Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Writing Exercise:

Write a paragraph or page where you literally build and or take apart something for your reader.
He died of AIDS in prison.  His height didn’t strike me, because of the metal one-size-fits-all table he was lying on.  His veiny thinness struck me.  I learned that plastic caps are made specifically for eyes and eyelids that won’t stay shut.  The cap is smooth on the concave, eye-cupping side and intimately barbed on the other.  Pop it in, adjust eyelid slightly forward, then back to hook the flesh in place, and if this doesn’t work-- super glue.  
He died of AIDS in prison, and it’s a mortician’s job to prepare the body for viewing, burial or cremation.  A cranked water valve attached to a red hose, and water flowing down the slanted table.  A long incision, cut artery protruding- forced entry and exit.  Then dark sheets of blood draining.  He had defecated, as bodies do, in the end.  It looked healthy for AIDS.  This moved down the table with the blood, as scrub-brush and soap were applied.  His knee bent and lifted easily as rigor mortis had passed.

He died of AIDS, then he ran clear.  Edward’s aquifer water flowing through this man.  His deep coal blackness struck me, and I wondered at the family who would be at his grave, at the food they would eat and the stories they would tell.  But, at that moment, there before me was the shell.
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