The Canal

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Genres: Fiction
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>> CHAPTER ONE << The things Paul did no longer seemed strange to him. He was past all that, past the point of strange. Like now, being in the backyard, aiming water from the hose at the blood on his lawn. Most people in their life, at some point, will water a lawn. The trick was to get the crumbs of bone and gristle -- use the water to push them back towards the fence, so the runoff could drain into the canal.
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It was work he'd almost enjoy if he hadn't been feeling so sick. It must be the heat. It must be the sun. Or the air, dense and empty of oxygen. He could barely breathe. The hose felt too heavy, as if packed with lead. This wasn't like the usual flu's, fever's and rheumatism's that normally plagued him.
This felt much more final. Much more definitive.
He couldn't remember it ever being this hot.
Part of him though, the old Paul, the Paul of happier days, he seemed to remember a day as hot as this one.
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