Hands and Exotic Places

This was another piece that I wrote in the workshop I took, and had forgotten about until now.... Our prompt was somewhat vague: 3 minutes to write something about someone's hands. 3 minutes using using a metaphor to an exotic city. 3 minutes to ask that person a question about their hands. I ended up turning it into a 3 part poem...

1. Hands that lack elegance,
in perpetual motion.
Chewed fingernails,
chipped black paint.

Soft hands,
with a soft outline,
veins quietly visible,
beneath the skin.

Hands that fiddle,
with,
string,
paper,
headphones,
the keys on a phone.

2. Panama City,
like the wind.
In perpetual motion.

Filled with,
sights,
sounds,
smells.

A placid spot,
will shield you,
from the movement,
for a moment.

3. "What makes you
chew your fingers so
that the paint chips,
and even you inexhaustible
supply of lotion
cannot make then attractive?"

"I paint
my nails and
chew my fingers and
move my hands perpetually and
put lotion on
out of habit.
Habits that
cannot be broken."

Flames

This is a short little story I wrote in the car on the way back from Maine. Interpret it as you will.

The air is cold and sleepy, casting a spell over the town.  The branches on the trees don’t stir, sirens don’t puncture the air, and the streetlights don’t flicker.  

                A lone, dark figure glides down a tree swathed lane, the branches caressing the figure as it walks past. Almost imperceptible tapping from the figure’s sneakers rise into the stillness.  As the figure nears a road light, her delicate features become visible, framed by soft, brown bangs. She wears a heavy, black trench coat like a turtle does their shell, shielding herself from the coldness of the night and hiding her from the coldness of humanity.

                She reaches a fork in the street that forms a giant, unseen cul-de-sac; the center circle vegetated heavily with towering maples and pines. The woods ringing the street made the little road an asphalted donut in the scenery, and she just a dot in the landscape. The girl pauses, takes a ragged breath, and strides to the left.

                A dirt driveway spills into the road and promptly disappears back into trees. Reaching the cheery red mailbox at the end of it, the girl stops short. After reaching into her coat and fishing around she produces a small object and clenches it tightly in her left hand.

                She hesitantly opens the mailbox, and flinches as it creaks.  Her fingers find the only paper in the box; a thick envelope. If it were daytime, she would see the heavy, yellowed paper of the letter envelope; the neat script inking the name on the front; the red, waxen seal; the date on the stamp. But in the darkness all her senses tell her is how crisp the paper feels, how thick the envelope is. She lifts her left hand up and, after fumbling about for a minute in the night, clicks a flame into life. Holding the Bic close to the envelope washes a weak, flickering light over the address. She squints at the words, and nods slightly in approval. Licking her lips, she holds the end of the envelope away from her, and gently lets the flame lick the parchment. The flames reflect softly in her wide eyes. The fire hungrily eats the old, dry paper and she anxiously drops it onto the dark pavement in front of her. She stands watch over it until the light winks out; then she squats down, coaxes another flame out of the tube, and carefully scans the ground. Seemingly satisfied she stands up, bangs the mailbox shut with her elbow, and drops the lighter into one of her many pockets.

                Her shoulders relax away from their hunched position and she gives a little sigh.

                A breeze picks up and stirs the ashes from the pavement towards the sky as she disappears back into the night.