Today’s post will be more of a creative writing exercise. I’m not sure where it will take me, but I’m going to sit down while enjoying a cup of coffee and just put some words on a page (or rather in an electronic box).  Ideally I’d like to try to do these writing exercises two or three times per week. I still have dreams of getting back to writing a novel (or maybe even finishing the one I got so close on years ago) and regular writing is the way to do that.

A hand touched her face. Fingers explored her wrist, finding a pulse and she stirred, the first vestiges of consciousnessstill clouded. Suddenly, almost violently, she was awake, taking deep drags off the oxygen mask like she hadn’t had a hit in months.

She remembered everything. The dark figure dropping from the ceiling. Fumbling for the gas mask stored in the emergency locker and nearly having it secured when the figure, a man with broad shoulders and black leather gloves ripped it from her head. The tattoo on his left wrist was burned into her brain. A black dagger stabbing a cobra that looked to circle his entire wrist. Then the pain as he slugged her and the clatter of her shoulder hitting the emergency locker as she went down. The last thing she saw as he stood over her were his black Nikes.

Her only questions were these. “What (or who) had he come for?” and “Did they have any idea she had a photographic memory?”.