And I just couldn’t stop hitting it, pounding into that damn aluminum fruit dish. I watched it melt and make knuckles show along its frame. My dimpled face warped in its reflection. Until my hand was cut up, bloody and swollen, as if stolen rubies spilled from my skin and became glittering, new. Now not this old hand I had always known but this bright forming baby hand. Fingers curled by instinct, gripping onto a finger while still in sleep. Things work themselves into my skin so I beat out as many of them as I can. And what’s so fantastic is that aluminum won’t crack or howl.
And you know all that punching? I thought of you always. But I can’t fix you if you fall. I know that now.
Cocktail Napkin Diaries is a community of short fiction writers in the United States. We publish anonymously as The Stringer so we can show our work without regard to our fragile little feelings. We work hard, we play hard, we critique, hard.
Read, comment, email, and above all, be inspired. If you like to write short fiction, become a part of The Stringer team by contacting us at cocktailnapkindiaries@gmail.com. Thanks!
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