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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti


Word of the Day
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Author Topic: Mutation  (Read 152 times)
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« on: September 13, 2018, 09:43:29 PM »

   They ignored it for a while and life went on like normal. It was easier to ignore than the night’s soup being in need of salt. It became as normal as a lamp on a nightstand or a reef on a door. It was like a haircut or a depleted pantry: the tumor was simply there, jutting out of the patriarch’s neck, like the little arm of a critter stuck in a chimney trying to claw its way out.
   They didn’t use analogies or similes to discuss it, when it finally became couth to talk about. Mother came in to the dining room carrying a pot in mitted hands saying, “It sure was a nice warm day today.” This was code meaning: “Looks like the tumor might be shrinking.” You don’t say it’s a nice warm day in January, not in Northern Ontario. Father would say, “Feels cold as hell to me.” I’m guessing you understand what he meant by that. No need to interpret; the man was open as a Faulkner book.
   He shoveled the soup into his mouth until one day he couldn’t swallow. His body was depleted of nutrients. He became a skeleton in a flabby blanket of skin. I told him one day, “Pops, you should really do something about the tumor.” He said, “You should really do something about your face.” I should have seen that coming from a man who had avoided this question for 9 months. And to be fair, he was right about my face; it isn’t much to look at. But I really feel that he’s more responsible for that than I am, but that’s also not the point, is it?
   And then one day, father wouldn’t get out of bed. I said to mother, “We need to do something.” Mother grabbed a pair of scissors and started walking to the bedroom. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I screamed. She said, “Something.”
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