Ficlets

Tis The Season

The ache creeps into my shoulders, spreads down my arms.

Is it from hunching over the keyboard? Is it my posture?

A tickle in my throat. A mild headache. Sinus pressure. Its not from the computer.

Pop some pills. Plop, plop; fizz, fizz. It never beats sleep but the workday, the social calendar, life is prohibitive.

And when I do roll into bed the congestion comes. I can’t breath so I snore. I snore and I don’t rest. I don’t rest and I don’t get any better. I don’t get any better and I stay sick and behind closed doors.

Sunshine. Sunshine and warmth are what I need. Winter keeps me from fresh air, keeps me locked inside. Keeps me breathing the same stagnant diseased air that brought the sickness, recycling the germs.

There is no winning. Cold, flu, they all win. They always win. The sun will come, heralding Spring. Summer and warmth will follow but the diseases of the long and cloistered Winter shall return.

Can I wait it out? I have no choice, but will I make it? Can I last? I must.

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