working on my writing by taking a number of writing exercises, one of which is description as a plot device. This is one of such exercises. Scrutinize and review maybe?


Like a heap of broken eggshells, they’re piled in a corner of the earthstrewn floor. They’re speckled with bits of the earth and covered in some places like mulch. Each one’s neither as big or small as the next. They’re the milky white of paint left out in the sun for too long; sullied enough for you notice but not enough for an outright assault on your senses. They had freckles on their fragile lines , black spots against the sun bleached white that on anything else would seem ugly but on them gave what an artist would term as ‘character’. These are my lovely bones and since I was killed I have watched over them dearly.


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