I was born without fingernails. Eh, not really, but I bet I nabbed your attention and at least a split second of your sympathy. Admit it. You were picturing me thumping away at this keyboard with my nubby little fingers and their fleshy raw tips. Truth be told, I did come with fingernails. They were just nothing to speak of…or to show anyone for that matter. Ridged and wavy, they were thinner…
I thought I broke something the other day. Something I’ve been trying to be really, really careful with. Something that is important to me. And holds much emotional value.
In fact, it’s something that plays an integral part in me not only functioning, but also in my happiness. And health. So you can understand why I’d want to make sure it’s well looked after.
When I think of someone I haven’t seen for a long time. Or someone I will never see again. I see their hands. My mind pictures the shape of their nails. The length of their fingers. Slender. Wide. Rounded or squared. The curve of their wrist. The gestures they made.
Unique. Personal.
But they change. Our hands.
Fingers bend with an arthritic curve. Skin tells of our days…
The Band-Aids are blue. Four that I can see. One masking each little knee poking from below her skirt’s hem and one on each elbow, like patches covering holes on an old man’s cardigan. The rest are hidden, but I know they’re there. They’re always there.
Back one night as she lay on her firm cot, she whispered into the lamp’s soft glow; “They can change, you know. When I’m happy, they turn…
I entered a contest a while back. I didn’t win. Or even place this time. Which stings. But it’s okay. It’s okay, because I always pay extra to receive a serving of critique alongside my disappointment. And sometimes. When I’m lucky. It ends up making my disappointment taste like dessert.
Yes, there were words like, uneven and cliche (ouch) but the words that really stood out for me were…wonde…
A spoonful of potato hits the plate with a wallop and a little spec of mash lands on the hand holding it. Instead of shuffling on like most, he pauses, making eye contact. I steel myself, waiting for a curse word or a dirty look but all I see is empathy.
It’s the last place I want to be and if I hadn’t already committed, I’d be home, covers over my head.
I tend to write dark stuff. Most of my stories are either dark fantasy or horror, and many of them don’t end well for at least some of the cast. This once prompted Nimue to comment that all my stories seem sad.
In truth, I try to weave a fair amount of humor into my stuff, and the more I write, the less consistently tragic my stories have become. Still, if you write horror, you’re going to…
dexraven