I’ve been suffering with a cold for the past couple of days. My illness inspired me to write this little tale of war.
The sun rose after the second night of the war. Mist covered the battlefields, swirling over the bodies of fallen comrades. The night was long, and the fight was tough, but hope was building throughout the ranks.
The invasion had slowed through the night, enemy numbers were dwindling and the smell of victory was in the air.
The troops had a chance to regroup. A time to prepare for the final push, they knew it was coming, they could feel the beast around them moving. They waited, a buzz of nervous excitement flowed through the silence.
This is what the men had trained for, they knew what was to happen next, they were ready. Patiently they waited for air support.
The bombs dropped from the sky. Two plastic capsules, half yellow, half orange erupted upon impact with the scorched land. A spray of fine white powder formed a mushroom cloud, only to be quelled by the following splash of fizzy orange liquid.
The lucozade flowed all around, spreading the white mix of paracetamol, pseudoephedrine hydrochloride and pholcodine, covering any of the remaining invaders.
The men of the immune system watched as the orange waves subsided. Men had been lost over the past 2 days, muscles ached and energy reserves were depleted, but finally the end was in sight. Only one fight remained, and it was on their terms. The invaders were crippled from the blast of medication. It was time.
The men charged.
Thanks for reading