Post by elisastryker on May 13, 2018 21:16:21 GMT -5
Revised. I'm 5 words over 250 now.
I stare at the data streaming down the holographic panel.
“If it can be created, it can be destroyed,” I mutter. Then again, I’m sure the gods said the same thing about us.
The intercom emits a loud beep, snapping me from my thoughts. A calm, almost robotic voice pages one of the many doctors. My lab is isolated on the sixth floor, away from the patients and buzzing medical staff. I prefer it this way. Cultivating a cure for the virus ravaging our island city is far less heartbreaking than watching people die from it—especially people I know.
The door swings open and in strolls Anette, focused on the tablet she’s carrying, with a manila folder tucked under her arm.
As I straighten myself in my chair, she drops the folder onto my desk. It’s another unwelcome addition to the ever-growing mountain of assigned labor. My chest tightens as I glance down at the stack of papers.
“Here are some paper files since you refuse to use tablets,” Anette says. Her unbuttoned lab coat reveals a red silk blouse, its color in stark contrast to her dark skin.
Paper doesn’t require power to operate. I didn’t sign up to be buried under mundane work. I’m here to be a virologist, not a secretary.
Blowing my bangs out of my face, I shove the papers aside and grab my notebook from the drawer. I tap a pen against my lips as I let out a long breath, none of my stress leaving with it.
“If it can be created, it can be destroyed,” I mutter, staring at the data filling the holographic panel above my crowded desk. Then again, I’m sure the gods said the same thing about us.
A loud beep from the intercom snaps me from my thoughts. The voice is calm, almost robotic, as it pages one of the many doctors. My lab is isolated on the sixth floor, away from the patients and buzzing medical staff. I prefer it this way. Cultivating a cure for the virus ravaging our island city is far less heartbreaking than watching people die from it—especially people I know.
I’m settling back into studying the data when the door swings open. Anette strolls into the lab, focused on the tablet she’s carrying, with a manila folder tucked under her arm. Her unbuttoned lab coat reveals a red silk blouse, its color in stark contrast to her dark skin. As I straighten myself in my chair, she drops the folder onto my desk. It’s another unwelcome addition to the ever-growing mountain of assigned labor. My chest tightens as I glance down at the stack of papers.
I didn’t sign up to be buried under mundane work. I’m here to be a virologist, not a secretary.
Blowing my bangs out of my face, I move the papers aside and grab my notebook from the drawer. Although tablets and other digital forms of notetaking are more convenient to some, I prefer the feel of paper.
I stare at the data streaming down the holographic panel.
“If it can be created, it can be destroyed,” I mutter. Then again, I’m sure the gods said the same thing about us.
The intercom emits a loud beep, snapping me from my thoughts. A calm, almost robotic voice pages one of the many doctors. My lab is isolated on the sixth floor, away from the patients and buzzing medical staff. I prefer it this way. Cultivating a cure for the virus ravaging our island city is far less heartbreaking than watching people die from it—especially people I know.
The door swings open and in strolls Anette, focused on the tablet she’s carrying, with a manila folder tucked under her arm.
As I straighten myself in my chair, she drops the folder onto my desk. It’s another unwelcome addition to the ever-growing mountain of assigned labor. My chest tightens as I glance down at the stack of papers.
“Here are some paper files since you refuse to use tablets,” Anette says. Her unbuttoned lab coat reveals a red silk blouse, its color in stark contrast to her dark skin.
Paper doesn’t require power to operate. I didn’t sign up to be buried under mundane work. I’m here to be a virologist, not a secretary.
Blowing my bangs out of my face, I shove the papers aside and grab my notebook from the drawer. I tap a pen against my lips as I let out a long breath, none of my stress leaving with it.
A loud beep from the intercom snaps me from my thoughts. The voice is calm, almost robotic, as it pages one of the many doctors. My lab is isolated on the sixth floor, away from the patients and buzzing medical staff. I prefer it this way. Cultivating a cure for the virus ravaging our island city is far less heartbreaking than watching people die from it—especially people I know.
I’m settling back into studying the data when the door swings open. Anette strolls into the lab, focused on the tablet she’s carrying, with a manila folder tucked under her arm. Her unbuttoned lab coat reveals a red silk blouse, its color in stark contrast to her dark skin. As I straighten myself in my chair, she drops the folder onto my desk. It’s another unwelcome addition to the ever-growing mountain of assigned labor. My chest tightens as I glance down at the stack of papers.
I didn’t sign up to be buried under mundane work. I’m here to be a virologist, not a secretary.
Blowing my bangs out of my face, I move the papers aside and grab my notebook from the drawer. Although tablets and other digital forms of notetaking are more convenient to some, I prefer the feel of paper.