This is an old story from when my friend Ted and I used to donate sentences for each other to write stories from.
I would love it if you would donate some sentences so I can write something new. Please feel free to put a couple of sentences in the comments and I will whip up a story for you.
If you don't want to write something of your own how about some lines from a book... just let me know the name of the book and the author so that I can reference it.
I hope you enjoy the story and thank you!
Donation from Ted Perkins
Ellis realises that he has massively overdosed on a herbal supplement called Zulubanj that he picked up in the desert town. His palms begin to sweat, his lungs fill with fluid, and a foul-tasting viscous substance coats his tongue.
He glances down to the bottle in his hand. Having taken the tablet mere moments before, the speed and severity of this reaction take him rather by surprise. While he tries to think rationally about dosage and a possible antidote what is really occupying his mind is the fact that this is surely just the honeymoon period of a poisoning, with the bitter recriminations and nights spent languishing furiously on the sofa undoubtedly yet to come. His attempt to decode the bottle and understand how he has overdosed by taking one pill of an apparently innocuous pick-me-up is scuppered by his arm turning to liquid and dripping slowly but resolutely onto the parched earth.
Should he try and catch it? he wonders. Maybe there’s a cure. What use would a cure be though if he had let his arm drip clear away? He'd always had a quiet confidence that he would be rather good in a tight spot, but as he draws his right arm across to catch the drips he finds it is leaking just as badly. Hmmm. What to do? Berating himself as he does it, he remembers his mother’s words the day he left, “You really don’t need to do this.” He curses her from afar for almost certainly being right.
“Pull yourself together, Ellis!” he grunts, spitting on the floor. Forcing his liquefying arms out of sight he tries to work things out. The town where he was given the Zulubanj was around an hour away and it was unlikely that there was anyone to help him. Before he can stop himself he glances down at his legs to see if they too are melting, which might get in the way of any progress towards help. He teeters uncertainly as his glance shows his feet some great distance below. Having never had a particular fear of heights he is surprised to feel a jolt of fright shoot up his spine. It is more than he can bear. “I’m going to die out here."
He takes a moment to wallow in self pity. This was not how this was meant to turn out. It was meant to be a great adventure in an otherwise dull and eventless life. This was to be the making of him. But now he is going to die an ignominious death in a small corner of the world that 99 per cent of the population doesn’t even know exists. “Typical!” he splutters forcefully. Lurching forward he is violently sick on the ground. Standing with his melting hands braced against his thighs he watches amazed as the contents of his stomach and bile, and bile, stream out over his boots. Nestled amongst the lumps of partially digested meat and litres of bilious liquid he spies a bright white pebble the size of his fist. The Zulubanj! It has to be! Tears of joy prickle at his eyes, he abandons himself to the feeling and starts to weep openly and unreservedly. Might it all be alright?
But the desert does not respect trials and tribulations already faced. It doesn’t pat you on the back and let you off for good behaviour. The sun doesn’t let up. The isolation doesn’t comfort. Buck up, Ellis. The next challenge is ready to be tackled.
He sits, takes a moment and drinks from his canteen. Burrowing a rut in the sand with the base to prop it up he feels better. The floor is back to where it should be. His arms are losing their liquid quality. Not solid and flesh-like yet, more wobbly, a little like a child's party jelly. His stomach and throat burn and ache but aren't getting worse. Maybe he will wait a while and rest. Make the journey when all is well and he is back to his normal self. He's tired, he'll rests his head for a moment. Not to sleep, of course, just to rest, give his eyes a quick break from the blinding sun.
Waking with a start surrounded by cold, clammy darkness he wonders if it is another hallucination. The sharp air of a cloudless night almost crackles against the burnt and blistered skin on his face and hands. He reaches gingerly for his canteen, but his groping hand encounters wet sand and he knows it will be empty before he picks it up. His ealier panic and desperation pale into insignificance in comparison with where he now finds himself. Badly hurt he is far from help and cannot walk the distance required. He is beyond crying. And hoping.
