The tropical rain fell in drenching sheets, hammering the currugated roof of the clinic building, roaring down the metal gutters, splashing on the ground in a torrent. Roberta Carter sighed, and stared out the window. From the clinic, she could hardly see the beach or the ocean beyond, cloaked in low fog. This wasn't what she had expected when she had come to the fishing village of Bahia Anasco, on the west coast of Costa Rica, to spend two months as a visiting physician. Bobbie Carter had expected sun and relaxation, after two grueling years of residency in emergency medicine at Michael Reese in Chicago. She had been in Bahia Anasco now for three weeks. And it had rained every day. Everything else was fine. She liked the isolation of Bahia Anasco, and the friendliness of its people. Costa Rica had one of the twenty best medical systems in the world, and even in this remote coastal village, the clinic was well maintained, amply supplied. Her paramedic, manuel Aragon, was intelligent and well trained. Bobbie was able to practice a level of medicine equal to what she had practiced in Chicago. Excerpt from Jurassic Park. Written by Michael Crichton.
The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon. Though he had taken off his school sweater and trailed it now from one hand, his grey shirt stuck to him and his hair was plastered to his forehead. All around him the long scar smashed into the jungle was a bath of heat. He was clambering heavily among the creepers and broken trunks when a birf, a vision of red and yellow, flashed upwards with a witch-like cry; and this cry was echoed by another. "Hi!" It said. "Wait a minute!" The undergrowth at the side of teh scar was shaken and a multitude of raindrops fell pattering. "Wait a minute," the voice said. "I got caught up." The fair boy stopped and jerked his stockings with an automatice gesture that made the jungle seem for a moment like the Home Counties. Excerpt from Lord of the Flies. Written by William Golding.
All overgrown by cunning moss, All interspersed with weed, The little cage of “Currer Bell” In quiet “Haworth” laid. This Bird – observing others When frosts too sharp became Retire to other latitudes – Quietly did the same – But differed in returning – Since Yorkshire hills are green – Yet not in all the nests I meet – Can Nightingale be seen – All Overgrown by Cunning Moss. Written by Emily Dickinson.
No lines are longer than 80 characters, TYVM. Other specified properties aren't being scored automatically at this time so this is not necessarily good news...