In Your Arms Joseph Whetzel
Agonal breathing. That was the closest Morgan could come to describing what he was experiencing now. Agonal breathing, a horrid gasp inwards that delivered no relief and instead only made his lungs burn. Agonal breathing, the same groan that the disease he and Marlow had caught on Bichichi had given him. The one where he and Marlow had spent weeks stuck on their ship, withering away with each other with raspy breathing and labored coughs and blood and then Morgan got better and Marlow died. This kind of reminded him of that. He had fallen a good forty feet or so, a fall that without the capsule underneath him to cushion the blow, would have probably killed him instantly. The capsule had absorbed the blow pretty well, and instead had left him in a lot of pain and with a cracked visor.. He thought about taking a page from Marlow’s book and just calling it quits, but he had already gotten this far, so he supposed he could just keep going, right? He reached up to the visor of his space suit and sucked in as big of a breath as he could before pulling the visor off. His lungs were on fire. He reached down into his bag to grab a replacement only to find that they too had cracked in the fall. Morgan’s face fell, and he breathed in. And sweet, sweet oxygen flooded into his nose. Thank God.
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Poppies \\ Brint Domangue
