Diseases Come on Horseback, But Steal Away on Foot
There is a saying among writers: “I’ve done my research, and so you will suffer for it.” A reminder to ourselves (or from “real” writers to the likes of me, if you’d prefer), that the background information we need to know to write a story ought to be just that: background.
That said, I’ve read quite a bit about the origin and spread of disease recently. Prepare to suffer.
Diseases do come on horseback, or cow foot, or just about any part of the pig. Epidemic diseases. They jump from crowded, poorly-treated domestic animals to humans. Most fail. Repeatedly. When one succeeds, it’s serious bug party time. And the undertaker can’t keep up with the business, unless - like the president of the hair club for men - he’s also a client.
Like a bad hairweave day, the epidemic passes. Those that remain, and their descendents, are more resistant to that disease.
Then, disease on horseback again: people bring their horses with them on foreign adventures, say Spanish Conquistadores galloping into South America. Those on foot are seldom fortunate enough to steal away.
Actions Speak Louder Than Words.
I bent my knee.
“You’re old,” it creaked.
I slapped my thigh.
“Ouch,” it cried, hopping like a banshee on a skewer.
If only I might have found a way to silence my acts, I would not have ended up in the sanitarium and I would have never met Bertie.
Bertie was a saint. I know, you’ve heard that before, about all sorts of scallywags, ne’er-do-wells, and sinners of all stripes. Trust me on this; if you could have looked into his eyes you wouldn’t doubt me, on this or anything else. He was that powerful.
Inevitably, he was that fragile, too. Bertie was made of glass, from his test tube legs to his beaker chest to his dainty little thimble of a head.
“I’ll do it. I mean it.”
I couldn’t hear his whispers over the sound of escaping gas. I’ll never know what I would have done if I had. “What? What do you mean?”
Bertie jumped. His action shouted with a high-pitched cascade of shattering.
