The leeches were edgy. Suck this for a malarkey, said one. Not good, not good, said another, lazily bloating on an old man's chest. 
We'll have to unionise, said another. Elect a leader. Pool our resources.
I can't take any more, said a shiny young leech which had overdosed on a big girl's belly and was having trouble digesting the consequences.
It's inevitable, said an old, gnarled leech with blunt teeth. It's progress. We have to roll with it. We can't fight them. This thing is bigger than us.
The apothecary hurdled in the bright new machine, its pronged suction cups waving in the air.
It looked hungry. It looked thin. It had 5,000 litres of capacity and a row of twenty patients. They stirred in their drugged sleep. They wouldn't see the morning.
© 2007 Jules Horne
16/11/2007
Dorothea Brande
Becoming a Writer, 1934
p 65
http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2001/12/1219_wireleeches.html
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