousand deaths from your mouth's arrows if it does please. For it is thy sin to have loved, it is thy sin to be pained - thou, a sinned servant, pledge thy soul, for thou have sinned in speaking your sacred name.
I could see you across the walls, I could see you in the wavering light, I could see you standing all night. I am sorry to have replaced you upon request - I couldn't bear to see you heartbrokened, giving up your dreams due to unfair constraints - I could at least stall the seats and perhaps work from within, so you'd still have a chance. I am sorry to have left you in pregnancy (crossed: you wanted to surprise me, and I didn't know), I am so sorry.
I hope you're doing well without me, and that our child is safe and sound. I can only sit in my seats and impatiently await your news. How I'd hate my inability to be there when you needed it most. Your husband is pathetic, isn't he?
Love you,
Felix
25th February, 2010
(received at 6th March)
(forfeited drafts)
Some news you might want to know - in the icecaps, we retrieved the mythical virus. The ice drillers are set across the grounds, and the site is in high security. The patrols are three times a day, circulating the large site in shifts. As you might expect, it emulates a dreadful prison-like atmosphere. Even a bird couldn't get in this one (crossed: but I might try and sneak you in, though that wouldn't be possible, and that'd be dreadful for).
Geography scientists busy themselves with samples of ice across layers - they all look identical, like twins, to me. Couldn't figure a thing out. The cliché is, that there's actually survival specialists drilling (slanted: /yes that's right, after all this time, drilling, really?/) us in case of emergencies: ice cracks, encounter with dear love rivals and, you wouldn't believe it, the danger of gas leaks - guess something's still the same everywhere, broken pipes are a real hazard.
There was several weeks until the discovery of late. Routined exercises and bland canned food, this could be another death of me, but well, I suppose, thrice is more than enough, right? I kinda drifted off the whole way, picking up old Victorian files, and read in amusement. They are imaginative, and some outright ridiculous! You would like the sound of it. (Why does the site keep these things anyway?)
Anyhow, as I mentioned, the virus wasn't discovered for weeks; the crew grew agitated (when booze supplies went out, I wish I could get hold of some) as the operation is quite costly, and they had optimized the equipments and every hands on the project. The detection machines were doing their job, but not well. The morale ran low, until the virus was made the dramatic discovery.
That fateful day, we were told that there'd be a blizzard raging from the annual monsoons in the Southwest. Anxious and fatigued, we were sleeping and shifting in the slightly swaying croutch, having slammed every creak close with tapes and furnitures all night. A shallow veil of sleep - before the detection machine's high shrill piercing through the thinly disguised silence and tension mid-air!
Like a trigger being pulled, the gears were running and everything was set into motion. Technical staff immediately notified, they separated into streams scattering over the places, as if chasing time. We were arranged into search groups into the subsiding snow storm before it moves away. Experts led the way, and we collected samples under the orders of the crews holding one of those extendable, mobile detection sticks.
With my goggles on, I could hardly see a thing, nonetheless in a completely white environment, hence bands between members are necessary. I remembered tying the designated elastic band with my partners, all the while joking. I remembered double-checking if the knots were properly done, and if the band could withhold the pressure. I remembered touching the bands and feeling the strain from the opposite side, feeling reassured. Surely, nothing could go wrong - or so I thought.
The wind was roaring, with intimate sharp shrieks against my plugged ears; my fur-adorned hood was billowing, the dusts of snow found their ways into my woolen coat -
'Move ahead!' I remembered the Expert's gruff voice muffled in the snowstorm and by my plugs; I'd have to put all my mind to it. My life was on line. And that was that. I grudgingly moved along, already feeling the numbness of half of my face, and the soreness and weight at my feet.
But the funny thing of life is, thoughts are one thing; reality is another. Before I knew, my mind habitually drifted, and my feet were instinctively dragging along in the white sand. I sensed something was wrong, (slanted: /terribly wrong/). A cloud of dark shadow lurked in my mind, that hidden uncertainty tugging at my nerves.
I pulled the band, but there was nothing straining it; I looked down - I barely saw it, but it was dancing in the wind -
My mind went blank. All of a sudden, the world crashed around me.
to be continued…
#LifeChangingContest
© Elvin
