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Trying to hide it
Smelling of Pine and Maple
My hand is not flesh
At the end of the day he hung the hand on the wall and went about cooking his dinner in his shanty that sat on the side of the hill facing the river where the ferries passed in single file like ducks after their mother. He spent his days(more)
"They said you get used to it."  

I doubted I would. Too hard, too clumsy, varnished and cool, too close to what it should be, uncanny. As he wrapped this... thing around me, left it on the small of my back, I could feel the dissociation he must(more)
My father was an authoritarian.  He ruled the roost.  It was his way or you got a beating.  He was an old fashioned man, as well as an old man.  I was born when he was already in his late forties.  We were practically two generations apart.  I never met my actual (more)
boy shakes wooden hand
of cigar-store indian
on a dusty street
There is a wooden hand slipping into my heart. It's his. He whispers that he loves everything about me and I feel pin-pricks of tears curling around my eyes. I did not know, I did not know that happiness like this exists.
There was nothing special about Joe but his wooden hand, and without that wooden hand Joe would fade back into the crowds that hoard by every day.

When he was old enough Joe was studying at university, but if you asked him about it you wouldn't listen fo(more)
"So you're working on a project for woodshop? That's so cool. What is it?"

"It's a hand," said Annie. She held up a block of wood. It was balsa wood, Annie's personal favorite. Lightweight and perfect for all kinds of projects. She had been very passionate about wood(more)