Hands

This is the last of my final portfolio for Creative Writing. From here on out, it'll probably be all new stuff. I hope you guys are all excited and such. I know I am. You ready for this?

DRAFT: 4

Hands

Banana hands—yellow like a green thumb. Earthen, old, timeless. Without time. A conception of human thought. Ticking hands mark circles, circling roundabout. A sphere. A web of hands could catch a sphere—or just a single hand. Facilitate the process. Twist, turn, burn, sun. Fusion. Power wrought through nature. Spider—natural killer kills naturally—dew encrusted web-jewels, gems, diamonds. Coal. The industry churns out thick smoke—Smaug. Belching glittering treasure. Hands. Grasp a handful of coal stars, strung out like ducks, all in a row. Wooden, tied together. Tied, bound, gagged, thrown in a trunk or some trunk. Certainly not my trunk. Tree trunk—vines that entangle, clasped like hands. Lovers, standing still, erect for all time. A light rain may wash them both. Bathe, behind your beautiful hands—assuming you’ve a pair. Blood and flesh, flesh and blood, woven, intertwined—a string of hands could reach ‘round the world. The world—vast; oceans abound. The water falls from the skies like fire in the second coming. Fire. Brimstone. Roasts in flames the tongues like hands. Dogs like licking them. Slick, wet, warm, fingers dripping—webbed fingers. Flapping fingers flock—float. Spines nay, quills—prickles and pokes. They pierce the land—flesh and blood-rivers flow forth. A pier—it stretches, groans and moans—the gloom recedes. Hair. Hair recedes as the hand combs. Comb the beach—can’t you feel the breeze? Febreeze. No odor here; the hand that feeds brings the bacon. Sizzles, cooks. Bacon. And it is brought home by feeding hands, splayed and flayed—like a banana.