Author: R.

• Lizzie
• Richard
• Tom
• Duane
• Serendipidy
• Norval Joe
• Jared
• Planet Z

LIZZIE

The hand, the foot, the wall. Don’t do it. But they did. A hand, a foot, a wall. Just any wall, just any foot, just any hand. The drawings held the secret, they said. And everyone believed them. We found them. And everyone believed them. They are centuries old. Everyone stared in awe. Scientists came from the capital to check and re-check the wall. And they believed them. By then, it was too late. They couldn’t say a word. The hand, the foot, the wall… Tourists loved them. Locals loved them even more. Money and jobs. Yes, money and jobs.

RICHARD

Maybe

Maybe I should try to do something with my life? Take a few risks, go out on a limb and see what I can make of myself?

Maybe I should quit the job, sell the house, liquidate my assets and travel the world, experiencing new cultures, places and ways of life?

Maybe it’s time I threw caution to the wind, strayed outside my comfort zone and seized the day, and to hell with the consequences!

Maybe it’s time to ditch mediocrity and the safe, unassuming life I’ve made myself, and invite danger, uncertainty and adventure in?

On the other hand…

TOM

I finally Got It, just like Coltrain.

You could argue, was it the voice running up and down the octaves? The
moves that would leave a mere mortal in traction. The lyrics so playful
and just plain party. The flash of purple head toe, toe to head. The band
an engine of funk rolling down funky town. The beat that drills down make
you want dance beat. Maybe it was as simple, as the one eyed stare, that
knowing look, your mine, and I would die for you. For me it was that
gentle hand making love to the love shaped guitar. The artist previously
known as.

DUANE

Most of my clothes before high school were hand-me-downs. It was common for neighbors and friends to pass around boxes of clothes that had been outgrown. I ended up wearing a lot of baggy shirts, stuffed into jeans with the cuffs turned up to keep from tripping over them. Sometimes the box had been sitting in an attic awhile. I spent most of third grade dressed in red and white striped bellbottoms with a paisley tunic shirt.

We didn’t hand down shoes. Everyone held on to favorite shoes forever. My Converse All Stars were down to laces and rubber toes.

SERENDIPIDY

They do say not to bite the hand that feeds you, but I’ve never subscribed to that.

For me, biting is the only option – you can’t exactly suck the flesh off roasted fingers, no matter how succulent they may be. And although I suppose it’s possible to slurp a nice crispy piece of skin from the back of a hand, it’s rather messy, and not at all dignified.

And good luck licking the meat from a boiled wrist; I don’t fancy your chances.

So I’ll bite, and gnaw and chew, until I’m done.

Then I’ll eat your other hand.

NORVAL JOE

Billbert’s mother held up her hand to signal her husband to wait. “Really, dear. I think you should stay here and we can make a plan for what to do about our burned-down-house and our super-powered son who’s just been outed, instead of chasing off after the guy who is likely to become the center of most of our future problems.”
His hand still on the doorknob, Mr. Blanketmaker paused. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Joan. You are always the voice of reason.”
Joan smiled knowingly. “Join us Billbert. This affects you as much as any of us.”

JARED

His hands were once thick and meaty. Even though age and disuse have shrunk his hands, mine will always remain small in his. `His knuckles are thick and swollen from boxing for his high school, when that was still a thing. In the pale skin, there are scars from when he lost a fistfight with a table saw. There are too many lines and divots, some pink, some colorless white, in his skin that show the untold knicks and cuts and scrapes of a life. Unseen are the marks of discipline administered, or a record of acts of service bestowed.

PLANET Z

Twenty thousand years ago, a person put their hand print on the wall of a cave.
Over the years, hundreds of others put their hand print on that cave wall.
Maybe thousand, layers of layers of prints on top of each other.
So many colors, so many different formulations of pigments they used.
Clay and crushed rock and blood and resins.
A simple message to the future: I was here.
Alphonse tracked the gold vein back to the cave.
Drilling holes, putting in dynamite, and blasting the rock.
Sifting through the rubble, washing the grit to reveal the gold specks.