His shoulders slumped as he took out the air brush kit. The room was dark except for the flickering white light overhead. The door opened; he startled, just his co-worker.
“My story was rejected. Want to know why?,” the mortician said. “Too macabre, they said.” He waved the air brush over his subject like an orchestra conductor. “I wrote about my profession—making people beautiful” He looked up from the lifeless body on the table; his stomach rumbled.
The mortician pulled out a sandwich from a crumpled bag. He opened his notebook and began rewriting his story while mumbling, ‘too macabre.’