How I broke my hand A short story by gre2g whittle

March 28th, 2014, 8pm

How I broke my hand A short story by gre2g whittle

I saw her that day, she was soft and fair and I thought that if she wasn’t carrying that bag then the wind might just blow her away

I could see him looking at me like I was something worth looking at, and I thought that maybe for a second I could lose myself in the soul he kept in his eyes if only he would just speak to me

I wanted so desperately to be closer but I knew that she would be repulsed by my advances, and then my dreams would be nought but that. If I kept my distance at least there was still that impossible flicker of hope that warmed my tarnished existence

I wondered what he was thinking, from over there just beyond the tree line. Was he thinking the same things I was, of course not. In the distance between I saw a world, there was a tree with initials roughly hewn into its tough flesh. There were smiles and hugs and soft whispers between the blankets that seemed to be a barrier protecting us from the world we so eagerly wished to escape. And last I saw his eyes, only for the brightest of seconds and then he turned his gaze.

She stared off into space, probably thinking wretched things of me. Probably wondering how she could escape me. And then without any warning her eyes met mine and for the smallest grain of time I saw what I wanted. I saw her in all her hidden glory, she was pyramids and fortresses both strong and beautiful she was time and death, precious yet all consuming. And she was everything to me and yet nothing to me at all for she meant more to me than anything though she did not even know my name. And then that world was gone as I had to look away afraid that as I had seen her she might see me and not be quite so amazed . I resolved to take a final gaze, to steal a final glimpse of the world I would never hold nor be a part of but when I looked back she was gone taking her world with her.

In my anger I turned and struck the tree I had yearned to etch our names into. And like my dreams, my hand shattered.

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Greg Whittle

I write, mostly for film but I like short stories and spoken word poetry too.

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