The Martyrs, Part 2

(A tribute and a lesson in three fictionalized vignettes. After the last, I'll give the historical context. The images are copyrighted by Radiology Centennial, Inc.)


(Thomas Edison Pictured in X-Ray Light)



(X-Ray Tubes from Thomas Edison's Company)


       Clarence.
       His name in a whisper.
       He turns.
       Glass blowing hot. He spins the rod. A teardrop molten. He spins, shapes, and blows into the rod. His movements dance as the furnace roars. His hair curls in stinking smoke before it grows.
       Clarence.
       His name in a whisper.
       He turns.
       Mr. Edison’s face unfolds above his workbench. Watching. Clarence has polished his workbench. Mr. Edison’s face smiles back in reflection. Everyone laughs.
       No one laughs at his fingers.
       Clarence.
       His name.
       He drops the switch to bring the power. Mother electricity leaps in blue arcs. Harnessed but not tamed.
       He clamps his creation to the bench. A pear-shaped bulb with plates mounted carefully within. A masterpiece of mystery. He holds the viewing screen in his hand and waves his fingers in front of the bulb. He never tires of seeing those bones. Nature unveiled. Nature beaten.
       He’s made a strong one. He's always the best.
       Clarence.

       He wakes from dreams to a hospital bed and wads of sopping sheets. His wounds are leaking, trying to seal.
       “Nurse!” he screams.
       Pain like a monstrous tide. He screams for his life.
       “NURSE!”
       Footsteps come. A light cuts away a little night.
       He reaches, confused. He throws out his arms.
       But something is wrong. He feels, but cannot see his hands. His weight won’t peel from the bed.
       Then, through fever and infection he remembers.


(Studio Advertisement Selling "Bone Portraits")

       They took his fingers. Took his hands. Took his wrists. They chased the cancer.
       They took his arms.


On to Part 3
Back to Part 1.