The Flu
Max Fine
When the doctor asked me how I was feeling, I let out a sigh. I knew it was time, but I kept my worries to myself. I answered in a mostly truthful fashion, knowing; dreading, what was about to happen. The doctor reached into a side cabinate, partly hidden by the examination bench, and, as he opened the door, I caught my first glimpse of it. It was a long ethereal tube, filled with a liquid so blue, that it transended the boundries between the whole, fufilling blue of the sky, and the deep, dark, boundless blue of the deepest oceans. Upon further inspection, the ethereal flask and the sky-ocean blue created a mysterious glamor that could inspire awe or terrior depending on the eye of the beholder. Finally, perching on the flask was one long silver spire. This was the crown, perched atop the king of concoctions, symbolizing my demise. As the doctor brought it closer, I knew. I knew that pain was next. The doctor discarded the empty flask, a husk of its former glory, waiting for its next victim.
Is this a shot? I like the way you described it by describing how the object made you feel.
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