A Writing Lesson From a Dying Old Man
Slowly, with ancient muscles straining, bones cracking like broken twigs; he raised his balding head and tired eyes, blue and bloodshot to meet the purity of the horizon, a cloudless, simple blue; then returned his gaze to the worn volume, of faded brown and gold leather, set heavy atop tattered gray cloth, on scraped and bloodied knees.
His well-calloused, dirt-encrusted fingers turned a yellowed page, as rivers of blood, sweat, and grime white-watered down his back, further staining his half-torn tee. Then with effort, his heavy head atop a crimson and brown-streaked neck angled upward. Small nostrils expanded to suck in the sweet and salted sea air.
He gazed distractedly at the waves as they rose and fell, came, and went, like the years of his long life. Then fell heavy fingers from tattered bindings to his half-rotten log seat, with a muffled thud, like a small limb cast to the ground by a violent wind.
He sighed deeply and slowly raised his bloodied fist and like a man near death, to no one, to the sky in its robe of blue peace, loudly bellowed,
“Why the hell can’t people just write plain, simple, and right to the point without a bunch of ridiculous metaphors, spoon-feeder descriptives, and damn unnecessary verbiage?”
