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 |    A log of the magnificent journey across the vast sea of my imagination. |
 A log of our magnificent journey. |
| My uncle Igor spent his days transporting clients from hospitals and hospice homes to the Serenity Funeral Home for processing. There, with that black patch over his right eye, he kept shifting his head at odd angles to get the proper shade, as he applied rouge on the cheeks in an attempt to restore some semblance of vitality to each of those cadavers. He tied his long gray hair back in a ponytail to keep it from obstructing his already limited view. Sweet Melissa Simpson, only eighteen years old, presented a particularly difficult circumstance, due to the damage done in that automobile accident. (When will people come to understand the importance of buckling seat belts?) However, Igor met the challenge head on. Applying techniques developed over the years, he primped, prodded, and poked her carcass in preparation for her final visitation. The stench of chemicals required to clean the remains did not bother him at all. By the time he finished, the young woman appeared ready to wake up from her nap and attend her senior prom in that lavender gown. After his day among the dead, he would stop off at the Frankendale Florist Shop to pick up some flowers for the resting places of former clients. Moonflowers for his beloved wife Auntie Esmeralda. Roses for the more traditional bunch. Old man McAlister preferred geraniums, because that was what his wife planted in their garden. Of course, she was another of Igor's clients. While delivering those tributes, his rich baritone voice rolled across the cemetery grounds and invaded the dreams of residents in surrounding neighborhoods, as he serenaded those who have moved on to a higher place. Last Friday, Uncle Igor made one last trip to the Serenity Funeral Home after his daughter found him unresponsive in his bed. Applying techniques he had taught her over the years, his young assistant Dorothea primped, prodded, and poked his carcass in preparation for his final visitation. Would you be available to serenade him in his crypt? My truck driving travels will keep me away, and his daughter's night nurse job at St. Francis Hospital will prevent her from doing so. 359 words |
Frigid Arctic air descends upon us, wreaking havoc without mercy. Ouch! Notes on the Elevenie/Elfchie form of poetry ▼ Let the creativity flow from your soul!  Dave "The Poet's Place "  "CLOSED - Review a Newbie" Let the creativity flow from your soul! Dave "The Poet's Place " "CLOSED - Review a Newbie" |
| Our military mission supercedes any personal desires we may hold. Whenever we receive the order, we are on our way to whatever waits, prepared to do anything required, however circumstance may unfold to demonstrate American resolve-- one of our predominant traits. Our military mission means Christmas is often spent in faraway positions. Whenever separation burdens us, we get a little Face Time on the iPhone, prepared to do our sacred duty, despite the holiday conditions, to demonstrate our commitment to our vows in the battle zone. Our military mission continues from generation to generation. Whenever the need arises, we drop whatever and go again, prepared to follow patriotic path, despite the risk of conflagration, to demonstrate persistent belief in such a justified campaign. Pattern ▼ |
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My review is based on professional editing points. It is meant to be honest, encouraging, and respectful in accordance with WDC guidelines.
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