“Thanks for the new phone, man. It got here pretty fast.” Clay cradled the shiny new gadget between his ear and shoulder while he attempted to chop the chicken. Bob was better with a knife - probably that whole rhythmic drummer thing. Clay swore when he almost took off part of his finger, and Scott laughed in his ear.
“Is Betty Crocker Clay on the loose again?”
“Bob’s not here, all right? I have to cook for myself.” Clay sighed and set down the knife, stared at his hands. He remembered pretending to stare at his cuticles lots of times as a teenager, the only way he could really show disdain for his father without risking what Bob risked.
“You let Bobby-O cook you food? And you’re still alive?”
“Apparently Bob’s pretty handy with foreign cuisine,” Clay said. He stared - really stared - at his hands and remembered a crazy fan had latched onto him, crying with joy and hysteria, and told him his hands were magic. He and his brothers had been adolescent long enough to have a good laugh about it later, but his hands were just - hands. His fingernails were always chipped because he played his bass without a pick, and his fingertips were heavily callused. As an experiment, he dug a fingernail into one of his fingertips and felt...nothing. Huh. He had that much dead skin in one spot? But it was a good thing - making music didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.
“Any word from your taller half?”
“Not one. If you hear from him, tell him to come home - I’m terrible with kids. Have I mentioned Bob’s also handy to have around when kids start to cry?”
More laughter from Scott. “Is there anything you’re better than Bob at?”
“Picking up chicks,” Clay said automatically, and then he sighed. Sure, he was good at picking girls up at bars, but of the brothers four, the only one who was in a steady relationship was Dan. He and Joey had been together for four years.
“That’s what you think. Actually, uh, I have heard from Bob.”
Clay raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“He’s still on his way to see her. He, uh, he wrote a song.”
“He did what?” Clay glanced toward the corner of the main room, but his guitar was still there - he’d used it earlier that day, after all.
“Yeah. It was a pretty good song, too.” Something in Scott’s voice was oddly muted. “You know what I realized today?”
“What?” Clay wondered what sort of song Bob could have written, remembered the steady bitterness of Two Beats and remorseful resignation of Love Isn’t.
“I don’t have guitar calluses anymore,” Scott said.
Clay rubbed his fingertips together and realized he couldn’t feel anymore. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I really liked Perilously Here.”
“I did, too.”
(oddly enough, all of the song titles referenced in this piece are actual songs; I cannot guarantee that you'll find them on YouTube)
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
And The Boss Was Back
Carolyn drummed her fingertips on the desk and listened to Donna witter on about the wonderful date she’d had the night before. They were supposed to be talking about partnership agreements and sliding-scale contingent fees, but the senior partner had stepped out, and the harpies were on the loose.
“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.
Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.
“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.
Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”
Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.
“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.
Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.
“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.
Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”
The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --
“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”
And the boss was back.
“And then he gave me this new bracelet. See?” Donna cocked her wrist to show off a glitter of diamonds. She had long, thin hands, her fingers almost bony to the point of being sharp. If she gestured any more broadly than usual, she’d likely put out her neighbor’s eye.
Carolyn glanced down at her own hands, weapon-scarred and devoid of real fingerprints. After several moments, she realized the rhythm she was drumming was one Bob had taught her. The nearest handy distraction was a pen. Carolyn scooped it up and set a-twirling. She’d learnt several interesting pen-flips in her time. In fact, she was fully capable of shooting a pen across a room like a small spear. She’d almost blinded her weapons master once that way.
“So you think he’ll propose?” Suzy asked.
Donna tossed her head. “Oh, please. I’ll be done with him and onto the next man before he knows what hit him. This time I’m thinking...a guy with a Maserati.”
Carolyn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from blurting out a comment. Donna was about to get a pen through the eye.
“What about you, Carolyn? Any new men in your life?” Lola’s sudden question jolted Carolyn out of her pen-flipping rhythm, and the pen launched itself across the table. Toward Donna.
Carolyn squeaked and lunged, closed a fist over the pen mid-air. The other women went silent and stared at Carolyn’s hand.
“Um...nice catch,” Lola said faintly.
Carolyn lowered her hand slowly, set the pen down beside her notepad. Then she curled her hands demurely in her lap. “No man in my life. You know me - it’s all about billing hours.”
The admission earned precisely the frosty, dismissive look Carolyn had been hoping for, and then it was Amanda’s turn to brag about her latest fling. Carolyn stared down at her hands, two weapons curled around each other, and remembered candle-lit nights in foreign hotel rooms. She remembered laughter and pillow fights and curling up in her own corner of the bed, Bob’s arms wrapped around her, both of them watching as Scott and Clay squabbled over which channel to watch while Dan picked a movie and settled in. Bob would twine his fingers with hers and tease her gently about how small her hands were. She’d have to remind him that, in karate lessons, she had a much better punch, and he would kiss the argument away, and then Dan would fling a handful of popcorn at them, and --
“So, have we decided on new contingent fees?”
And the boss was back.
My Own Hands
My own hands were once unscared. Once, the hands of a writter, a crafter, smooth. Of course they were not always as strong as they are now.
Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.
They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.
Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.
(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)
Deft and concise movments now are the strange grace to my hands. The smooth movements of the blade in my hands, rapidly dicing food into neat and even pieces, the same hands that can filet a salmon, can carve a cantalope into a flower, can pipe a rose out of icing for a cake.
They are perpetually brown from the heat in the kitchens. Always a new cut, a new scar. Burns turning smooth flesh puckered and angry red; burns that fade into grayish brown lines forever engraved into my skin, another story. Skin so dry from constant scrubbing, I could itch my face with the backs of my hands. It's strange, so brown, yet an ashy pallor from the lack of moisture in the air.
Torn and bleading fingers, scraped by a grater, singed on the grill, slammed in the washer. I don't want my hands touched by others; hands so harsh. Hands perpetually scented with garlic and onion, so much that I don't notice it anymore.
(Lame I know, but I was stuck for something to write. I know it's really bad, but c'est la vie. Can't have a great one every day, especially when I am on vacation.)
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Tiny Spiders
She was crying, and Clay didn’t know what to do. He would be the first to admit that Bob was by far the better teacher. It was Bob who’d fled to Thailand first, and his tales of glorious beaches and days in the sun had lured Clay away from California and his quixotic ideas about making it on the silver screen. At least twice a day, Clay wondered why he was still here when it was pretty obvious Bob didn’t need him to help teach.
Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.
“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”
That just made her cry more.
Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”
Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.
“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.
“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”
Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.
It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.
Only Bob was gone, chasing something that was either a hoax, a dream, or a cruel joke, and now Clay was staring down at a crying five-year-old and wondering what the hell he should do. Bob usually handled things like this. Clay knelt so he was eye-level with the girl.
“Hey,” he said, doing his best to mimic Bob’s comforting tone. “He didn’t mean to hurt you - you just bonked heads. He said he’s sorry. Are you going to stop crying now?”
That just made her cry more.
Clay winced. He held out one hand. “Hey, you...want to come help Teacher Clay play his guitar while everyone eats lunch?”
Her tears subsided for a moment, and she stared at his hand. Clay had every urge to tug it back and let it fall to his side, and then she put her hand in his. For a moment, Clay could only stare. Her hand was tiny compared to his. Her entire hand, palm and chubby splayed fingers at all, fit onto the palm of his hand. He’d always had spidery hands for being the skinniest of the brothers Summers, but then he’d always joked he’d needed it for his bass - after all, his instrument was almost too much music for one man.
“Where Teacher Bob?” the girl asked.
“You mean where is Teacher Bob? He had to go to America, but he’ll be back.” I hope. Clay closed his hand carefully around hers, starkly aware of how tiny and fragile her bones were, how soft her skin was. “Now, you want to learn to play a song?”
Her eyes lit up at the word “play”, and Clay supposed he should have been glad that this wasn’t one of his good guitars, just a cheap acoustic he’d picked up at a pawn shop.
It took a bit of maneuvering, but then Clay had the girl on his lap and the guitar semi-perched on her knees even though he was supporting most of its weight. He let her explore the strings and the neck, the fretboard, the body and the pegs - although he turned the strings as soon as she was done poking at them. Her tiny hands were like little spiders alive with curiosity, and her eyes were wide with wonder, and Clay wondered when he’d stopped looking at music like that, when it became a shield and a retreat and the only way he knew how to be human once more.
Not Your Fault
“Don’t touch me!” The woman screamed and kicked out when Ellis tried to approach. He grunted when her heel connected with his thigh, and he staggered back.
Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.
His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.
“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.
She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.
“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”
“Summers, she’s obviously high --”
“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”
“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.
Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”
She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.
“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.
She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.
After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”
Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”
The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.
Scott froze in the doorway. The woman’s face was bruised and swollen on one side, and she had thick scratches on her throat. Her shirt was torn and exposed more bruising on her ribs, scratches and bruises on her hips. After one horrified moment, Scott knew.
His hands curled into fists, and he felt his fingernails bite into his palms.
“Ma’am,” Ellis said. He reached for her.
She shrieked and tossed her head wildly, sank back against the closet door. Her chest heaved, and Scott realized she was crying.
“Ellis,” he said, “get back.”
“Summers, she’s obviously high --”
“Get back, moron.” Scott set down his emergency bag and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “My name is Scott Summers and I’m an EMT. We’re here to help. Officers will be here as soon as possible to secure the scene, but we need to take you to a hospital to get you checked over --”
“Stay back, monster!” She threw one of her shoes at him.
Scott ducked instinctively, then lowered himself to his knees. “We’re not going to hurt you. I promise.”
She twitched like a rabid animal when he extended one hand, palm up.
“I promise.” Scott caught her gaze and held it.
She lunged at him and sank her teeth into his hand. Scott bit back a curse and took the pain, felt the burn in his palm and let it wash through him, calm him down. He remembered sitting in his room with his beat-up old acoustic and playing till his fingers bled, playing louder and angrier so he didn’t have to hear Bob’s quiet sobs in the next room. Scott knew there was something wrong with him, that physical pain calmed his fury, but he took it.
After a moment, the woman pulled back. She was trembling. Scott instinctively curled his fingers over the wound and was surprised to realize that his calluses from playing the guitar were gone. Had it been that long?
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry --”
Scott reached out to her once more. “Shhh,” he whispered. “We’re here to help. Come on with us.”
The woman reached out and curled her hand tightly around his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Scott wished he’d been able to say these words to his brother back when he needed them. “It’s not your fault.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, but he ignored the pain, just stared at the convergence of fingers and skin where her hand clutched his. He studied the contrast in light and shadow, the delicate shadows between her knuckles and the thickness of his fingers compared to hers. Her fingers were almost as long as his, but more slender, and they curled like claws against his skin while she cried.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Which Wire
"Okay, now locate the primary and the secondary switches and trace them back to the source," David's voice sounded loud and clear in his ear.
Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.
"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."
Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.
Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.
Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.
"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."
Steve's quick hands sifted through the wires attached to the bomb that he was practicing on. "Okay, this is the primary, but it looks like there is a third redundancy down here," Steve's long fingers traced a blue wire gently as it twisted back on itself and into the core of the device.
"Now the real question," David said, "is which wire do you cut? Bear in mind that you only have three more minutes before it goes off."
Steve grasped a small pair of wire cutters in his left hand, looking at the bomb. He looked again at the bundle of wires. Smiling, he grasped the green wire gently and cut it with a quick motion.
Steve couldn't help his cry of surprise when the little bomb went off in a shower of confetti.
Picking the colored paper out of his hair, Steve scowled in frustration. "I though I had it right for sure that time," Steve said as David came into the practice room.
"Don't worry about it, You'll get it eventually," David said, patting Steve on the shoulder. "Lets just hope it's before you have to disarm am bomb for real."
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Used To Play Piano
Dan could only stare at his hands, white-knuckled and trembling, as they curled around his gun. The shot was still ringing in his ears, and all he could think was, I used to play piano with these hands.
He remembered being fifteen years old and sitting at a grand piano in a hotel restaurant, smiling at a camera and showing a stranger how his brothers’ rock’n’roll could be converted into a slow, poignant melody.
He’d always had the prettiest hands of the lot - whenever they rewatched old videos of themselves hosting the Juno awards, Clay would make fun of how girly his hands were for the Celine Dion joke. Dan always defended himself - he was the piano player. His hands were supposed to be graceful.
“Summers, I need you to let go of the gun.”
Dan blinked. Officer Henry was standing beside him, trying to ease the gun out of his hands. Dan’s hands tightened reflexively, and hell, when had his hands become so pale?
“Officer, the gun. It’s safe now.” Henry smiled weakly.
Dan took a deep breath. “Just give me a moment to unclench, okay?” He could remember twelve-hour-days in the basement in the house in Nashville, how swollen and cramped his hands were after rehearsals. His pretty little hands would curl into tight claws because he’d been playing so hard and so long, and he usually had to soak them in hot water and get Bob to rub them before he could even move them again.
Not even Bob would help now.
“Is he dead?” Dan asked.
Henry glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “You’re lucky - he has a piece on him.”
He remembered being fifteen years old and sitting at a grand piano in a hotel restaurant, smiling at a camera and showing a stranger how his brothers’ rock’n’roll could be converted into a slow, poignant melody.
He’d always had the prettiest hands of the lot - whenever they rewatched old videos of themselves hosting the Juno awards, Clay would make fun of how girly his hands were for the Celine Dion joke. Dan always defended himself - he was the piano player. His hands were supposed to be graceful.
“Summers, I need you to let go of the gun.”
Dan blinked. Officer Henry was standing beside him, trying to ease the gun out of his hands. Dan’s hands tightened reflexively, and hell, when had his hands become so pale?
“Officer, the gun. It’s safe now.” Henry smiled weakly.
Dan took a deep breath. “Just give me a moment to unclench, okay?” He could remember twelve-hour-days in the basement in the house in Nashville, how swollen and cramped his hands were after rehearsals. His pretty little hands would curl into tight claws because he’d been playing so hard and so long, and he usually had to soak them in hot water and get Bob to rub them before he could even move them again.
Not even Bob would help now.
“Is he dead?” Dan asked.
Henry glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “You’re lucky - he has a piece on him.”
Monday, July 6, 2009
Boy With the Beat
“Do you even know how to play a guitar?” Sonny asked. He hovered over Bob and watched while Bob fumbled with the chords.
Bob dragged a hand through his hair and stared down at the crumpled napkin where he’d scribbled hasty lyrics and a dash of chords, then set the guitar aside for a moment.
“You done with it?” Sonny asked. His breath was rancid and he definitely had several old meals in his beard, but Bob didn’t care.
“No, not yet. It’s just --”
“Can you even write a song?” Sonny asked.
“Yes! I’ve been writing songs since I was seven. It’s just -- I was the drummer, all right? Clay tried to teach me how to play the guitar, but my hands just weren’t made for that.”
Sonny blinked. “Breathe, kid. It’s just a song.”
Just a song. Bob wanted to laugh. He did take a deep breath, and then he stared down at his hands. For twelve years now he’d pretended that all that mattered was dexterity, the quick rhythm of palms and knuckles, from brushes and sticks to bare hands on a box. Clay had longer fingers, more graceful hands, but then he had the smaller, thinner frame. Somehow, despite the fact that they were twins, he was prettier.
“Going to try again?” Sonny reached for the guitar.
“My fifty bucks isn’t up yet,” Bob said. “I just - need a minute.” He closed his eyes and set his hands on his knees. Then he curled his hands into fists and began to play. It was the first beat, the easy beat, the oldest beat from their oldest song, and it evolved from one song to the next, one album to another. When he opened his eyes, his palms were red and tingling, his knuckles swollen. He stared down at his hands once more. He had blunt-fingered, broad hands, like a carpenter or a construction worker, not a musician.
“That was...you’re crazy,” Sonny said.
Bob scooped up the guitar and tried the chord sequence once more. He was surprised at how steady his hands were this time, and he smiled.
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Sonny said.
“Thanks.” Bob’s smile widened. “Now, on to the second verse.”
He barely noticed when a crowd began to gather around the edges of his vision.
“Every step along the way is part of who we are today...”
Bob dragged a hand through his hair and stared down at the crumpled napkin where he’d scribbled hasty lyrics and a dash of chords, then set the guitar aside for a moment.
“You done with it?” Sonny asked. His breath was rancid and he definitely had several old meals in his beard, but Bob didn’t care.
“No, not yet. It’s just --”
“Can you even write a song?” Sonny asked.
“Yes! I’ve been writing songs since I was seven. It’s just -- I was the drummer, all right? Clay tried to teach me how to play the guitar, but my hands just weren’t made for that.”
Sonny blinked. “Breathe, kid. It’s just a song.”
Just a song. Bob wanted to laugh. He did take a deep breath, and then he stared down at his hands. For twelve years now he’d pretended that all that mattered was dexterity, the quick rhythm of palms and knuckles, from brushes and sticks to bare hands on a box. Clay had longer fingers, more graceful hands, but then he had the smaller, thinner frame. Somehow, despite the fact that they were twins, he was prettier.
“Going to try again?” Sonny reached for the guitar.
“My fifty bucks isn’t up yet,” Bob said. “I just - need a minute.” He closed his eyes and set his hands on his knees. Then he curled his hands into fists and began to play. It was the first beat, the easy beat, the oldest beat from their oldest song, and it evolved from one song to the next, one album to another. When he opened his eyes, his palms were red and tingling, his knuckles swollen. He stared down at his hands once more. He had blunt-fingered, broad hands, like a carpenter or a construction worker, not a musician.
“That was...you’re crazy,” Sonny said.
Bob scooped up the guitar and tried the chord sequence once more. He was surprised at how steady his hands were this time, and he smiled.
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” Sonny said.
“Thanks.” Bob’s smile widened. “Now, on to the second verse.”
He barely noticed when a crowd began to gather around the edges of his vision.
“Every step along the way is part of who we are today...”
Pictures and Memories
David pulled a scrap of a photo out of his pocket, it was torn and creased. DAvid studied the people in the picture, Arianna and himself. They were holding hands and smiling at the camera. David closed his eyes, he could remember that day as if it were yesterday. They had gone to the fair, Arianna had beaten him in the carnival games. They had ridden the Farris wheel, and cuddled under the stars. One of the carnival workers had agreed to take their picture.
David looked at his hands in the picture; looked at them now. In the picture they had been smooth, strong, yet cleans, unblemished and innocent. David placed the picture in his lap, and spread his hands to see them clearly. Palm, down, his hands were browner now than they were then, fine lines crossed the backs of his hands. Long fingers ended in blunt tips, fingers made leaner by a hard life. Turning his hands over and looking at the palms, David noted the deep red scars running across his fingers; fingers that were also thick with callouses from years of fighting and weapons training. Hands that were broken with years of hard use.
Looking at the photo again David shook his head. He could wish for clean and gentle hands again. He could wish for a lot of things that couldn't be or he couldn't have. Soft hands belong to the her, to the past, he mused. Slipping the picture back into his pocket he looked at his hands once more.
This was his life, his fate. The hands of a warrior.
David looked at his hands in the picture; looked at them now. In the picture they had been smooth, strong, yet cleans, unblemished and innocent. David placed the picture in his lap, and spread his hands to see them clearly. Palm, down, his hands were browner now than they were then, fine lines crossed the backs of his hands. Long fingers ended in blunt tips, fingers made leaner by a hard life. Turning his hands over and looking at the palms, David noted the deep red scars running across his fingers; fingers that were also thick with callouses from years of fighting and weapons training. Hands that were broken with years of hard use.
Looking at the photo again David shook his head. He could wish for clean and gentle hands again. He could wish for a lot of things that couldn't be or he couldn't have. Soft hands belong to the her, to the past, he mused. Slipping the picture back into his pocket he looked at his hands once more.
This was his life, his fate. The hands of a warrior.
Project Assignment # 34 - Hands
This week should focus on hands in the story. Is it an old ladies gnarled and wrinkled hands, a babies smooth perfect skin? Does Vince have strong hands? what kind of Hands does the wordsmith have? Hands can tell a lot about a character. Rough, smooth, calloused, manicured. Do their hands have a nervous twitch?
Have fun with your descriptions.
I promise I will do my overview later today.
Have fun with your descriptions.
I promise I will do my overview later today.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Overview #33: World-Building
Ugh, I am so terrible at making myself write everyday. That, and I am quite scatterbrained in general, so I tend to just... forget. I know, terrible of me to forget M&M! What's wrong with me?!
Anyhow, the two entries I did write this week were... alright I suppose. I didn't really like the bowling alley one, but I wanted to describe a local haunt kind of thing, a place where pretty much everyone hangs out at one time or another. And I wrote about Sam's apartment complex because I feel like all you really get of Sam most of the time is her angsting over Vince. So I wanted to do something that was strictly Sam, for Sam.
Well... I promise I will try harder to write everyday. Not just for M&M, but also for myself. Thanks you guys.
Overview #33: World-Building
I essentially failed at this exercise. But whatever. I think switching to random characters for this week might have done me in, but there are worse things I could do. I'll fully admit to pretty much describing the different places I go to in Omaha, and I definitely caricatured them up a bit, but part of that was for Kyle's character as I made him up. The cheapness of literally calling places North Omaha, South Omaha, and West Omaha (there is no East Omaha - that is downtown) gave the world a more coherent feel than it really had, to me. It isn't easy to balance having characters and building a world, but Jade was right - a world comes alive because of the characters who inhabit it and interact with it, who observe it and comment on it and try to change it.
This exercise mostly brought home my utter inability to spatially process places alone in my head without visibly seeing what I'm describing. I think I improved as the week went, coming up with a lame if coherent story line and developing a fairly solid character for Kyle, who shall go the way of the dodo with whatever the impending challenge may be. In looking back, my sense of description improved, because in considering what I'd write for the day I'd watch the world around me and try to categorize the little visual details that fed into my overall impression of the place. (South Omaha has houses crammed closer together than in North Omaha, but North Omaha somehow feels more ghetto and unsettling than South Omaha.)
Well, better luck next week. At least I got my daily words, right?
This exercise mostly brought home my utter inability to spatially process places alone in my head without visibly seeing what I'm describing. I think I improved as the week went, coming up with a lame if coherent story line and developing a fairly solid character for Kyle, who shall go the way of the dodo with whatever the impending challenge may be. In looking back, my sense of description improved, because in considering what I'd write for the day I'd watch the world around me and try to categorize the little visual details that fed into my overall impression of the place. (South Omaha has houses crammed closer together than in North Omaha, but North Omaha somehow feels more ghetto and unsettling than South Omaha.)
Well, better luck next week. At least I got my daily words, right?
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