By John Lemanski
Apoplexy. Aphasia. A box made solely of lids.
No one grows up imagining this, yearning to be a warden while trapped as a prisoner of the flesh.
His eyes were focused; he could roll his neck just enough to see his reflection in the mirrored closet doors. He mourned his gait, forgave the saddlebags and the muffin top that crowned his jeans. He wanted only to return to those imperfect but effortless turns of phrase, to bad jokes and easy laughter, to rub his own belly for good luck.
It was now still life, a zombie’s elegy of regret and remorse.
I can see that story growing into a book
Well done! Cleverly done.