Saturday's Storyteller: "The explosions within him soon erupted from his throat, cascading into the air above his head."
by Belinda Roddie
The explosions within him soon erupted from his throat, cascading into the air above his head. They were small explosions, sort of like mini fireworks - pink and red and gold and green and blues of all hues and shades and spectrums. They popped out from between Bobby's lips in whistling, fiery streamers, leaving him to cough up smoke and ash in the brief aftermath before the pyrotechnics started again.
The whole display, oddly enough, wasn't very painful. It was sort of like he had a bad sore throat - congested sinuses and some scratchiness. When the explosions began, it was like heavy coughing that strained his ribs but didn't set his tongue on fire. Therefore, Bobby only could assume one thing: The Lung Elf family was at it again, causing fanfare in his chest for the night.
What he didn't know specifically was that it was Amber McPharynx's 27th birthday - which meant that she had been born when Bobby was eight, when he had begun to feel the presence of the Lung Elf family parties - and her brothers and sisters were celebrating by lighting little erithrocyte fireworks before they cut open the hemoglobin cake. The oxygen-rich blood delicacy was a delight, creamy and luscious and very filling. Amber asked for it every year, and this year was no exception.
Amber watched the fireworks go off from her small cardiac notch porch, the planks creaking and pulsing from Bobby's cardiovascular strobes. Her boyfriend, Thomas Pleurae-Smith, sat beside her, holding a hot mug of immunoglobulin-A. He handed it to her as a firework in the shape of a dragon soared into the bronchiole horizon.
"Drink," he said, smiling at her before kissing her on the cheek. "It's good for you."
They sat together, holding hands, enjoying the warm and cold breezes drifting in from the constricted trachea. After a while, her brothers and sisters ran out of fireworks, and the air was smoky and thick and pleasant as they all scurried into their alveolar cottage. And when they sat down at the table, their mother came out with a big, round hemoglobin cake, and they all sang Happy Birthday while Amber held tears back in her eyes and made another humble wish for happiness.
Bobby coughed and cleared his throat and shook his head. The explosions were no longer rattling his breath, and he relaxed and sipped his cup of coffee before lolling his head back on the easy chair. His wife was asleep on the couch, and the football game between the Cowboys and the Ravens was still bellowing from the screen. Reaching for the remote, Bobby watched the screen shrink away from his vision, thinking of the little people he had stared at in front of him compared to the little people living inside him.
He felt a sudden thwack in the lower cavity of his ribcage, shuddering a bit. Straining to hear little shrieks and giggles, Bobby smiled. Deep within his lungs, the Lung Elf family was taking turns hitting a piñata, with Thomas covering Amber's eyes as she swung the bat in graceful arcs toward the thoracic moon.
The prompt for this week's Storyteller was provided by Daniel Menist.
The explosions within him soon erupted from his throat, cascading into the air above his head. They were small explosions, sort of like mini fireworks - pink and red and gold and green and blues of all hues and shades and spectrums. They popped out from between Bobby's lips in whistling, fiery streamers, leaving him to cough up smoke and ash in the brief aftermath before the pyrotechnics started again.
The whole display, oddly enough, wasn't very painful. It was sort of like he had a bad sore throat - congested sinuses and some scratchiness. When the explosions began, it was like heavy coughing that strained his ribs but didn't set his tongue on fire. Therefore, Bobby only could assume one thing: The Lung Elf family was at it again, causing fanfare in his chest for the night.
What he didn't know specifically was that it was Amber McPharynx's 27th birthday - which meant that she had been born when Bobby was eight, when he had begun to feel the presence of the Lung Elf family parties - and her brothers and sisters were celebrating by lighting little erithrocyte fireworks before they cut open the hemoglobin cake. The oxygen-rich blood delicacy was a delight, creamy and luscious and very filling. Amber asked for it every year, and this year was no exception.
Amber watched the fireworks go off from her small cardiac notch porch, the planks creaking and pulsing from Bobby's cardiovascular strobes. Her boyfriend, Thomas Pleurae-Smith, sat beside her, holding a hot mug of immunoglobulin-A. He handed it to her as a firework in the shape of a dragon soared into the bronchiole horizon.
"Drink," he said, smiling at her before kissing her on the cheek. "It's good for you."
They sat together, holding hands, enjoying the warm and cold breezes drifting in from the constricted trachea. After a while, her brothers and sisters ran out of fireworks, and the air was smoky and thick and pleasant as they all scurried into their alveolar cottage. And when they sat down at the table, their mother came out with a big, round hemoglobin cake, and they all sang Happy Birthday while Amber held tears back in her eyes and made another humble wish for happiness.
Bobby coughed and cleared his throat and shook his head. The explosions were no longer rattling his breath, and he relaxed and sipped his cup of coffee before lolling his head back on the easy chair. His wife was asleep on the couch, and the football game between the Cowboys and the Ravens was still bellowing from the screen. Reaching for the remote, Bobby watched the screen shrink away from his vision, thinking of the little people he had stared at in front of him compared to the little people living inside him.
He felt a sudden thwack in the lower cavity of his ribcage, shuddering a bit. Straining to hear little shrieks and giggles, Bobby smiled. Deep within his lungs, the Lung Elf family was taking turns hitting a piñata, with Thomas covering Amber's eyes as she swung the bat in graceful arcs toward the thoracic moon.
The prompt for this week's Storyteller was provided by Daniel Menist.
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