They aren’t delicate like her mother’s

Or her sister’s

Or her cousin’s

Not even her damn brother’s.

They were big and manly and rough


Her hands weren’t those of an artist

A writer, or pianist

Her fingers weren’t long and thin and pretty

They were short, creased, and round.

No amount of cheap rings that left her fingers blue-green could change it

They were what they were

What she hated to admit

Hands like her fathers.

Just like she had his eyes, nose, and pink skin.

And look what they created!

Jesus fuck, it’s atrocious.

There’s no loopy, girly penmanship on her pages

Ink and lead smeared words together

Stained her hands, giving them a metallic gleam

The letters curved awkwardly in odd places

U‘s were V‘s

V‘s were U‘s

Us became versus, versus became us

It was all a messy shit show

And, honestly

She could go on and on about the unfair treatment of left handers

The injustice with which they dealt with all their lives

But frankly,

She’s tired of looking at the mess on her page.


This is something different for me. I went to a Richard Garcia reading last night and was very intrigued by his style. He writes a lot on objects. He told us of this interesting prompt: Write about your hands. Then, go back and write about your handwriting. I thought I’d give it a try. I encourage any writer to do it! If you do, send it to me or something so I can read it (not quite sure how that works but if you have any clue, please share).


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