Tales
of the Philes II: May This Never Happen To You
by Jaimee Kidder
"Yawn..."
Jon Coltas yawned. He was tired. He'd had a long day, big plans for the previous weekend that had fallen through, and he was rather miserable. To top it all off, he had a cold.
"Sniff..."
He moaned. He was sitting in bed trying to choke down some Original Flavor TheraFlu™ without gagging. As anyone raised in a TheraFlu™ friendly household knows, this is definitely one of the more difficult acquired tastes. Jon did not have the advantage of growing up in one of these homes. He was also too sick to remember the joy of sugar.
A book lay next to him in his bed. He loved to read but today the words were somehow vibrating on the page. He couldn't even remember what had compelled him to get Moby Dick of the shelf in the first place. Until today, he hadn't even known that he owned a copy. Maybe that was why he wanted to read it.
"Call me...Ishmael...? Is that RIGHT? Call me ISHMAEL?" He threw the book down in disgust. Then he felt bad. Some poor sap had spent years working on this (stupid) book and here he was, casting it away like a maggot-infested...
His brain tried to think of something that would get maggots, and then gave up.
He glanced at the cover of the book. "Herban Belville, you hab by abologies. Achoo."
There. Now it was covered in sneeze particles. Now he had a reason to throw it up against his wall. So he did.
Thoroughly exhausted, he leaned weakly back against his pillows, feeling really really sorry for himself. Those plans for the weekend would've been great. Stupid Clarice. And plus, it was February, and he was looking forward to a nice good mytharc X-Files.
"Holy Sandwich Maker Bob!"
He threw a frantic glance at his clock which read 9:47. "NO!!" Magically, his cold disappeared, and he ran upstairs on wobbly legs. Maybe his clock was wrong; maybe he'd forgotten to switch to Daylight Savings, maybe Malcolm in the Middle would still be on...
He punched the POWER button on the remote as forcefully as possible.
"Scully! Scully, are you hurt?"
"I'm fine, Mulder...gasp gasp go check on Bob..."
Screams filled the room. One was from the TV. The other was from Jon, who effectively gave himself laryngitis.
* * *
GASP
Jon sat up in bed, covered
in sweat. Thank Bob that was
just a dream, he thought reverently. I
must've fallen asleep reading. Hey,
what's this stupid book doing in my bed?
"NO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!!!!!"