I came across this recently via an audiobook I was listening to. The exercise is to write a passage describing a building, landscape or object from the P.O.V. of a parent whose child has just died, without mentioning the parent, child, or death directly.
Please add your own takes here.
From his position the building's spire cut through the thick fog of the city like an ice pick, piercing the smog so far above him it made him dizzy. His mind wandered to tales of pennies dropped from such heights to wound the pedestrians below, accelerating each coin into bullets to rifle through cars, concrete, or sculls by luck of the draw. But that was only an urban legend.
He paid the fifty-four dollars for a ticket to the 102nd floor, and entered the crowded elevator, the smell of machine oil, sweat, and body odor inside forming a disgusting perfume. The sudden jolt caught him off guard as the elevator took off, climbing higher and higher toward the top. He felt sick: surrounded by people on every side, there was no place to move, no place to turn, he could hardly breathe. He swallowed hard, closed his eyes and breathed: breathe in, breathe out, then in again and out, until the feeling passed.
The door opened and everyone filed out, one by one, cellphones at the ready, eager to assault Instagram and Facebook with visions of the New York skyline, unique only by the addition of their own heads.
He found a garbage can and threw up until everything was gone, and he gasped for air.