prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,q0axq7,The Porcelain Village,Jonathan Page,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/q0axq7/,/short-story/q0axq7/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Inspirational', 'Asian American']",83 likes,"
My clay hands are becoming solid porcelain. I have always had potter’s hands. The throwing water absorbs the moisturizing oils of the skin. Leaves the hands rough. The clay paste dries and cracks the skin. Leaving it red. But now my hands are hardening. In the bisque firing, my hands harden like porous greenware. The cremated carbon and sulfur escape, exhuming my soul from the earthen clay, little by little, drawing it back to its source. The soul stews out in a boiling whistle, agitating out from between the minerals lodged in the ridges and wrinkles of each digit. The palms petrify. The flesh sinters and binds to itself. In the glaze firing, my hands glow red as the enamel stiffens and makes the fingers rigid and reflective. The silicate vitrifies and turns to glass. Dust becomes crystal—like a baby’s flesh crystalizing into the windows of the eyes. I am born again in the womb of the kiln. I am a porcelain village.I have received an order for a series of six ornate hand-painted vases. It is enough money for Dandan’s first semester. But I don’t know if I can complete the order. Though I struggle to find my hands, which have become like ghost appendages, I tell no one. I am frightened the orders will dry up. Dandan has been accepted at Columbia University for the fall and has always wanted to go to the United States. And she will need money. So I struggle to find strength and answers. For her. But I fear the pull of Tai Yi Shen—the great spirit—the creator God, pulling back the breath of life infused in this jar of clay.The January mornings are misty, with a cold mist hugging the valley. My hands ache from the cold and wet of the river. Though my touch is going, I still feel hot and cold. The dirt is hard and stiff under foot and smells like the burned dust of the kiln. I dig clay from the banks of the Jia Ling River. Back at my home shop, in Ciqikou, I mix various minerals into the clay. Kaolin, silica, and feldspars. I then wedge the day’s clay on a long wooden table, folding and pressing to remove all of the air. If I do not get out all of the air, the clay will warp and crack in the kiln. Then I begin the process of forming the clay into the shape of finished goods and ready it for five days of firing. For pottery, we use a wheel and throw the clay. For complex shapes, a mold. As I mold today’s clay into traditional teacups using delicate molds, Dandan brings me my morning tea. It is a Jasmine tea. It is a honey orchid oolong tea. It smells of irises and orchids and the misty meadows of the Shikengong Mountain. It tastes sweet like nutty molasses with notes of a mild bitter metallic roast. Bright, coppery, and clean. With an after taste of the esters of bubble gum powder that is distinctive of the jasmine resin when properly brewed.If I am a simple rice bowl, Dandan is a hand painted dining set. My given name is Jing—Jing Yuchi—but Dandan and everyone else call me Jane.Ciqikou or Longyin Town in Chongquing, China is an ancient place. It means Porcelain Village and if legend is to be believed, is the birthplace of porcelain. The stone streets border ancestral teahouses, pagodas, street food vendors selling doughy mahua, and antique shops with strings of hanging red lanterns on every storefront. The Bao Lun Temple stands above the town and stares back at the North Gate. Dandan is excited for the Lantern Festival next week. It will be her last before her travels and her great adventure.“Ama, we need to get ready for the lantern festival,” Dandan says.“Bao bei, I have a big order I have to fill first,” I tell her.“Pfoof. Forget about your orders ama, I am making the tangyuan. I went to the market before and I have everything: brown sugar, sesame seed, walnut, and bean paste. And lots of rice,” she says.“You go in and start without me niu niu. I have to go down to the market and see Dr. Looey Zhou about the pain in my hands,” I say.“It is so beautiful in the market this time of year. I will miss all of the red lanterns. You know what the old legend says the reason is for the red lanterns,” Dandan says, wanting to tell me for the eleven hundredth time.“No bao bei, what is it?” I humor her.“The Jade Emperor sensed an uprising when his favorite crane was killed by his villagers. He resolved to destroy the old village on the fifteenth day of the lunar year, the night of the new moon—the yuan xiao jie. But his daughter overheard his plan. The princess was in love with a poor fisherman’s boy in the village. Knowing what was going to happen she warned the villagers to put up red lanterns all over town. Then she fooled her father, telling him that the gods had already burned the village. And so every year we use the red lantern to symbolize the mercy of a young girl that overthrows the ill-fated curse of a tyrannical lord and to pray for yuan yue—a fortunate new beginning.” Dandan says, her face bright with a satisfied smile.“You will have your own bright new beginnings soon enough, now go finish making the tangyuan.”“Oh ama, you have had pain in your hands all your life, come help me with the rice balls,” Dandan pleaded.“Later bao bei, later,” I say.* * *Dr. Zhou is a stout man whose black hair has a thick luster like that of a horse, embroidered with a few shiny thistles of white. His eyes are bright and skin taut, featuring a vibrancy that is unusual for a man of seventy-six. He wears a white Hanfu linen shirt with frog buttons and a choker collar. He smells of licorice and lemon and carries himself in a calm, exacting manner.“Nushi Yuchi, what is bothering you?” he asks.“I am losing feeling in my hands—losing touch,” I tell him.“Ohh, Jane, that must be terrifying for you,” he says, taking my right hand and needling it in a form of massage, pulling on the fingers and working his way down each of the bones of the hand, and pressing and squeezing my thumb. “Your energy is very weak in these hands.”“When I am working with the clay, I can’t feel where my hand ends and the clay begins and sometimes I look down and my hands are off the wheel,” I tell him.“Your yin or po can be separated from your spirit. You know the story of Bayou—”“—zhao-hun, the calling back of the soul. But I have no delirium. There are no devils hiding in my closets,” I say.“Maybe. No devils. But Dandan is your heart. She is going to New York soon. Your essence is cold as marrow is cold. Your yang is unstable. But like cures like. You must steal a heart to replace lost heart, or you will lose all feeling and body and spirit will be parted forever.” Dr. Zhou says. “Zao hundun er po tianhuang. Cure for cold body. Bore open chaos and destroy heaven’s neglect,” he adds with a wry grin that only a very old man can pull off.“You want me to take a lover at sixty-seven,” I say, perplexed. And then joke, “Dr. Zhou, are you flirting with me?”“Take a lover. Adopt a stray dog. Whatever it takes to bring feeling back in balance. One more thing Nushi Yuchi, get yourself some warm clothes. There will be snow for the yuan xiao jie—all week there have been clouds over the moon.”* * *How does an old lady steal a heart. It is one thing for Dandan, but for an old lady like me who is losing her sense of touch to touch another human heart—let alone steal it—is a tall order. I puzzle over strategies and tactics. Food comes to mind. Visual allure is not entirely out of the question, as I have kept my figure and practice yoga daily. Dandan is the storyteller. I have no aptitude for words. Painting is another idea. But whose heart can I steal? Where do I even look? Will there be someone at the winter festival of the new moon?The mail lady delivers my mail and the check for the six vases is there, just in time. I will have to go later and deposit this and get a traveler’s check for the gift.I place the bisque ware on a cookie and begin the process of applying the initial glaze coloring. These large white gourd vases are painted with three layers of blue glaze. On the mouth are the petals of opening flowers leading to a border by the lip of the vase. Below, at the bottom of the neck, is another border and a skirt to separate the body of the vase, with branching vines and ornate circular flowers in a fractal design, painted circularly around the curves of the vase to create an effect like movement. I add two bluebirds and a hummingbird for added flare.Now for the glaze firing and then in three days the final touches. And I can’t forget the final touch of my special gift, the porcelain chest.* * *I go to see my friend Sisi, who works at the candy shop across the way. I walk in past the tourists, and we go in the back area of the shop where she is watching the Real Housewives of New Jersey and spending time on WeChat with her American ‘boyfriend.’ Sisi has big mantis-like eyes and a rounded head. Her hair seems flat on top like a small tight-fitting cap. Her cheeks are warm and curious, but she has a serious chin.“Jane! You came such a long way to see me. I am so delighted! Will you be coming out for the lantern festival Friday?”“I wouldn’t miss it,” I tell her.“So what is going on Janey?” she asks.“Dr. Zhou says I have to steal a heart,” I say.“At your age? You’d sooner steal a penny off a dead man’s eyes!” she says.“Hey,” I say, “it isn’t that bad, is it,” and I blush—and we both break out in laughter.“You know the old folk story about the farmer, right? About the luck?” Sisi says.“No, tell it to me,” I say.“A farmer gets a horse, which soon runs away. A neighbor says, ‘That's bad news.’ The farmer replies, ‘Good news, bad news, who can say?’ The horse comes back and brings another horse with him. Good news, you might say. The farmer gives the second horse to his son, who rides it, then is thrown and badly breaks his leg. ‘So sorry for your bad news,’ says the concerned neighbor. ‘Good news, bad news, who can say?’ the farmer replies. In a week or so, the emperor's men come and take every able-bodied young man to fight in a war. The farmer's son is spared.”“Ok. That is a good story, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to get from that,” I tell her.“It could mean a lot of things. But what I think is, maybe you are having trouble letting go of Dandan. Maybe like the horse that runs away comes back with another horse, you gain more by letting her go. Maybe you not meant to steal man’s heart. Maybe steal back Dandan’s heart, make sure she come back to you.”“Sisi, you are very smart. And wise. Thank you so much,” I tell her, and head back to check on my gourd vases and my special porcelain chest.* * *Ciqikou is fully lit with thousands of red lanterns and the Bao Lun Temple is a shining spire, like a tower of red flames, lit and inscribed with hundreds of sigils, all in ornate calligraphy, hanging down in ribbons from its many eves and archways and boat-like slanting porticos.Throngs of people crowd the streets. The moon is full in the sky. The brisk wind blows, pulling at their scarves and caps and whistling through the ornamental ribbons covered with calligraphy—the riddles attached to the sky lanterns. Waves of fluffy white snow tumble down in zigzagging waves, making the stone walkway squeak as peals of laughter and chatter echo down the promenade. Everyone is walking down to the river by the Bao Lun Temple, where the launching of the sky lanterns will take place.“Ama, if you can answer my riddle, you will shoot the literary tiger and all the pain in your hands will go away,” Dandan tells me.Dandan’s sky lantern has a cryptic riddle hanging off of it in ornate Chinese Caligraphy:I can follow you for thousands of miles and not miss home. I do not fear cold or fire, and I desire neither food nor drink. But I disappear when the sun sets behind the western mountains. Who am I?I think on this a long time. I think I know the answer. But I save this secret and hold it in escrow for later.“Happy Yuan Yue! Bao Bei! How did your tangyuan come out?” I ask.“Here try,” Dandan says, sticking the sugary dough in my mouth. I chew and taste the brown sugar and the crunchy walnut and gluey bean curd. “Mmmm, very good niu niu, your best yet. Tuántuán yuányuán [I say reciting the traditional message] happy reunion, happy family! We will miss this next year,” I tell her.“Oh, ama, I will be back to see you. I’m not leaving forever,” she says.“Say the kai deng qi fu—prayer for good fortune—that you will be back next year and in good health,” I tell her, and she does.We reach the river. The fireworks begin to go off, signaling the beginning of the fang tian deng—the time for the releasing of the sky lanterns with prayers and wishes for the heavens. The snow is coming down now in thick blankets, the drifting flakes shimmering with the light of the moon and the thousands of lanterns everyone is holding along the banks.“I think I know the answer to your riddle bao bei, goes for thousands of miles, doesn’t get hot or cold, doesn’t fear, but disappears with the dying sun… it is a ‘shadow’,” I tell her.“Very good ama, you will have much good fortune this new year,” Dandan says.“And now it is time for your New Year’s gift,” I say with a smile.“Ama! What gift? You didn’t have to get me anything,” Dandan says.“Oh, bao bei, I am so proud of you and excited for your journey, but I will miss you very much. Here, this is for you.” I pull out a porcelain chest, crafted in red clay, in the shape of a heart, glazed three times, with a red bright glaze like that of the lanterns.Dandan looks up and smiles. And holds the porcelain vest close to her chest. “Oh, ama, this is so sweet.”“Open it niu niu,” I tell her. My hands shake in the cold, but I can scarcely place my fingers. All of the feeling is tingly and tentative like a spirit without a body, wisping along transparent as air.She opens the hinge of the lid of the chest and looks inside and sees a key with a red ribbon, attached to a little gold locket.“What is it, ama?” Dandan asks.“It is a key to the store, so you can come back anytime, even if I am not there. It will always be yours. And a locket, to make new memories. Maybe you will meet a friend or a love at school. And be sure to bring them back home to me—when you return.”“Thank you, ama, I will, of course, you will always be my heart,” Dandan says.I feel a tingle in my fingers, where the clay is softening in the warmth of the moment. I can feel the heat of the lantern radiate through my palms and up my forearms.We take the lanterns and hoist them into the air. A thousand prayers lift into the sky and glow. The red lights blow in the breeze like the spirits of the mountain, snaking along with the gush of the river and the rush of the cold January breeze.I hold Dandan in my arms a long time before we go home.I take the porcelain village out of the kiln. It cools and dries along the banks of the Jia Ling River. It freezes in time, like a memory. It is smooth to the touch. Glassy and full of hidden meanings, like fine China.
","August 30, 2023 04:35","[[{'Scott Christenson': 'Congrats! Your prose is stellar as usual. I\'ve been seeing your stories for a few weeks and pleased to see you get highlighted. Paragraphs like these are just amazing: ""The palms petrify. The flesh sinters and binds to itself. In the glaze firing, my hands glow red as the enamel stiffens and makes the fingers rigid and reflective. The silicate vitrifies and turns to glass. Dust becomes crystal—like a baby’s flesh crystalizing into the windows of the eyes. I am born again in the womb of the kiln.""', 'time': '16:52 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Scott!  I love your work and have been reading as much of it as I can!', 'time': '16:56 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Scott!  I love your work and have been reading as much of it as I can!', 'time': '16:56 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Sarah Martyn': '""If I am a simple rice bowl, Dandan is a hand painted dining set."" Love the artistic use of words here. Delightful read.', 'time': '00:54 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Sarah!', 'time': '01:25 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Sarah!', 'time': '01:25 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chalice Davis': 'I am so happy to have read your story. It was heartfelt and soothing to read. Also it was nice to see a different cultural perspective that I had never really known before.', 'time': '03:37 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kerry Clark': 'Brilliant imagery, and well-crafted emotion. Thank you for a fabulous story.', 'time': '08:56 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Claudia Parker': 'Amazing story! Really excellent descriptions and a total immersion experience. Congrats!', 'time': '17:41 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Emma Winnicutt': 'A beautiful and captivating story! A joy to read!', 'time': '13:53 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rebecca Miles': 'I do like it when an author beds down in a story, giving the reader one really sustaining metaphor and complexifying it in degrees. Your choice of the Chinese potter and the clay certainly provides you with very fine base material to mould (to borrow from your imagery ,-)) And it is the feeling you inject into the metaphor that makes it so enjoyable and ultimately moving. At first there is the fear of petrification, the oils dry and the cracks seem to foreshadow a terrible rupture- like the broken relationship which might come with the move....', 'time': '18:45 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Shawn Leader': 'Nice work, man. You use words good. ;)', 'time': '21:31 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Trudy Herdwick': 'Exceptional writing. \nYou transported me with your descriptive visionary writing to being in the room with them throughout this story. \nAbsolutely, well deserved & an inspiring win (from a newbie aspiring writer!)', 'time': '13:24 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Congrats on the win! And a lovely story it is, where the sculptor is losing the feeling in her hands and her heart, because ironically, she can't let go. The internal story about luck seems particularly apt here, and ultimately we get a happy ending. Change still happens - that's inevitable - but she's found a way to accept that change and move forward in peace. \n\nThere's some lovely prose here, and I particularly like the bit about her hands turning to porcelain. Not only is it so perfectly fitting for someone who works with clay, but it se..."", 'time': '18:38 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Robert W': 'Jonathan - just one word: Brilliant.', 'time': '16:17 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Congrats.', 'time': '15:59 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sherry Bazley': ""Congratulations, Jonathan.  I enjoyed this story very much.  You captured the essence of a working mother along with so many fine details of your character's surroundings that I wonder if you've spent time in China. Your story is a lovely, lovely piece of work that conveys delicacy, beauty, pride, longsuffering... reflective of the culture of it's people (as I understand it).  Another fine touch were all the references to nature.  They were succinct, exquisite... reminiscent of haiku.  Thanks!"", 'time': '00:53 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Éan Bird': 'A really lovely use of descriptive imagery, and you construct a rich, immersive setting. The motif of pottery creates texture throughout the story, and poignantly so, as the narrator loses sense of physical touch. Congrats on the win!! So happy for you :)', 'time': '23:40 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Belladona Vulpa': 'Beautiful story, immersive, with artistic descriptions and cultural elements. I liked the characters very much, and the story felt interesting, with nice flow.\n \nCongratulations on the win!', 'time': '16:39 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': ""Thanks Belladona!  I love your stories and will keep reading all of them.  I've always been very gun shy about putting my writing out there, but it is such a good group, it has been giving me a lot more confidence--and reading everyone's work I am really seeing a lot of great ideas and a lot of great authors who enjoy doing this.  It is very inspiring!"", 'time': '18:18 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': ""Thanks Belladona!  I love your stories and will keep reading all of them.  I've always been very gun shy about putting my writing out there, but it is such a good group, it has been giving me a lot more confidence--and reading everyone's work I am really seeing a lot of great ideas and a lot of great authors who enjoy doing this.  It is very inspiring!"", 'time': '18:18 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Congratulations Jonathan! It was inevitable you are an amazing writer. I don't have a huge amount of free time and you are so prolific it is hard to catch all your stories but every one I read is so unique and different from the last. Well done again!"", 'time': '08:58 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Derrick.  This is high praise, coming from you.  I do my best to read all of your stories and have read quite a few of them so far, and they are brilliant!', 'time': '18:31 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Derrick.  This is high praise, coming from you.  I do my best to read all of your stories and have read quite a few of them so far, and they are brilliant!', 'time': '18:31 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sol Caine': 'Congrats on the win.\nBeautiful prose and descriptive verse. Great take on the prompt.', 'time': '02:41 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Sol!', 'time': '18:32 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Sol!', 'time': '18:32 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Fantastic imagery, Jonathan.\nI felt transported and planted into the middle of the setting, enjoying the smells, the tastes, and the colours.\nExceptional writing.\nCongrats on the win!', 'time': '02:38 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Chris!', 'time': '18:32 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Chris!', 'time': '18:32 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. A. Greene': 'Congratulations! Much deserved win :-)', 'time': '02:11 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks J.A.!', 'time': '02:18 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks J.A.!', 'time': '02:18 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ashley Soto Prado': ""This was an excellent idea for the prompt. You definitely deserved the win. I can't wait to see your future works!"", 'time': '00:53 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Ashley!', 'time': '02:18 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Ashley!', 'time': '02:18 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kay Smith': 'Wow! Beautiful story. Just.... wow! \nCongratulations!', 'time': '00:15 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Kay!', 'time': '02:18 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Kay!', 'time': '02:18 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'SHARDA MISHRA': 'I loved the vivid imagery in your story. What I like the most is the short and concise sentences. They went right in the head touching every emotions just right.\n\nCongratulations on the win.', 'time': '23:51 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mishra!', 'time': '02:18 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mishra!', 'time': '02:18 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'Very good, Jonathan. \n\nYour story has a lovely smooth tone which mirrors the character of the protagonist. I like the combination of technical detail, practical description and more poetic elements. Combining the functional and the beautiful, like Jane is.\n\nCongratulations on your victory.', 'time': '22:30 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Chris!', 'time': '02:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Chris!', 'time': '02:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michael Novak': 'Damn, this is some good stuff. Glad you won!', 'time': '19:11 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Michael!', 'time': '02:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Michael!', 'time': '02:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'Congratulations Jonathan!', 'time': '18:30 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Karen!', 'time': '02:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Karen!', 'time': '02:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': 'Congratulations! You nailed a rich contemporary epic feel with a very human core, which ain’t easy. And I want a big platter of tangyuan! Exceptional.', 'time': '17:31 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Martin!', 'time': '02:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Martin!', 'time': '02:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""Wow, Jonathan, what brillant visual and heart felt prose you produce. Great story, excellently written.\n\nNow I'll have to check out your back catalogue! \n\nCongrats on the win and good luck with your future projects."", 'time': '17:28 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Kevin!', 'time': '02:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Kevin!', 'time': '02:17 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'L J': ""Well done!  I Can picture the characters. Sweet, loving and wistful. I love that the mom can feel her hands when she makes her beautiful clay pieces and I can feel how much the characters love each other. This might be one of your best entries! Congrats on the win. Well done. (Also, I used a whole box of Kleenex!)\n\nPS:  one tiny little typo: porcelain vest ( is it supposed to be chest?)\n\n(I tried to give it 2 likes but it wouldn't let me..)"", 'time': '17:02 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks L J!!  Love your work as well.', 'time': '17:15 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks L J!!  Love your work as well.', 'time': '17:15 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Beautiful. I don't know what else to say.\n\nCongratulations on the win."", 'time': '16:53 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thank you, Khadija!', 'time': '16:55 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thank you, Khadija!', 'time': '16:55 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Great descriptions, and I like all the little stories and Koan-\nFantastic', 'time': '16:52 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thank you, Marty!', 'time': '16:55 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thank you, Marty!', 'time': '16:55 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sean McDonnell': 'Congrats, Jonathan! I had a feeling this story might take the prize! Well done!', 'time': '16:50 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thank you, Sean!', 'time': '16:54 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thank you, Sean!', 'time': '16:54 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Andrew Fruchtman': 'Congrats on the win!  Wonderfully descriptive. Poetic.', 'time': '16:43 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Andrew!', 'time': '16:47 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Andrew!', 'time': '16:47 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'This was so well written. I enjoyed the comparison between the feeling in her hands and the process of making china.\nWell done.', 'time': '16:34 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thank you, Magdalena!', 'time': '16:34 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thank you, Magdalena!', 'time': '16:34 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': 'There was so much poetry within the narrative here. Just beautifully done.', 'time': '16:33 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Kevin.  That is high praise, coming from you.  I really enjoy your work!', 'time': '16:34 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Kevin.  That is high praise, coming from you.  I really enjoy your work!', 'time': '16:34 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michele Duess': 'Beautiful story. Congrats on the win!', 'time': '16:02 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Michele!', 'time': '16:22 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Michele!', 'time': '16:22 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mustang Patty': 'Thank you for sharing this story. It reminds all of us about the differences between our culture and those of other places.\nOne has to hope that things will GET LOTS BETTER - and she will not lose the gift in her hands OR the chance to send her child to the US for school.\n\nGood luck in the contest,\n~MP~', 'time': '22:27 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks MP!', 'time': '22:30 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mustang Patty': 'You are very welcome - THANK YOU for going to read my stories. I appreciate it.\n\n~MP~', 'time': '14:48 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks MP!', 'time': '22:30 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mustang Patty': 'You are very welcome - THANK YOU for going to read my stories. I appreciate it.\n\n~MP~', 'time': '14:48 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mustang Patty': 'You are very welcome - THANK YOU for going to read my stories. I appreciate it.\n\n~MP~', 'time': '14:48 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Such a vivid delightful tribute to this far away land.Hopefully her hands can continue their work of 💕.\n\nThanks for liking my mayhem.\nCongrats on the WIN! yahoo! this certainly deserved it!', 'time': '00:48 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mary!', 'time': '03:50 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mary!', 'time': '03:50 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,dggahj,Touching Darkness ,Michelle Oliver,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dggahj/,/short-story/dggahj/,Character,0,['Fiction'],46 likes,"
Darkness has never terrified me. After all, it’s all I’ve ever known. My world is a vast eternity of sensation devoid of light, but rich in texture and sound and scents. I can feel you enter the room, I can hear your breath, that surprised intake you make when you first see me. I can only assume that I am somehow different from what you expected.
“Mr. Jeremy Blake?” The tentative question ricochets through the room. I hide the grimace that threatens to twist my face. How absurd, as if there was any need for you to ask. How many blind men are there in the vicinity? In fact, I am perfectly aware that, other than the two of us, the room is empty. Empty rooms feel different, sound different, even smell different.
I stand and extend my hand, gesturing to the vacant chair that I know is opposite mine. “Miss Kipling, please have a seat.” I wait to hear your firmly weighted footsteps cross the floor and I register the sound of the springs in the cushioning of the chair groaning as you settle in. I can tell that you are not a wispy, modern woman.
I sit and listen, you can tell much from a person just by listening. You are nervous, your breathing is fast and light and I can hear you fidget with something, perhaps your clothing or a purse or bag. If you have one of those, it is on your lap, as you have not set it down on the floor or on the seat beside you.
“Miss Kipling, I have been informed that you have something of value that you wish for me to examine.”
“Yes, thank you for seeing… I mean… meeting with me.” Ah, you are uncomfortable with my perceived disability. I don’t see myself as disabled. I am perfectly able and it always shocks me to realise that others see me as less.
“You are welcome.” I have become an expert at brushing over the discomfort. I am no longer amused or offended by the prejudices of the sighted people around me. They can’t help who they are, how they perceive the world, so my becoming upset or offended achieves nothing. “May I see the object?”
I hear the bag on your lap open, a click and a slither of fabric as the fastener gives way. I reach my hand out and a small, heavy object is carefully deposited in my palm. You are exceedingly cautious with it. Your movements tell me that you do not trust that I am able to treat the object with the requisite care and respect. You are, of course, so very wrong, but I don’t say anything.
I close my fingers over the object, a locket on a delicate but strong chain. It is smooth, with slightly raised sections and indents making a strange pattern around the circumference. I run my fingers over the markings as I turn the locket in my hands, tracing the pattern from its beginning to its end.
The last time my fingers had seen one of these was at my grandmother’s bedside. I hadn’t seen it since her funeral.
“The picture within the locket, is it a relative of yours?” I ask and I hear the rustling of fabric as you respond. I wait. I need your verbal affirmation because I can’t interpret your body’s response by sound alone. You may have nodded your head, but it also may have been a shake.
You must realise your mistake, because you hurry to respond. “It is of my aunt.”
I run my hands along the rim of the locket. It is hard to tell what is here. The Peripheral Neuropathy that is attacking my hands has caused blind spots. Once my fingers could sense the slightest, most subtle difference in texture, could distinguish a name engraved on the back of a medallion with almost total accuracy. As I aged, and the disease progressed, the accuracy has become less, and I fear the day when I will be truly blind.
“This locket is similar to one I have seen before,” I say, and you don’t seem surprised. “My grandmother had one, but hers had a trail of roses and thorns around the outside and an inscription on the back. I am afraid it is not the same locket.”
“Mr. Blake, there are roses on the frame, and if you turn over, you will see that it is indeed inscribed.” Your words are a breathy rush, an urgency about them that makes me pause and examine the locket again. My fingers stumble over the surface, but can’t seem to identify any flowers. There are markings, but they are foreign and blurred. And as for an inscription, the back of the locket seems smooth.
“I am unable to make out an inscription,” I say.
“It reads, ‘To Bunny with love, Antoine’, I would like to know who Bunny was. My aunt’s name was Penelope.”
Was it a pet name? Did my grandfather refer to my grandmother as Bunny?
“My grandmother’s name was Bonnie.” I grudgingly divulge this fact to you.
You seem honest. Your voice doesn’t waver with any detectable lie, but I have been besieged by con-artists. People claiming relationship with me, ready to take from me everything that I have. I must seem like an easy target. A blind old man, searching for lost kin. I can tell you, I am not so easily duped.
The lack of inscription under my finger disturbs me for more reasons that you can possibly know, and my fingers slide repeatedly over the back of the locket, searching for those elusive marks. I can’t feel them, but you say that they are there. I use my nail to scrape over the surface, trying to discover any engraved mark, and sure enough, just as you said, my nail catches in a groove. Urgently, I rub my finger over the spot, and change fingers, swap hands, anything to try to feel what was there. It is as if my fingers are covered in a thin layer of wax. They can’t detect the fine detail in the metal. My heart lurches to a stop before stammering back to life. This is the beginning of the end. How will I see without the sensitivity of my fingers?
I turn the locket over and press my fingers against the ridges along the edge. Perhaps the bumps are flowers. They don’t have the detail that I recall, the distinct petals and leaves of my memory are blurred into lumpy blobs. Are they rose shaped blobs?
“I am sorry, Miss Kipling,” I say, ever so politely, because that is how I was raised. “I am unable to verify that the locket belongs to my grandmother. There has never been anyone in my family called Penelope.”
I pass the locket back and you take it carefully. I can hear the genuine disappointment in your tone as you thank me for my time and stand to leave. I have been raised a gentleman and I stand when you do. Your footsteps tap to the door, but pause before opening it. I can hear you turn to look back at me.
“Goodbye Mr Blake.” Your voice is soft and sad. “I just wanted to say that I was quite shocked to see your face this afternoon. You are the spitting image of my uncle Antony, the same striking profile. It’s the nose, you see. Like a hawk, my father used to say. He was glad that it skipped him. My uncle was not so lucky. Nor was I.”
My fingers fly to my nose. It is a prominent feature. My grandmother had the same profile. She said that on a man it was a noble nose, but as a woman it was a curse to bear. Before I can say a word, the door opens and you step through, stepping out of my life with a solid click as the door latches closed once again. I sink back into my chair.
A locket.
An uncle.
A nose.
Could those three things be the missing link? If only my fingers could see, then I would know for sure.
For the first time, I thought of the darkness with fear. I couldn’t trust my fingers anymore, they were blinded by this disease. I call your name, begging you to come back, but you are gone. I realise in that moment that I am alone and it is getting darker. 
","August 28, 2023 11:00","[[{'Michał Przywara': ""What a fantastic premise - a blind man struggling with the prospect of going blind! I suppose no matter where we are in life, we fear losing what we have - and later, after we've lost it, we have the capacity to adapt. \n\nOf course, doing so alone makes everything harder, and we get the sense he's lost his last chance to connect with his family. Understandable he's defensive, if people have tried to take advantage before, but still a chilling prospect to face the night alone. \n\nThe extra nonvisual details really sell this story. Touch plays a..."", 'time': '20:56 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Audrey Knox': ""I really like this insight and interpretation. I agree that he is defensive for a justifiable reason, but I also can't help but wonder whether he is more scared of finding what he claims to seek than he is of the status quo of being alone. It's a universal feeling--that denial because we don't want to make ourselves any more vulnerable than we feel we already are."", 'time': '17:55 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Michał Przywara': ""Excellent point! I didn't consider it, but you're right. How often do we find ourselves in a situation, where we simultaneously have a desire to change and a desire to remain the same? These contradictions are fascinating, and definitely worth exploring in stories."", 'time': '20:34 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. I agree scent could have played a more prominent role. If I ever revisit this one I will probably work something about her perfume or personal fragrance into the story.', 'time': '22:33 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michał Przywara': 'Woo! Congrats on the shortlist! A worthy story :)', 'time': '22:31 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks!', 'time': '00:53 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Audrey Knox': ""I really like this insight and interpretation. I agree that he is defensive for a justifiable reason, but I also can't help but wonder whether he is more scared of finding what he claims to seek than he is of the status quo of being alone. It's a universal feeling--that denial because we don't want to make ourselves any more vulnerable than we feel we already are."", 'time': '17:55 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Excellent point! I didn't consider it, but you're right. How often do we find ourselves in a situation, where we simultaneously have a desire to change and a desire to remain the same? These contradictions are fascinating, and definitely worth exploring in stories."", 'time': '20:34 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Excellent point! I didn't consider it, but you're right. How often do we find ourselves in a situation, where we simultaneously have a desire to change and a desire to remain the same? These contradictions are fascinating, and definitely worth exploring in stories."", 'time': '20:34 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. I agree scent could have played a more prominent role. If I ever revisit this one I will probably work something about her perfume or personal fragrance into the story.', 'time': '22:33 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': 'Woo! Congrats on the shortlist! A worthy story :)', 'time': '22:31 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks!', 'time': '00:53 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Woo! Congrats on the shortlist! A worthy story :)', 'time': '22:31 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks!', 'time': '00:53 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks!', 'time': '00:53 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Marty B': ""I read this as a mystery story, a detective looking for connection to a past that he is desperate to find. The unanswered questions are great! Is this a family member from an undisclosed affair? \n The blindness (eyes) has created in him an extra sensory ability to perceive people through their sounds, and objects through touch.\n I really liked the descriptions, using the sounds in the room.\nThe closing line was great too- ' I realise in that moment that I am alone and it is getting darker.'\n\nThanks !"", 'time': '18:57 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for your feedback Marty. I really appreciate it.', 'time': '23:45 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for your feedback Marty. I really appreciate it.', 'time': '23:45 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""The choice of blind MC creates super sensory here, really good job getting into that mindset.\n\nTo start with his dismissive attitude towards his blindness then realise he was losing the only sight he had was great. I was tempted to do something not so unalike for this prompt, as a type one diabetic there is a possiblity of losing sensation in feet and hands, so I was going to try and tap into that but couldn't find the right route. This is super creative with many unspoken layers.\n\nAnother fantastic entry Michelle, keep up the marvelous work 👍"", 'time': '06:39 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks Kevin. It was a challenging to remove all visual descriptions and focus on the other senses. Glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '07:33 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Congrats on the well desevred short listing! 🎉🎉', 'time': '17:23 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks 😊', 'time': '01:05 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks Kevin. It was a challenging to remove all visual descriptions and focus on the other senses. Glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '07:33 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Congrats on the well desevred short listing! 🎉🎉', 'time': '17:23 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks 😊', 'time': '01:05 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Congrats on the well desevred short listing! 🎉🎉', 'time': '17:23 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks 😊', 'time': '01:05 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks 😊', 'time': '01:05 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tommy Goround': 'Oolala. Love the pacing, the unfolding and the delivery. \n\nClapping', 'time': '19:22 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you.', 'time': '22:40 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you.', 'time': '22:40 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': 'I think you set yourself up for a real challenge here and you excelled at it. I felt fully immersed in that world of touch and darkness. Great job.', 'time': '19:02 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks Kevin it was a challenge to remove all sight from my descriptions and transfer the concept of ‘seeing’ to the sense it touch.', 'time': '22:36 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks Kevin it was a challenge to remove all sight from my descriptions and transfer the concept of ‘seeing’ to the sense it touch.', 'time': '22:36 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': ""Way of nature. I think with age, we seem to value most things the young don't pay attention to most often. Congrats. My granny's name is Obiodu."", 'time': '16:15 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it.', 'time': '22:30 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it.', 'time': '22:30 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Congrats on the shortlist, my friend! Well deserved, as usual.\n\nI really liked this tale, Michelle. ""Blind"" fingers. Chilling!\n\nCheers!', 'time': '08:51 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you. I’m happy that you liked it.', 'time': '15:06 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you. I’m happy that you liked it.', 'time': '15:06 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michele Duess': ""I'm glad your story was shortlisted. Congrats!"", 'time': '16:07 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks so much', 'time': '01:05 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks so much', 'time': '01:05 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'D Gorman': 'I found Jeremy’s descriptions of how he reads the room with his other senses to be very engaging and well-written. None of it feels far-fetched or exaggerated; it seems entirely plausible that someone without sight might be able to describe not only the movements of an individual in the same room, but what those movements might imply. I’ve read the story twice now and perhaps it is the result of my own lack of focus, but by the end of my reading I am left with more questions than answers, about the narrator and the nature of this meeting. Bu...', 'time': '15:29 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'As the author of the story I too have questions, but I felt the story was about his hands, and his relationship with the world through them. As a blind man, I am sure there are so many things in his world that are not known, or seen, or understood, things a sighted person takes for granted. I hoped that feeling of uncertainty about what is going on in the story would make the reader feel a sense of discomfort and perhaps understand that a blind person would have these big gaps in their knowledge about the world too.', 'time': '22:37 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'As the author of the story I too have questions, but I felt the story was about his hands, and his relationship with the world through them. As a blind man, I am sure there are so many things in his world that are not known, or seen, or understood, things a sighted person takes for granted. I hoped that feeling of uncertainty about what is going on in the story would make the reader feel a sense of discomfort and perhaps understand that a blind person would have these big gaps in their knowledge about the world too.', 'time': '22:37 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': 'Wow, a lot of emotion, I felt it deeply, so well described! Great writing, Michelle, and with the names of great writers Kipling & Blake.', 'time': '17:30 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it.', 'time': '23:46 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading it.', 'time': '23:46 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Wow! What a chilling realization, a blind man that fears becoming truly blind. The inner dialogue captures his exquisite, searing pain, but it is muted until the very end. The fear is palpable. What a great piece, Michelle! This is the type of writing that thrills me. Nicely done, my friend. Nicely done indeed.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '10:54 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you. It was interesting to write. Take away the most commonly used sense and try to write without visuals the way a blind man would perceive his world.', 'time': '11:45 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you. It was interesting to write. Take away the most commonly used sense and try to write without visuals the way a blind man would perceive his world.', 'time': '11:45 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Hope the judges can see and feel this one, Michelle. It's so perspective.\U0001faf6\n\nCongrats on the shortlist. I knew it deserved it\n🥳"", 'time': '20:51 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you Mary for your feedback and the vote of confidence.', 'time': '22:24 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you Mary for your feedback and the vote of confidence.', 'time': '22:24 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Michelle,\nThat’s a really powerful story. Your descriptions are vivid and sent a chill up my spine. You’ve captured the loss of feeling through superb inner monologue and the sense of encroaching fear is most palpable.\nWell done.\nHH', 'time': '12:14 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for reading it. I was trying to describe the world the way a blind man would, taking away all sight and focusing on other senses. I appreciate the feedback.', 'time': '12:21 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Howard Halsall': 'In that case, Michelle, you’ve more than succeeded in achieving your objective. \nHH', 'time': '12:26 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for reading it. I was trying to describe the world the way a blind man would, taking away all sight and focusing on other senses. I appreciate the feedback.', 'time': '12:21 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'In that case, Michelle, you’ve more than succeeded in achieving your objective. \nHH', 'time': '12:26 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'In that case, Michelle, you’ve more than succeeded in achieving your objective. \nHH', 'time': '12:26 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tom Skye': ""Brilliant inner monologue running through this one. It was very effective, the way the mystery of the locket and the main character's ailment were constantly taking each other's place as the main point of focus. Like the character was wrestling with multiple things and spiralling into madness.\n\nGreat work."", 'time': '11:52 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. It was a bit of a ‘what if’ thought that sparked this story. What if you relied on your sense of touch to interact with the world, to solve a mystery? Then what if that sense was unreliable? Wrestling with multiple things was exactly what I was hoping to achieve, so I’m happy it worked.', 'time': '12:10 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. It was a bit of a ‘what if’ thought that sparked this story. What if you relied on your sense of touch to interact with the world, to solve a mystery? Then what if that sense was unreliable? Wrestling with multiple things was exactly what I was hoping to achieve, so I’m happy it worked.', 'time': '12:10 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Brilliant Michelle. I was mulling over the prompts today and had a very similar idea for this one. glad I read you're before I started writing! You did a better job of it than I would have done!\nGreat writing as always and the plight of the mc is heartbreaking."", 'time': '16:57 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. We must have had the same thought. Human touch is so important to a blind man, but what if that was decaying away?', 'time': '12:07 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for reading. We must have had the same thought. Human touch is so important to a blind man, but what if that was decaying away?', 'time': '12:07 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Russell Mickler': 'Hey there, Michelle!\n\nAt first blush, the narrator is very introspective, judgy, creepy. The lost sensation in the extremities is well-played. The names are clever, Kipling and Blake. A dark ending, and we’re left wondering about the locket and the strange visitor.\n\nI think the tone in this was good. The descriptions describing things like the locket are also pretty strong in this work. \n\nA creative piece …! Nicely done - \n\nR', 'time': '17:17 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for your feedback, it’s truly appreciated.', 'time': '23:44 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thank you for your feedback, it’s truly appreciated.', 'time': '23:44 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Great writing, Michelle! I need to start reading your stuff before I waste the $5.', 'time': '14:26 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for the compliment Ty. I think of the $5 like a coffee and cake with friends, but instead of feeding my stomach and expanding my waistline, it feeds my soul and connects me with great people.', 'time': '22:24 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Thats a great way to look at it - lol. I have met a lot of great people on here that are amazing writers, so it is worth it. And I learn from everyone a read. I love your attitude.', 'time': '23:14 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Thanks for the compliment Ty. I think of the $5 like a coffee and cake with friends, but instead of feeding my stomach and expanding my waistline, it feeds my soul and connects me with great people.', 'time': '22:24 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Thats a great way to look at it - lol. I have met a lot of great people on here that are amazing writers, so it is worth it. And I learn from everyone a read. I love your attitude.', 'time': '23:14 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': 'Thats a great way to look at it - lol. I have met a lot of great people on here that are amazing writers, so it is worth it. And I learn from everyone a read. I love your attitude.', 'time': '23:14 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,kv8mnv,TOUCH INSENSITIVE,Sol Caine,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kv8mnv/,/short-story/kv8mnv/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction']",25 likes,"
	I’m losing my touch.	No, it’s no joke. It started with my feet. I used to be so ticklish that I would laugh when tickling my own feet. But now, you could run a knitting needle through them and I wouldn’t flinch. 	It’s been a gradual process of numbness travelling through my body. The pins and needles are the first sign. Irritating and constant, I almost feel relieved when they stop - if it wasn’t for the cold hard reality that the irritation stopping was the prelude to a lack of any feeling in that area. 	When my private parts started to tingle with sharp sensations, I knew my love life was over. Truth is, it had been over for a long time. “Lack of interest” was the closing argument before she left. Called me “Numb-nuts” as she slammed the front door behind her. That was cruel – so I believe. After the pins and needles left my head, I lost any sense of empathy or thought sensitivity, so whatever she called me later on over the phone, didn’t matter. I literally just didn’t care. 	Watching sad movies, comedy sketches, and horror flicks on the many streaming services I subscribe to, registered zero on my care-factor scale. It was like I had received a cerebral lobotomy to go with my total lack of feeling. Emotional responding stopped getting triggered.	My hands were unaffected for a while. The last bastion of physical sensation could still feel the computer keys and mouse beneath my deft touches. But even being able to type didn’t help with the numerous emails back and forth with the now titled “Ex” girlfriend. She wanted answers that I couldn’t give a shit about. Answers to why I never touched her, why I wasn’t responsive to her touch, blah blah blasé. Initially, I would write back that I didn’t have the answers. The doctors didn’t have the answers. The psychiatrists didn’t have the answers. Of course, that was not enough for her, so she pressed on looking for some form of sagacity, but my growing lack of total sensitivity in all departments, eventually told her to ask someone that cares. The emails stopped arriving after that. Maybe she found her answer after all. It was a good thing, I think. Because by the time of my final reply to her, the pins and needles had quickly rushed from wrist to fingertips, then total numbness took over. Typing felt like I was touching air, so I avoided the exercise and replaced it with speech to text. However, that bird had flown. My inbox lay dormant. 	Without the sensation of resistance, I kept scratching my face in response to phantom itches. I even tore my nose lining while picking it. I don’t know why I was picking my nose. It wasn’t like I could feel anything. It was just habit, I guess. Brushing my teeth became a chore. I couldn’t feel the toothbrush in my hands, and I also couldn’t feel the pressure on my gums. It was the blood I spat out that alerted me to my gums being assaulted. It didn’t matter, anyway. I didn’t care. 	Caution went out the window. Pain was non-existent. Danger was just a word proven by my careless act of crossing a busy road travelled by speeding vehicles. It didn’t hurt when I was struck head on. I wasn’t scared when I flew high into the air. I wasn’t worried when my face was soaked with blood. Of course, the paramedics thought I had been paralysed, because every time they prodded or poked at me asking “Can you feel that?” I sincerely answered with a “No.”	Recuperation in hospital took three months. A broken collar bone, several cracked ribs, and an ankle that ended facing the other way when I hit the ground after my brief flight caused by the car’s bumper, kept me immobile. I tried to explain that I didn’t need any of the opioid pain killer medicine they freely shot me up with, but they either didn’t believe me or they thought my brain had been damaged in the accident. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t even feel the effects of the medication, anyway. Life was like a dream. A waking sensation of floating through time with no goals, no destination, and no purpose. What little logic sense remained in my thought process, knew enough to realise my life was directionless. 	Nothing motivated me and nothing inspired me. I was a conscious, thinking, breathing, walking vegetable tolerant to all kinds of physical discomfort – including heat and extreme cold. I would test this ability by holding one hand in a bucket of ice for hours on end and hovering my other hand over open flame until my eyes said stop. These insensitive acts of self-flagellation had me banned from the hospital’s kitchen and confined to the floor of my ward. It still didn’t stop me from experimenting by jabbing surgical needles into my scrotum. When the nurses discovered my new fetish, they removed all sharp and potentially harmful objects from my room. Don’t get me wrong. I hadn’t gotten a taste for the macabre, I just wanted to know if I had any thresholds left that may provide a path back to normality.	After being discharged from hospital and undergoing several more months of physical therapy to learn to walk again, I began to show signs of progress. I had to learn to watch my every step, scrutinise what I held within my senseless grasp, and generally use my eyes as my temperature gauge against overstepping the many marks that a full sense of touch and mental cognizance provides. 	That was the thing that surprised and confused me. I had lost all emotional and physical perception of compassion for life and the people in it, but it didn’t stop me from learning new things. So, Dr. Hendricks – one in a line of head shrinks I was recommended to – suggested that I pursue a new line of work, and that by developing a new skill, the possibility of the billions of neurons taking a vacation in my body, might be re-awoken; thereby, creating a path for some form of touch sensation to return. 	Being an Army psychiatrist, Dr. Hendricks enthusiastically encouraged me to sign up. I was in my mid-twenties. I thought, what could I possibly gain from a life in the Army? To my utter surprise, I picked up a set of new skills of great value to my regiment. Unable to break me at boot camp, my instructors recommended me for sniper training – a practice I more than excelled at. Undisturbed breathing, steady hand, and a lack of objectivity in my targets, achieved an award of top marksman during my three deployments to Afghanistan. But that war eventually ended for my side. So, the Army saw fit to train me in drone warfare and I was redeployed to a collection of shipping containers in the desert, piloting human-less drones the size of small aircraft thousands of miles away. Our military keeps a constant number of drones flying over selected hotspots of world conflict locations, while searching for authorized targets to drop heavy destructive ordnance onto unsuspecting enemies of the state, so it’s easy to slot into the sporty leather-bound chair to relieve the previous eight-hour joystick pilot. These drones can fly for up to thirty-four hours, ready at a moment’s notice to destroy or kill whatever is in the designated target zone. It takes three pilots working three rotations of eight hours in the container’s cockpit to fly one of these large birds. Heaven help the pilot taking over from someone who has recently eaten spicy food. I hear it’s a most unpleasant experience because you’re locked inside an air-conditioned tin can waiting for the recycled air to clear. But I don’t have to worry about that. My sense of smell went the same way as everything else. I can’t even smell my own farts. That’s probably a good thing, as I like spicy food. Well, I used to – when I could taste. Now, everything tastes the same. Bland.	After many missions and blurred passages of time, piloting unmanned aircraft has become second nature. I have been responsible for the death and destruction of many targeted individuals, their known meeting places, and their communication facilities. My kill rate is the highest in the military. I’ve been awarded medals for combat missions I playfully control with a joystick while wearing a virtual reality helmet with a heads-up display that makes Star Wars technology look like it belongs in the Stone Age. 	War for those not directly involved, has evolved into an armchair witnessed event streamed to the inquisitive masses online. I didn’t have to be suffering from numbness for it not to affect me. YouTube and other social media outlets do the same to the general populace, numbing them to the harsh realities of life. Like it was a game, or something made up to entertain their vacuous lust for excitement. I sometimes wonder if the military issues kill orders just to solicit more likes on the public video channels, feeding the hunger for reality-based combat with a diet of destruction and death.	Then, it happened. I woke up one morning with an overwhelming sense of guilt. Dr. Hendricks had been correct in his prognosis. However, he hadn’t prepared me for the mental anguish and incessant feeling of deep shame that overwhelmed me - born from the many people that had died at the end of my unfeeling fingertips. In my new reality, the labels of murderer, monster, and malingerer from truth, were slapped across my back like a Kick Me schoolyard prank. My eyes had witnessed the destruction but failed to gauge the impact it had on everyday lives of the relatives of the victims. There has been a high-level cost to my low-level decision-making. YouTube freely and widely broadcasts leaked video of that perspective to not only me, but also to an entire planet of digital voyeurs. It seems that during my high-altitude soaring, my visual gauge was connected to only the world surrounding my physical being and not to the consequence of my conduct. My eyes could help me put one foot in front of the other and tell me when I had pressed the joystick trigger, but they failed to see the legacy that my deeds distantly stamped on people’s lives. To combat the guilt, I checked myself into a psych evaluation with Dr. Hendricks using the premise of diminished responsibility. I knew I was guilty of heinous crimes against humanity, but in my defence, I was coerced by my superiors into thinking that life outside container twenty-three in the middle of nowhere was all collateral. Even in the midst of regret, a part of my numbed senses sought absolution to go again. 	To my surprise, Dr. Hendricks cleared me to fly – which was a contradiction in terms, as I was a pilot that never left the ground. In his patient notes, he highlighted the fact that certain senses of mine were returning to normal, and that diminished responsibility was something far above my pay grade and solely reserved for high-ranking officers and politicians. I was following orders and executing my duty. There was no level of official guilt to be attached to that. He even recommended me for the distinguished flying cross. Another contradiction.	So, here I am. Back in container twenty-three, piloting a drone on its final mission of the day – target classified. That is, the target is classified solely to me. You see, I volunteered for this special mission. A team of foreign subversives on our home soil was discovered to be planning a catastrophic event, so rather than risk boots on the ground, it was determined that collateral damage was far less risky than valuable personnel. The way of modern warfare - when you have the ordnance to spend.	This mission needed the most precise pilot to guide a missile straight through the middle of the structure, eliminating all within. What the brass didn’t know was that I had spent months collating fake information that I clandestinely passed on to PSYOPS, who then passed it up the chain of command to my superiors, who put the call out for volunteers. As I was the top performing drone pilot, I gambled that it would be me selected to carry out the mission. Why give the guilt to anyone else, anyway. Let me be the heavenly herald reigning fire from above, and that is what I’m about to do with an index finger surprisingly displaying signs of tingling feelings of touch. Oh, what irony for feelings to return at my moment of redemption. Perhaps – as Dr. Hendricks once mentioned – this had all been psychosomatic, due to the multitude of failed relationships, culminating in the one I could not provide answers to. A kind of PRSD – Post Relationship Stress Disorder.	For the first time since becoming a drone pilot, I can feel the cross pattern etched into the little red metal switch that I just pressed. How strange it is to feel again. How powerful an emotion that fires up a chain of linked sensations, in turn, switching on related emotions throughout my body and brain. Laughter has once again returned to my conscious thought. Not at the joy of feeling my fingers or the smell of spicy food, but at the finality of it all.	Watching through my heads-up display helmet broadcasting the target image from the onboard missile camera, I can’t help but exhale a huge sigh of relief, as the big black fast-enlarging characters spelling the number Twenty-three, fill my eyesight – my gauge. A smile creeps across my face. My head tilts upwards - my mind imagining what today’s sky must be like outside this rectangular metal box. What colour will it shine upon impact? One thing’s for certain, it will always return to blue. A constant in an ever-changing world. There’s solace in that belief.	Recognising that my suffering is about to be finally over, I revel at the thought of my approaching end, welcoming it with arms outstretched, deliriously happy. Oh, the ecstasy of it all. Here it comes, here it comes, here it…	 	 
","August 29, 2023 14:50","[[{'Anna W': 'Wow, what a twisted adventure! Really enjoyed this story, Sol. Welcome to Reedsy!', 'time': '17:11 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Sol Caine': 'Thanks, Anna.\nGlad to be here. I just followed my fingers and found myself on Reedsy.\nYour feedback is much appreciated.', 'time': '00:47 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sol Caine': 'Thanks, Anna.\nGlad to be here. I just followed my fingers and found myself on Reedsy.\nYour feedback is much appreciated.', 'time': '00:47 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Magdalena Brynard': 'Wow I am glad you are on Reedsy. I look forward to reading many more spledid stories like this one.', 'time': '15:32 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Sol Caine': 'Thank you, Magdalena.\nMore to come.', 'time': '00:46 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sol Caine': 'Thank you, Magdalena.\nMore to come.', 'time': '00:46 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Joe Smallwood': ""Thanks for reading one of my stories. I didn't guess the ending of your latest story but this ending seemed the only one possible to me.\nTwo stories deeply  imbedded into the minds of the MC. Not at all the way I usually write. So it was interesting for that.\nAs I was reading this story, I kept thinking how easy it would be to draw out a larger theme about how insensitive everyone is getting to others (ie strangers) Maybe that was why I was able to guess this story's ending."", 'time': '21:58 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sol Caine': ""Thanks, Joe.\nI agree. Social media, YouTube, video games, and others have desensitised us to some of the horrors in this world. The conflict in Ukraine is one case in point. While thousands die for small patches of land, the rest of the world enjoys their yearly vacations in neighbouring countries, like nothing is wrong. A nation invaded by another nation used to  pave the path to global conflict. Now, it's a blip on the stock exchange.\nThanks for commenting."", 'time': '01:54 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Joe Smallwood': ""OK I'm going to follow you for sure. I write with a clear purpose too, not just to entertain."", 'time': '03:33 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sol Caine': ""Thanks, Joe.\nI agree. Social media, YouTube, video games, and others have desensitised us to some of the horrors in this world. The conflict in Ukraine is one case in point. While thousands die for small patches of land, the rest of the world enjoys their yearly vacations in neighbouring countries, like nothing is wrong. A nation invaded by another nation used to  pave the path to global conflict. Now, it's a blip on the stock exchange.\nThanks for commenting."", 'time': '01:54 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Joe Smallwood': ""OK I'm going to follow you for sure. I write with a clear purpose too, not just to entertain."", 'time': '03:33 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Joe Smallwood': ""OK I'm going to follow you for sure. I write with a clear purpose too, not just to entertain."", 'time': '03:33 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Richards': 'Super interesting story. I enjoyed the read. I answered the same prompt, but very differently. Check it out!', 'time': '18:22 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sol Caine': 'Thanks, Mary.\nWill do.', 'time': '01:49 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sol Caine': 'Thanks, Mary.\nWill do.', 'time': '01:49 Sep 12, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Belladona Vulpa': 'Sad, but an interesting story. I like the writing voice you chose for this character.\n\nI also like the touch of humor you put in\n""I can’t even smell my own farts. That’s probably a good thing, as I like spicy food. Well, I used to – when I could taste. Now, everything tastes the same. Bland."" (I was laughing there but at the same character I was sad for the bland-tasting food)\n\nAnd the last sentence fits perfectly.\n\nWelcome to Reedsy!', 'time': '07:12 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sol Caine': 'Thank you, Belladona.\n\nThe sensitivities of being insensitive. So glad you liked it.', 'time': '23:48 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sol Caine': 'Thank you, Belladona.\n\nThe sensitivities of being insensitive. So glad you liked it.', 'time': '23:48 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Jessie Laverton': 'Fantastic ending. Wasn’t expecting that! 👏🏻', 'time': '07:51 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sol Caine': 'Thanks, Jessie.', 'time': '12:24 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sol Caine': 'Thanks, Jessie.', 'time': '12:24 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': 'That’s a fabulous and powerful story — the ending is disturbing but pitch-perfect for the narrative. As an aging man who’s more subtly but definitively losing small faculties, I both related to and empathized with the protagonist. I’m anxious to read more from you.', 'time': '17:30 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sol Caine': ""Martin, that's wonderful feedback. Thank you so much,\nA late uncle who was so very adept with his hands at making things, slowly started to lose his handyman grip on things and began to drop tools while using them. I channelled a little of him in this story."", 'time': '03:49 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Martin Ross': 'You honored him wonderfully.', 'time': '04:03 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Sol Caine': 'Thank you, Martin.', 'time': '12:22 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sol Caine': ""Martin, that's wonderful feedback. Thank you so much,\nA late uncle who was so very adept with his hands at making things, slowly started to lose his handyman grip on things and began to drop tools while using them. I channelled a little of him in this story."", 'time': '03:49 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'You honored him wonderfully.', 'time': '04:03 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Sol Caine': 'Thank you, Martin.', 'time': '12:22 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'You honored him wonderfully.', 'time': '04:03 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sol Caine': 'Thank you, Martin.', 'time': '12:22 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sol Caine': 'Thank you, Martin.', 'time': '12:22 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Great story! And what a manic feverish dream. The twist from being totally unfeeling, to to being a totally unfeeling drone pilot was great satire. And then it went back into horror at the end for an explosive finish. Your writing has a lot of potential, will be waiting to see what you come up with next.', 'time': '07:14 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sol Caine': 'Scott,\nMany thanks for reading and commenting, and your praise.\nI await the next prompt.', 'time': '07:53 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sol Caine': 'Scott,\nMany thanks for reading and commenting, and your praise.\nI await the next prompt.', 'time': '07:53 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Welcome to Reedsy. \nWhat a nightmare! (Story plot not Reedsy?)💣🎮🎇\n\nThanks for following my stories.', 'time': '10:18 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sol Caine': 'Mary, Thank you.', 'time': '14:53 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Mary Bendickson': ""You are welcome.\nThanks for liking my Nashville 💌 and 'Any body down there '"", 'time': '15:06 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Sol Caine': 'Mary, Thank you.', 'time': '14:53 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""You are welcome.\nThanks for liking my Nashville 💌 and 'Any body down there '"", 'time': '15:06 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""You are welcome.\nThanks for liking my Nashville 💌 and 'Any body down there '"", 'time': '15:06 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,rcub50,Feel This ,Nina Herbst,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rcub50/,/short-story/rcub50/,Character,0,['Creative Nonfiction'],25 likes,"
	Wear clean underwear! That’s what they tell you, right? Well, at least your mom does. And why? In case you get in an accident, of course! 
	Well, I have a little secret. Lean in close…guess what? If you’re in an accident, you really don’t care what state your underwear is in. Chances are, it will all be a mess anyway. Like the rest of you. I won’t get into details, I’ll just leave it at that. 
	The day of my accident, I’m pretty sure I showered that morning. I think. But, it was summer so I very well could have shrugged off the shower before heading outside for a walk. 
	The afternoon sun was shining, the birds were singing, and somewhere behind me, a car was swerving. Right into me. 
	I woke up from my coma cloud bleary-eyed, with a tube down my throat in the ICU. (Not thinking of my underwear, mind you.) I couldn’t move, but could blink. I blinked at a person standing over me telling me I had a tube in my throat and couldn’t talk. Yep, valid. Then they told me I was in the hospital and just rest. They didn’t have to tell me twice. How long was I out? A week or so? Long enough. They took the tube from my throat, which felt like I had managed to swallow a garden hose then decided to yak it back up like a hairball-hacking cat. Not a very pleasant experience. 10/10 would not recommend. 
	Still not able to move, yet I was deemed well enough to earn a roommate in a less touch-and-go setting of the hospital. I bid my private room farewell, and was wheeled whole-bed style to the new unit. 
	A thin white curtain separated me from my new roomie. Not that I was eager to initiate our first Girl’s Night and play Truth or Dare giggling and getting to know her. I could hear her on the phone with someone. She had a thick tobacco accent. 
	“They said they’re going to the house! You gotta lock the drawer. No! Get everything out you can THEN lock the drawer with what’s left…I gotta go. I’m gonna ring for more meds. See ya later.” *click* 
	I tried to think of what needed to be removed and locked up so urgently as a nurse entered the room. 
	“You need something?” she asked me. 
	Before I could say anything, Secret Sally barked from behind the curtain, “She don’t need nothing! I need meds! The PAIN! It’s terrible! Get them now!” 
	The nurse was unmoved and dryly asked her to please rate her pain on a scale of 1-10. If I were a betting gal, you know I’d put my money on the 10 here. Secret Sally was seemingly desperate. My meds were still being drip-drop-dripped through my IV in a steady flow, “to keep me comfortable” in my broken state. I could only imagine what I looked like based on the gasps and exclamations of horror from the nursing staff when they helped me and saw the bruises that had formed. You’d think they would keep all that to themselves. Like when your kid falls face first into the sidewalk and looks like a crime scene but you tell them it’s nothing so they don’t freak out.
	“It’s a TEN! A TEN!” shouted Secret Sally in dramatic wails. 
	“Ok, I’ll be back,” the nurse replied, and left the room. 
	“Hey over there! I need my rest so don’t expect me to talk to you. You hear me over there?” she directed at the curtain. 
	“Yes, that’s fine,” I managed with my post-intubation accent. 
	The world was a blur since I had no contacts or glasses (casualty of the accident) to help me see. My vision had failed since third grade when I got glasses, then refused to wear them. I hid them in my desk instead. Since then, I had matured enough to want to see though. But now I could neither see nor feel anything when I tried to move my hands. Sensory input was definitely compromised, but, for how long? Forever? 
	I clumsily grabbed my phone that was sitting on the bed tray. I held it close to my face, whole handedly, and tried to tap the green text message icon. Nope. It fell from my hands onto my lap in the bed. I managed to pick it up and drop it back on the bed tray with a sigh. Texting was talking and I couldn’t do it. I desperately wanted to message everyone I loved, everyone I missed, everyone who felt so far away. And I couldn’t. 
	Secret Sally was on the phone again instructing someone to find a stash of something in the coffee canister in the kitchen. Oh, Secret Sally, that’s probably the first place they’ll look when they get there, I thought. I wondered how it would all play out. And hoped I wouldn’t be in the hospital long enough to find out. 
	But days stacked up like legos to weeks, and two things happened: 
	1. Secret Sally was arrested. 
	2. I was released to a rehab facility. 
	This happened at 9:30pm, via a one hour dark and bumpy ambulance ride while my wheelchair was precariously strapped into place. My still unworking hands tried their best to steady my neck-braced broken neck for the duration. 
	I arrived at my new home close to midnight, and was wheeled to the Brain Damaged Unit. Really? Brain damaged? Apparently when you’ve been in a coma and had head trauma you’re labeled as such. If I could feel my hands enough to write, I’d insert “slightly” in front of that. Makes it seem better. Just a bit brain damaged, thank you. 
	As the staff traded paperwork with my ambulance Uber, I tried to get comfortable in my room before they helped me into the bed. The Velcro holding my neck brace in place had loosened on the ride. Loosened enough for my useless hands to grip it enough and then take off for just a minute of relief from that uncomfortable feeling of being choked 24/7. 
	Success! I took it off and placed it on the wheely bedside table in front of me. Ah, sweet release felt so good! But, what were those flashes of red lights in the hallway? And why did it appear a SWAT team of nurses were charging full-speed toward my room with terrified looks of concern on their faces? 
	“Stop! You can’t do that! Your neck is broken! You’ll be paralyzed!” they shouted. 
	A nurse nearly dove across the bed to get the brace and quickly choked me with it once again. I thought maybe one would swing in through the window too like you see in movies. No such luck. 
	They all breathed a collective sigh of relief. Wow, these nurses were dedicated. They pressed the alarm as soon as one noticed what I had done, and immediately sprang into action. 
	That earned me a place on the unit’s “Restricted” list. I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without supervision. I think there may even have been a mug shot behind the nurse’s station with my picture and “Mocks Safety!” above it. Look at all I accomplished in only a few hours in Rehab! 
	The next morning, I opened my eyes, and was immediately met by another pair of eyes and a hand with a large needle that swiftly stabbed my stomach. I screamed. He screamed. My 92 year old brain damaged roommate screamed. Nurses ran into the room. 
	“Oh my God I’m so sorry! I had to give the daily injection! I thought I could do it while she slept!” nurse Stabby explained. He was clearly new ‘round here. 
	“Did you honestly think I’d sleep through it??” I high-pitch gasped so dogs could probably hear it (if they were also rooming in the Brain Damaged Unit) as I held my throbbing stomach. 
	“Um, yes?” he whispered, then backed out of the room as the other nurses tried to explain why that was not the best idea. 
	Wide awake, the nurses got me dressed, washed, and wheeled to therapy. Time to learn to walk again! And, time to train my hands again to feel and move and go back to working like hands. I still couldn’t text, hold a brush, brush my teeth, or write my name holding a pen. My fingers felt tingly pins and needly, and I had little strength to do much of anything. 
	Fast forward: Months of physical therapy finally got me back to walking. Armed with my shiny silver walker and a nice dose of pain meds, I was able to lap Betty around the therapy gym. Betty was my third rotation of roommates, and had a stroke, but she was no match for me. Was I decades younger than her? Yes. But the car that leveled me also leveled the playing field there.  
	“Hey Betty, you better keep working hard in therapy so I don’t smoke you doing laps in the gym again!” I teased her. 
	“What? Oh sorry, I haven’t smoked since ‘92! My doctor said knock it off unless I want those cancers going around from them!” Betty replied. 
	“Good for you Betty!” I didn’t correct her, and she smiled. 
	Slowly, I started to make progress feeling again too. Repetitive exercises of squeezing things, moving beads around wires, and all sorts of other ostensibly silly tasks began to help. The numb tingles remained though, even as strength slowly came back. I’d gotten used to the feeling of unfeeling. 
	I sat in my wheelchair one morning as usual, staring down at my “lucky llama” socks my sister had brought me. We had a theory that socks with llamas could be lucky, and help me walk again and get out of rehab. 
	“Come on already!” I impatiently chided them. 
	“I’m sorry, it’s your turn now!” a sweet therapist replied. 
	“Oh! No, I was talking to…” Don’t say the llamas on your socks, they already have you in the Brain Damaged Unit, I told myself. 
	“Nevermind, I’m ready!” I finished instead. 
	And now, for the amazing part. Are you ready? Out of nowhere, it’s as if the Lucky Llamas expanded on their territory and not only lucked my walking, but lucked my hands too. 
           As the therapist took my hands when I stood, I felt it. Stunned at feeling feeling again, I looked at her wide-eyed and mouth agape. 
	“Are you ok? Are you in pain?” she panicked. 
	“No! No not at all! It’s the OPPOSITE of pain! I can feel you squeezing my hands! I can feel your fingers wrapped around my hands pressing down! I can feel how warm your hands are!” I rambled as a smile swept up my lips. 
	“Alyssa! Come here!” she shouted, and my Occupational Therapist dashed over. 
	“Squeeze my hand!” I challenged her. And she did. 
“Feel this?” she asked, barely able to hide her excitement.
”Yes!”
And as if her warm squeeze was directly connected to my tear ducts, I started to cry the happiest tears. Then she cried. Then we were all just standing there squeezing and crying. Because it had been the longest road to get there. And because there were so many tears before that, tears not of joy. And then I told Alyssa to grab my phone. I held it and tapped the screen, tapped the green message icon, and watched it open through blurry watered eyes. I made a new group message with everyone on it that was in my heart, typed “I love you”, and hit send. My feelings, from finally feeling. 
 
 
","August 30, 2023 14:39","[[{'Rebecca Miles': 'Truth as more hard hitting and somehow funnier than fiction here. Everyone has said everything already about the humour lifting us clear out of the tragedy ( I love the irony of Secret Sally). All I can add, is that your therapists must have loved your upbeat take on it all if you presented with one tenth of the sparkle you show here.', 'time': '05:35 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much Rebecca ☺️', 'time': '09:36 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much Rebecca ☺️', 'time': '09:36 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow! Non-fiction. Did this happen to you?\n\nWhen I was 23, I was in a car accident and my neck was broken, so I can relate to your tale. When I got out of ICU, I was fitted with a halo vest. Yeah, that was a fun six months. I still have little indentations in my temples from the incident. A constant reminder of how fortunate I am.\n\nYou told this tale with humor and verve. And, if this happened to you, I rejoice with you. A broken neck (C3 for me) is no joke, right? I loved that yo had a Nurse Stabby, though I don't envy you having to go throu..."", 'time': '13:20 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'What wonderful praise, thank you so much!!! ☺️ \n\nAnd yes, my head broke off too! Mine was C1/C2. The fatality rate for that one is quite high, let alone paralysis rate. My doctors told me all the time in the hospital that even a sneeze could cause paralysis in my situation. I’ll never forget the first time I sneezed after the accident and held my breath to see if everything could still move! They took my hip bone and put it in my neck with some stylish steel rods to connect to a metal plate attached to my skull. I set off the metal detectors...', 'time': '13:33 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': 'Damn! The C1 and C2! I didn\'t have any surgery. Just 6 months with a halo vest. I think I read two books a day during that time, so it wasn\'t all tragic, right? LOL\n\nYes! The elitists! LOL How many of us are out there, I wonder? I wonder if impostors would try to sneak in. Maybe they broke a finger and figured, ""What the hell?"" LOL\n\nAt any rate, I\'m chuffed that you can joke about it now, and I certainly understand what you went through, my friend. I think we\'re stronger because of it.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '13:53 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'Wow, 2 a day!! The silver lining of your injury!! \nIm not opposed to requiring X-ray proof as part of the application process to our club. We must be vigilant.  😑 Or, I guess we can just welcome anyone who identifies with a neck injury?? We are nice like that. 🤗', 'time': '14:09 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': 'Nice like that, as only the broken-necked can be. \n\nCheers!', 'time': '14:19 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'What wonderful praise, thank you so much!!! ☺️ \n\nAnd yes, my head broke off too! Mine was C1/C2. The fatality rate for that one is quite high, let alone paralysis rate. My doctors told me all the time in the hospital that even a sneeze could cause paralysis in my situation. I’ll never forget the first time I sneezed after the accident and held my breath to see if everything could still move! They took my hip bone and put it in my neck with some stylish steel rods to connect to a metal plate attached to my skull. I set off the metal detectors...', 'time': '13:33 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Damn! The C1 and C2! I didn\'t have any surgery. Just 6 months with a halo vest. I think I read two books a day during that time, so it wasn\'t all tragic, right? LOL\n\nYes! The elitists! LOL How many of us are out there, I wonder? I wonder if impostors would try to sneak in. Maybe they broke a finger and figured, ""What the hell?"" LOL\n\nAt any rate, I\'m chuffed that you can joke about it now, and I certainly understand what you went through, my friend. I think we\'re stronger because of it.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '13:53 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'Wow, 2 a day!! The silver lining of your injury!! \nIm not opposed to requiring X-ray proof as part of the application process to our club. We must be vigilant.  😑 Or, I guess we can just welcome anyone who identifies with a neck injury?? We are nice like that. 🤗', 'time': '14:09 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': 'Nice like that, as only the broken-necked can be. \n\nCheers!', 'time': '14:19 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Damn! The C1 and C2! I didn\'t have any surgery. Just 6 months with a halo vest. I think I read two books a day during that time, so it wasn\'t all tragic, right? LOL\n\nYes! The elitists! LOL How many of us are out there, I wonder? I wonder if impostors would try to sneak in. Maybe they broke a finger and figured, ""What the hell?"" LOL\n\nAt any rate, I\'m chuffed that you can joke about it now, and I certainly understand what you went through, my friend. I think we\'re stronger because of it.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '13:53 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Wow, 2 a day!! The silver lining of your injury!! \nIm not opposed to requiring X-ray proof as part of the application process to our club. We must be vigilant.  😑 Or, I guess we can just welcome anyone who identifies with a neck injury?? We are nice like that. 🤗', 'time': '14:09 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Delbert Griffith': 'Nice like that, as only the broken-necked can be. \n\nCheers!', 'time': '14:19 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Wow, 2 a day!! The silver lining of your injury!! \nIm not opposed to requiring X-ray proof as part of the application process to our club. We must be vigilant.  😑 Or, I guess we can just welcome anyone who identifies with a neck injury?? We are nice like that. 🤗', 'time': '14:09 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Nice like that, as only the broken-necked can be. \n\nCheers!', 'time': '14:19 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'Nice like that, as only the broken-necked can be. \n\nCheers!', 'time': '14:19 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Considering how devastating the accident was, this story is very upbeat and funny - I could *feel* the joy when the therapist squeezed the hands, like a huge relief :) The ending winds up on a huge inspirational note, which is a great way to leave it. \n\nThe bits about Sally are funny - though probably, not to her - the opening sets the mood, and the tone is frequently amusing, being a little self-deprecating or sarcastic or ironic. It makes for a good contrast to the gravity of the injuries, and the uncertainty of where things would go. All ...', 'time': '20:33 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'I titled this story “Feel This”, and you did. 😄 that makes me smile. And yes, you certainly can take the little things for granted once they’re (sometimes very suddenly) gone. \n\nSecret Sally was an interesting “character” to me. She was always just a disembodied voice behind the curtain. I often wondered what she looked like, but never actually saw her. \n\nThanks for reading and your thoughtful comments! 😊', 'time': '21:05 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'I titled this story “Feel This”, and you did. 😄 that makes me smile. And yes, you certainly can take the little things for granted once they’re (sometimes very suddenly) gone. \n\nSecret Sally was an interesting “character” to me. She was always just a disembodied voice behind the curtain. I often wondered what she looked like, but never actually saw her. \n\nThanks for reading and your thoughtful comments! 😊', 'time': '21:05 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Richards': 'Wow, you have been through it! Thank you for sharing your story. I loved the reality of the way you told it. Kind of ""it is what it is.""', 'time': '18:30 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much, Mary! 😄', 'time': '19:13 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much, Mary! 😄', 'time': '19:13 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Page': '""The afternoon sun was shining, the birds were singing, and somewhere behind me, a car was swerving. Right into me."" Nice!  ""10/10 would not recommend.""  Lol!!  ""Just a bit brain damaged, thank you.""  Haha.  ""a SWAT team of nurses...""  You did a great job of breaking the tension and keeping the story moving with vivid, imaginative interludes even though the subject was more of a tragic and scary situation.  Great humor and a ""touching"" story!', 'time': '22:05 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'A “touching” story - ha!!!! You just tickled my punny bone 😂 \n\nThanks for the read and feedback, Jonathan! 😄', 'time': '22:11 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'A “touching” story - ha!!!! You just tickled my punny bone 😂 \n\nThanks for the read and feedback, Jonathan! 😄', 'time': '22:11 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'You got me at “Wear clean underwear” and kept my attention to the very end.  Great job!', 'time': '02:32 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Lol! Thanks for read, Hannah!! 😄', 'time': '11:17 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Lol! Thanks for read, Hannah!! 😄', 'time': '11:17 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sarah Martyn': 'Creative nonfiction! Wow. Always interested in tidbits of reality in story form. Well done. 💛 My most recent is also a creative nonfiction.', 'time': '00:52 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'It’s easier and harder at the same time to draw on something personal and charged. Thanks for reading, Sarah!', 'time': '11:20 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'It’s easier and harder at the same time to draw on something personal and charged. Thanks for reading, Sarah!', 'time': '11:20 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Heather Van Rensburg': 'I like the Llama socks', 'time': '16:56 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Llama socks: a symbol of strength. Perseverance. Or, maybe they’re just super cute 😂', 'time': '09:59 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Llama socks: a symbol of strength. Perseverance. Or, maybe they’re just super cute 😂', 'time': '09:59 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': '“My feelings, from finally feeling”! That’s brilliant, and touches an emotional cord. You told a difficult, wrenching story with such humor and optimism, without compromising any of the gravity of the situation. That’s great writing, and writing than can provide comfort and hope for others. Well done!', 'time': '16:45 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much, Martin. What a wonderful compliment your comments are ☺️', 'time': '10:01 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Martin Ross': 'I’ve spent the last week on an absolutely toxic writers FB group that seems to HATE meaning, individual style, or intelligent, original narrative. It’s made me appreciate what a truly wonderful, positive, searching group this is. Those jackals rip newbies apart for the sport, and argue use of a semicolon is more important than finding a voice. If I see a miserably written mess of a story here, I search harder for those raw nuggets the author can build on. \n\nYou are both a sterling writer AND an author with great stories to tell and share. Fo...', 'time': '13:33 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'I hope you aren’t still hanging out in that Facebook group! Sounds pretty awful and closed minded. 😕  (And nobody uses semicolons anyway, let alone properly. 😝) \n\nSo far, the suggested edits I’ve received have been delivered so gently and respectfully here. It feels like a writer’s hive of helpfulness and inspiration for me. I’ll just keep buzzing around here, and avoid Facebook groups if they’re like that! \n\nYou have a great approach in seeking the golden nuggets. And thank you for your encouragement!! A little positivity goes a long way 🤗', 'time': '13:49 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Martin Ross': ""I'd recommend any new writer come here! Everyone's been wonderful and helped me define where to go and how best to go there. I leave it to othe writers to suggest the physical changes, and focus mainly on the writer's concepts and thematic talents."", 'time': '22:47 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much, Martin. What a wonderful compliment your comments are ☺️', 'time': '10:01 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'I’ve spent the last week on an absolutely toxic writers FB group that seems to HATE meaning, individual style, or intelligent, original narrative. It’s made me appreciate what a truly wonderful, positive, searching group this is. Those jackals rip newbies apart for the sport, and argue use of a semicolon is more important than finding a voice. If I see a miserably written mess of a story here, I search harder for those raw nuggets the author can build on. \n\nYou are both a sterling writer AND an author with great stories to tell and share. Fo...', 'time': '13:33 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Nina Herbst': 'I hope you aren’t still hanging out in that Facebook group! Sounds pretty awful and closed minded. 😕  (And nobody uses semicolons anyway, let alone properly. 😝) \n\nSo far, the suggested edits I’ve received have been delivered so gently and respectfully here. It feels like a writer’s hive of helpfulness and inspiration for me. I’ll just keep buzzing around here, and avoid Facebook groups if they’re like that! \n\nYou have a great approach in seeking the golden nuggets. And thank you for your encouragement!! A little positivity goes a long way 🤗', 'time': '13:49 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Martin Ross': ""I'd recommend any new writer come here! Everyone's been wonderful and helped me define where to go and how best to go there. I leave it to othe writers to suggest the physical changes, and focus mainly on the writer's concepts and thematic talents."", 'time': '22:47 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'I’ve spent the last week on an absolutely toxic writers FB group that seems to HATE meaning, individual style, or intelligent, original narrative. It’s made me appreciate what a truly wonderful, positive, searching group this is. Those jackals rip newbies apart for the sport, and argue use of a semicolon is more important than finding a voice. If I see a miserably written mess of a story here, I search harder for those raw nuggets the author can build on. \n\nYou are both a sterling writer AND an author with great stories to tell and share. Fo...', 'time': '13:33 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'I hope you aren’t still hanging out in that Facebook group! Sounds pretty awful and closed minded. 😕  (And nobody uses semicolons anyway, let alone properly. 😝) \n\nSo far, the suggested edits I’ve received have been delivered so gently and respectfully here. It feels like a writer’s hive of helpfulness and inspiration for me. I’ll just keep buzzing around here, and avoid Facebook groups if they’re like that! \n\nYou have a great approach in seeking the golden nuggets. And thank you for your encouragement!! A little positivity goes a long way 🤗', 'time': '13:49 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Martin Ross': ""I'd recommend any new writer come here! Everyone's been wonderful and helped me define where to go and how best to go there. I leave it to othe writers to suggest the physical changes, and focus mainly on the writer's concepts and thematic talents."", 'time': '22:47 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'I hope you aren’t still hanging out in that Facebook group! Sounds pretty awful and closed minded. 😕  (And nobody uses semicolons anyway, let alone properly. 😝) \n\nSo far, the suggested edits I’ve received have been delivered so gently and respectfully here. It feels like a writer’s hive of helpfulness and inspiration for me. I’ll just keep buzzing around here, and avoid Facebook groups if they’re like that! \n\nYou have a great approach in seeking the golden nuggets. And thank you for your encouragement!! A little positivity goes a long way 🤗', 'time': '13:49 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Martin Ross': ""I'd recommend any new writer come here! Everyone's been wonderful and helped me define where to go and how best to go there. I leave it to othe writers to suggest the physical changes, and focus mainly on the writer's concepts and thematic talents."", 'time': '22:47 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Martin Ross': ""I'd recommend any new writer come here! Everyone's been wonderful and helped me define where to go and how best to go there. I leave it to othe writers to suggest the physical changes, and focus mainly on the writer's concepts and thematic talents."", 'time': '22:47 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Dena Linn': 'very nice story, nicely crafted and moving', 'time': '08:45 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much for reading, and for the kind words Dena! 😄', 'time': '09:42 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much for reading, and for the kind words Dena! 😄', 'time': '09:42 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Human spirit at its best right here, take something horrible and make it fun. This story had a great voice, it really leapt out like a story narrator, aided by moments were you directly speak to the reader. Really good stuff 👍', 'time': '14:13 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much Kevin! ☺️', 'time': '15:27 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Thanks so much Kevin! ☺️', 'time': '15:27 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Great story, Nina, excellent funny names - Secret Sally, Nurse Stabby, etc. I guess this all happened to some extent, I hope you're back to good health."", 'time': '17:03 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Yep, the names were changed to protect the innocent (you read that in a deep tv voice, I know you did!) \n\nAnd thanks! Who knows, maybe I’m new and improved after all the surgeries?!? 😂', 'time': '17:09 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Yep, the names were changed to protect the innocent (you read that in a deep tv voice, I know you did!) \n\nAnd thanks! Who knows, maybe I’m new and improved after all the surgeries?!? 😂', 'time': '17:09 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': ""Great story, with some interesting characters! \n I laughed out loud at this line!  'Armed with my shiny silver walker and a nice dose of pain meds, I was able to lap Betty around the therapy gym.'\n\nThank you!"", 'time': '00:33 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Lol! Thanks Marty! Glad it caused a chuckle!! 😄', 'time': '14:06 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Lol! Thanks Marty! Glad it caused a chuckle!! 😄', 'time': '14:06 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Oh,my! Creative non-fiction. Who is this about? If you then God bless. Or who ever God be with them. Guess He already was since someone survived this nightmare.', 'time': '00:18 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'Yes, it’s me. First time I’ve written about it since it happened!', 'time': '14:05 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Wow, Nina. So glad you are doing better.', 'time': '14:07 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Yes, it’s me. First time I’ve written about it since it happened!', 'time': '14:05 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Wow, Nina. So glad you are doing better.', 'time': '14:07 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Wow, Nina. So glad you are doing better.', 'time': '14:07 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': ""Hospital wards are the worst places to be when you need rest. Sounds like a tough time, but there's nothing like a strong comeback. I hope you are fully recovered. Thanks for sharing, Nina."", 'time': '18:17 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Nina Herbst': 'You couldn’t be more right! For so many reasons! \nI think I’m as recovered as I’m going to get at this point, and it’s a good place. So I can’t complain! Thanks Chris! :)', 'time': '18:30 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Nina Herbst': 'You couldn’t be more right! For so many reasons! \nI think I’m as recovered as I’m going to get at this point, and it’s a good place. So I can’t complain! Thanks Chris! :)', 'time': '18:30 Aug 30, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,474nft,Faustus' Folly,Kevin Logue,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/474nft/,/short-story/474nft/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fiction', 'Fantasy']",24 likes,"
Curse the lot of them! What have I ever done to deserve this?Three days hard trek up a snow packed mountain trail with naught but a two toothed yokel to guide him, and for what? Was he, Faustus Flusterbuss, not the most perfect apprentice any Mage could ask for? Had he not always seen to his duties and those of his beloved Master Arkas above all else? It had to be the fault of that blasted Ardle, and worse yet, that cherub-faced jumped-up apprentice, Jestinia. They would get their just desserts, he would make sure of it.Faustus' grip tightened on the reins of his stubborn pack horse as the image of Jestinia's slender neck clouded his thoughts. A week since the announcement and still he couldn't figure out how they did it. Ardle first of the Mages, what perverted mockery. And Faustus himself, shamelessly underutilized in his new role, Ninth of Nine, that's just last. Embarrassment knotted his stomach. He’d sooner have stayed apprentice to the Second, then someday Second himself. That's how he dreamed it, that's how it was meant to be. “There Master Mage, ain't she a beauty?” called Hardin over the relentless wind.“Beauty? What am I even looking at?”“There sir, Finkle’s Bridge just as I promised, ain't it something?” The old guide swooned deeper with each word, Faustus thought he might need to give the old blighter five minutes alone with this supposed bridge.“Bridge? It's a crumbling arch between two mountains, more weed and moss than brick and mortar. For the love of the Ancestors, if you think that's beautiful, let's hope you never see the opera house at Caltarra, or the grand Imperial Library, you are likely to set your spirit free and crossover.”“Yes sir, that's exactly what we need to do,” Hardin gestured towards the spanning arch. “I’m not untethering my spirit, not after last time.”“No sir, cross over, it's the fastest way to get to Somewhere.”Faustus straightened in the saddle, shrugged his rime crusted furs a little higher, and surveyed the crossing. Beautiful came in low on the list of adjectives he would have used, hazardous, ancient, ramshackle, they fit a hell of a lot better.“There's no other route?” he asked, although he knew the answer.“Unless ye wish to backtrack and add a month's stomping through the vastness of Nowhere and dabble with all them snarling, toothful, beasties out on the Black Sands, then no. This be's the best path. Though, never fear, I promised the First I’d get you there in one piece, and I'll do just that or my name aint Hardin Worth L’effort.”“Very well, lead the way, guide.” Spurring the dappled mare onward, Faustus dropped in behind the chatterbox guide and resisted looking over the decaying precipice to the foaming rapids far, far, below. “Ye know,” Hardin began in that high pitch yokel that preannounced a diatribe of utter nonsense. “They say Finkle Sun Eater built this from the bones o’ the Giant Berik so he could reach the other side and rescue his beloved.”Faustus shook his head, ""And Giants bones are usually stone are they?”“Neh sure Master, ne’er had the pleasure of meeting one. You?”“No.”“Guess we’re both lucky then Master Mage, hear they’re nasty buggers when they want to be.”“Aren't we all?”“Suppose you be right there.” Hardin pointed towards the descending sun as it disappeared behind the mountain tops, “There’s a cave not far on the other side, we’ll bed down there, get a good fire going. New moon’s rising tonight, last thing we want to be is away from a campfire tonight, Skitterbugs come crawling...or worse.”Faustus realised days ago not to question these backwater notions, just nod and smile, otherwise you’ll get subjected to such wisdom as: Never piss facing the sun or you’ll invite fireflies into your dangler, or, always carry moldy cheese when wrestling a badger. The degree to which he had been drenched in such unintelligent sputum left his soul almost as soggy as his long johns, and they were as dry as a salmon's belly. He breathed deep the icy air, this was his lot now. Somewhere, Kingdom of Lord Herringbone, Knight of the Iron woods, the hick capital of the continent, and his new home. If this was the thanks for being a good apprentice perhaps it was time to find out the reward for the alternative. A greasy smile slid onto his reddened wind burnt face. That's the problem with ambition, sometimes it leaves you only one road to travel. Damn the lot of them!***“Can you please stop whistling,” Faustus snapped from under his huddle of blankets before the crackling fire.“Sorry Master Mage, just something I do without even knowing it.” He wrung his hole ridden socks, splattering brownish water onto the cave floor, then flung them over a makeshift drying rack. “What’s that you be reading there anyways? A tale of knights and princesses is it?”“Nothing so tedious, no, its M’dona’s autobiography, did you know she was a dancer to –”Hardin leapt upright, hand out for silence, turning about and sniffing like the hound that got the direction of the hunt. His flickering shadow cast gargantuan against the craggy rock face, he ripped a hand axe from the pack by his feet, setting Faustus scrambling into action. “Who goes there? I smell ye, ya dirty rotten–”Twang, and a feathered shaft rattled off the wall behind Hardin. Followed by a crude looking spear, all black barbs and serrated tip, breaking the drying rack. Two misses? Bad aim? Warning? Luck? Faustus' book thunked to the ground, luck was no friend of his. His fingers moved lightning fast tracing runes, and none too soon, as a third spear shattered against his shield of compressed air. Focus gem vibrating beneath his shirt, Faustus gave voice to an enchantment. The fire burst to bonfire proportions, drenching the improvised camp in blistering oranges and bloody reds. Then he saw them. Eyes glistening murder from the cave's maw. Three of them, three that he could see.“I am Faustus of the Order of Nine! You know not who you trouble, leave now, or I will leave your bodies for carrion.”  He waited for the scramble of feet, the retreat of the sensible when faced with a Mage of his magnitude.To his dismay, laughter echoed and the hulks, draped in furs, mismatched armour, matted hair, and a stench that could curdle milk from fifty yards, strolled forward. One trained a longbow on Faustus, another swung a net as casual as though out for the morning catch. Maybe they were. The other must have had giants' blood in him, a shock of red hair almost scraping the stalactites, spears decorating his broad back, and narrowed deceit glinting from his unpatched eye.“We know very well who you are, think you can walk through my mountains and not be noticed. You're a nice big pay day you are."" More laughter, frantic and all together insulting.Faustus shook his head, did these bandits really think they were any match for a Mage, never mind one of his caliber. One hand outstretched he forced more Essence into the blue shimmering shield, whilst the other twitched behind his back. Where most apprentices spent years mastering spells and potions he always pushed himself further, priding himself on using ancient sign magics.""Last chance,"" Faustus warned, brow knotted.""Ha, do you hear–"" Spear's words were snatched by a torrent of air, his huge lumbering form careened backwards into Net. Faustus dropped his shield and a bow string thrummed. With little more than a twist of the hand Faustus redirected the projectile into the cave wall splintering against the rockface.Spear stumbled up, roared, barreled forward, short sword pulled from his belt. Faustus grinned and stomped. A pillar of rock shot from the ground crushing Spear's man berries. Wheezing, eyes crossed, groin held, he accordioned to the dirt floor.Bow notched another shaft, string pulled, Faustus clapped. A stalactite slammed into Bow's foot leaving him yelping and hopping like a blaspheming rabbit on hot coals.Faustus growled at Net. It was enough. Moans, racing footsteps, and the crackling fire sung Faustus' victory.""Sir?"" came Hardin's whimpering voice. Faustus turned grinning, expecting lashings of new found adoration. Why would he not? There was little doubt this old bumpkin ever saw such a display of…yet for some reason he was shaking, arms out for balance, face ghost white.Faustus released hold of the Essence strands, the fire calmed, the world dulled, and the mountain shook.Dust rained from the cracking ceiling, stones crumbled, boulders rolled. He looked up, something crunched into his face, world spinning, mouth filling, ear buzzing, he collapsed.""Oh shi—""***Complete and utter blackness. Where in all the planes was he? What happened? The world tilted, wobbled, before staggering into focus. Dust choked the air, stones rolled with loose skree down the cavern walls, his face ached, warm, wet, and sticky. And for some reason it appeared a hunched goblin was waving a burning torch.Trying to get up he grimaced, nothing moved. Something stabbed his chest. A blade? No, it couldn't be. A rock? Possible, but this was sharp, many faced…the gem. His head dropped back and he drew in a burning breath. Slabs of blue grey rock covered his body. The goblin danced closer.“Master Mage, you're awake!”“Hardin, what happened” - Is what he tried to say, but what came out sounded like the drowning of a lisping snake. Tongue swollen, he prodded the spaces where his teeth should have been.“Don't speak sir, you're badly hurt. You brought the whole cave in on us, and, argh!” Hardin leapt forward swinging his torch in a great arch. Chittering and chattering clicked out a sickening concert. Turning his head as best he could, Faustus came eye to eye with a snapping set of mandibles. Before he could attempt to scream Hardin's boot crunched down, bursting shell, and spraying yellow glop.“Skitterbugs sir, they live in the rocks!” Hardin jumped from fallen rock to crushed boulder kicking and swatting the six legged beasties away.Faustus' fingers twitched, drawing symbols for levitation, but nothing happened. He tried again. More nothing. His arms were numb, fingers tingling like a tuning fork, his feet seemed impossibly distant. He screwed up his face, in truth he couldn't feel his feet, or hands.""Shelp…sget…shelp,"" Faustus hissed.""Shelp? oh, help,"" Hardin slammed the flame touched club into a gaggle of gnashing critters. ""Can't sir, not now, can't leave, bugs'll eat yer face…and that's too pretty a face for bite marks!""Faustus attempted a wriggle for all the good it did, it only pushed the gem deeper into his chest. Wincing, tears filled his eyes. All his magical life all he wanted was to be part of the prestigious Nine. Now the emblem that denoted his success was trying to bury into his heart. He almost laughed. There was a joke there somewhere, or perhaps it was ironic. Regardless, humour's hard to call upon when you can't feel anything below your neck and your mouth is riddled with half teeth and gushing blood.Bubbles popped at the edge of his vision, head light he knew he couldn't stay awake much longer. The slabs shifted digging the gem painfully deep, then to his surprise, vibrated. Essence. Warm, flowing, and yet he did not have the fingers nor words to grasp it. He shouldn't be here, it was all that blasted Jestinia's fault. Eyelids growing heavy he gave up.As if racing through the forest during summer, lights began to flicker, and flicker, and grow brighter until…Pop!***Faustus shook his head, pain gone, cave gone, he stared down at transparent hands and gave them a wiggle. A dream surely, a trauma induced lucid dream, yes that's it. Yet through his fingers he recognised the room.Vaulted and adorned with canvases of past Emperors and Empresses watching over an enormous tabled map of the known world. Two figures moved wooden figures, horses, and knights across its surface. A war was being planned. One looked up, her eyes shining quizzical green before nudging the smaller, stouter man next to her.""Ardle, we've a guest,"" there was no mistaking the sing-song voice of Jestinia.""We wha–"" Ardle raised his head, face shifting from befuddlement to anger. ""Faustus! What in the Never Realm have you been told about untethering your spirit!""""I thought he looked thinner,"" Jestinia noted, folding her arms.""Are you spying again boy? Well, speak dammit.""Of course, the body may be broken, but not the spirit.""Your Firstiness, I, emm, I,"" he paused, with every word he could feel something tugging at him. His body, the mortal coil, being stretched, ready to spring back at any moment. ""Sir, trapped, cave in, Finkle's Bridge, need help.""""Is this a jest?"" Ardle asked.""Look at him,"" Jestinia began. ""A blind man on a galloping horse could see he's terrified.""Ardle looked to the map, ""I will send help, and notify the Academy they are closer, perhaps Arkas can get there before–""Flicker. Flicker. Snap!***Lighter than air itself Faustus blew across the world, a blur of pure Essence, plunging through trees, shooting through streams and rivers, flying beside birds, and all the while, screaming at the top of his lungs.When we stopped he stumbled, as best an ethereal being can. The room was rich with mahogany paneling, unlit brass oil lamps, an overburdened desk, and thick velvet curtains barely holding back the dawn.""Who goes there!""That voice. Faustus floated around, and if he could have he would have leapt with joy.""Faustus?"" asked Arkas, still wearing his sleeping attire.""Master–"" the coil wound once more.""You were warned about this Faustus, you know how dangerous this is. You could lose complete contact with your body. Never know touch again, or worse, let something demonic in. Begone, before you are seen."" Arkas waved his hand as if shooing away a pestering cat.""No time, cave in, Finkle's Bridge, need help, please he—""Flicker. Flicker. Flicker. Crack!***Prying open well stuck eyes Faustus blinked in disbelief. Chest burning, head throbbing, he was still trapped. Hardin however, was panting like a warrior fresh from the arena, stripped to his stained under baggins, streaked and smeared in Skitterbug he patrolled around Faustus, small fires dwindling or smoldering out.""Sshardin'?"" Faustus slobbered.""Master yer back, yer awake.""""Sow..slong?""""Sow..ah, hours sir, but we did it Master Mage, look!"" The old guide pointed towards the rumble packed entrance, and more heart lifting the suns shafts piercing the void. ""Skitterbugs won't come during daylight, I'll get help Master, I just need…"" He spun about, scanning the minute fires. ""I seem to have burnt all my clothes, kept us safe, but it will make the trip down the mountain a bit nipple hardening. Fear not sir, I promised the First, and I don't intend to break it.""Faustus couldn't quite believe it, the lengths this man was willing to go to keep him alive. The cave shuddered, dust fell, rocks cracked. No, no, not again.Light, gloriously warm flooded the cavern. Faustus squinted, Hardin held a hand before his face as boulders floated then drifted clear, landing soft as a clouds. ""Faustus? Can you hear me?"" The shout, the voice, how? Faustus' heart hammered.""Over here!"" roared Hardin. Faustus cried out as the confining slabs were effortlessly removed from his crumpled form, yet still he could not move. He stared at the towering angelically haloed silhouette, trying to lift a hand to feel if he was real.""Easy my boy, easy now."" Arkas knelt, and Hardin yelped scrambling backwards as Arkas' face came out of the shadow. It was covered in slowly shrinking feathers, his nose an ever decreasing beak. Chanting, he held a hand over Faustus' chest. Gasping, Faustus' fingers tracked the dirt. They moved, they moved! ""Master, "" Faustus huffed, teeth snapping back into place. ""You came…you transmogrified?""""I had to, it was the only way I could get here on time.""""But it's–""""Almost as dangerous as untethering one's spirit."" Arkas grinned, no anger, just joy and relief. ""You, help me get him outside, but put this on first."" Arkas threw the shivering guide his navy cloak.""Certainly sir, oh my, how fancy.""The fresh air was a divine breath on Faustus' aching body. Slowly, they hobbled down the mountain path as the sun glistened across the endless forest below. Squinting he could just make out the towers of King Herringbone's keep. His home. Relief filled him.Thundering hoofs broke his revelry and he took pause as fifty or more calvary rode towards them, the king's banners fluttering.The lead rider called out, ""Are you Faustus?""""I am,"" he crooked.The rider called back, ""He's alive!"" To Faustus' astonishment the brigade burst in cheer. He was baffled, why were these strangers celebrating.The rider dismounted and shook the three men's hands, ""I am King Herringbone, I am so relieved you are safe. We received word from Ardle in the night and set off at once.""""My liege, I, I..don't know what to say.""""Say nothing, you are our mage, we look after our own.""Faustus gazed at the applauding knights, his smiling former mentor, the grinning Hardin, and the beauty of nature spread out before him.What had Faustus ever done to deserve such friends, such loyalty? He was in no way perfect. But he would see to his duties and those of his new King above all else?Perhaps after all, ambition or not, life takes you down the right road after all. Thank them, thank the lot of them!
","September 01, 2023 19:09","[[{'Ken Cartisano': ""Hey Kevin,\n\nA fun and engaging sequel to the 'Nexus of Nowhere' story. Two tiny miscues. The question mark in the third from the last sentence. And the stone: '...his success trying to bury into his chest.' Should be 'burrow' into his chest. (Or bury itself into his chest. Your choice.)\n\nThe guide, 'Hardin Worth L'Effort. A finer name could not be found, or made up.\n\nKing Herringbone. A fishy name for the king of any Realm, especially in the land of somewhere. \n\nAgain, a fun and completely unbelievable story, straight out of Nowhere."", 'time': '16:37 Sep 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ela Mikh': 'Wow what a quest. I felt like I was flying with his spirit there and back. Really enjoyed it', 'time': '21:32 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks very much Ela, glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '06:32 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks very much Ela, glad you enjoyed it.', 'time': '06:32 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""I remember the previous story, where the Nine changed with the old master stepping down, so it was nice to see a follow-up.\n\nWhat starts off as a tale of a furious wizard, feeling betrayed and disrespected and planning revenge, turns into a change of heart after a life and death situation. It seems he didn't realize just how much he meant to others, and this event clarified it for him - a fitting lesson! And possibly, an ambition related catastrophe averted.\n\nDespite the direness of the situation, it was quite a funny story too :) Some fun s..."", 'time': '22:24 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Ever since writing that first story these characters keep creeping back into my ha. \n\nGlad you enjoyed and his character arc came through, was slightly hindered by both word count and only getting the idea on Thursday, but these things happen.', 'time': '09:04 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Ever since writing that first story these characters keep creeping back into my ha. \n\nGlad you enjoyed and his character arc came through, was slightly hindered by both word count and only getting the idea on Thursday, but these things happen.', 'time': '09:04 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Dee Logue': ""This is funny Kevin.  Well done.  Don't know how u come up with the names or characters but h make it work so easily."", 'time': '07:44 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty Logue': 'Loved these characters. Funny and some great advice too lol', 'time': '22:11 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers. Glad you enjoyed!', 'time': '06:56 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers. Glad you enjoyed!', 'time': '06:56 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'Fun story Kevin. Some humour, action and a nice little character arc all packed in. Thanks for sharing.', 'time': '09:35 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers Chris.', 'time': '09:46 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers Chris.', 'time': '09:46 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'A thrilling journey.', 'time': '01:56 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers Mary 🙂', 'time': '06:25 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Cheers Mary 🙂', 'time': '06:25 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Kevin, this was a cool ride with Faustus as he was transmogrified and had a slice of humble pie. \nI thought this was funny, Never piss facing the sun or you’ll invite fireflies into your dangler, or, always carry moldy cheese when wrestling a badger. \nAlso: ""I seem to have burnt all my clothes, kept us safe, but it will make the trip down the mountain a bit nipple hardening. Fear not sir, I promised the First, and I don\'t intend to break it.""\nI enjoyed your detailed descriptions. Nice job. LF6', 'time': '01:07 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks very much Lily, I enjoyed them little injections of humour too.', 'time': '06:24 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks very much Lily, I enjoyed them little injections of humour too.', 'time': '06:24 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'I enjoyed another journey down the road with these characters. The self righteous pride at the beginning was well and truly humbled at the end. Nice character growth and a good moral ending.', 'time': '14:22 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks Michelle, I appreciate that. It was a real last minute attempt for me, and what I\'ve published here is pretty much a first draft, had all intentions of ""fixing"" it today but as luck would have it, I have a screaming toddler with an ear infection...so it will be staying as is, so pleased it worked to some degree regardless.\n\nThanks for taking the time.', 'time': '14:34 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michelle Oliver': 'Ahh the joys of real life! I don’t know how you find the energy to write with young ones. Mine are all older, and I’m still pressed for writing time during the week.', 'time': '14:40 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Thanks Michelle, I appreciate that. It was a real last minute attempt for me, and what I\'ve published here is pretty much a first draft, had all intentions of ""fixing"" it today but as luck would have it, I have a screaming toddler with an ear infection...so it will be staying as is, so pleased it worked to some degree regardless.\n\nThanks for taking the time.', 'time': '14:34 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Ahh the joys of real life! I don’t know how you find the energy to write with young ones. Mine are all older, and I’m still pressed for writing time during the week.', 'time': '14:40 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Ahh the joys of real life! I don’t know how you find the energy to write with young ones. Mine are all older, and I’m still pressed for writing time during the week.', 'time': '14:40 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,cucfyg,The Kneaded Touch,Mary Bendickson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cucfyg/,/short-story/cucfyg/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Contemporary', 'Inspirational']",21 likes,"
The Kneaded TouchI was thirty-nine years old when I found what I want to be when I grow up.Whereas most well-adjusted children seem to have an instinct of what they aspire to, I had no idea. In my youth the only vocations for women seemed to center around teaching, nursing or secretarial careers. None of those appealed to me particularly. Of course, there was motherhood, but that was a foregone conclusion and you had to have something else that called out to you to start out with, go to college for, or end up with after the kids were grown and gone.High school counselors would prod you to come up with some concrete goals so you could set them in stone and aim for them. Take a few prep classes or join clubs geared towards them so you could be in more pictures in the yearbook, have more credits after your name in the back, look like you participated, impress your rivals, wasn't a deadbeat...Did any of my teen-age jobs prepare me for a meaningful career? My first ever paid job, YMCA summer camp counselor, taught me kids could run all over me so teaching was out. Mind-numbing sales clerk position convinced me I wasn't cut out for sales. Corn detasseling? Not the agricultural protege.What about classroom or extracurricular activities? Even though I liked to sing and dance and did so in a couple of school musicals, I wasn't the star and no one discovered me. Thespian, likewise. Speech class, don't put me through that again! Typing, worse grade ever so secretary pool was out. Any kind of math, chemistry, or physics left me cold so nursing, doctoring, and mad scientist dreams all died. No good with deadlines so never tried journalism on the school paper.Once one of those journalist types asked all the seniors what they were going to do after graduation to be printed in bold type after your name. Had to come up with something so I announced 'Speech Therapist'. Sounded like I knew exactly what I wanted. I didn't. But there it is in the year book.After graduation I headed off to community college taking general Liberal Arts fare. Married after the first year, expecting first baby by time final exams would be coming around second year so didn't do that fourth semester. Can always go back, right? Of course, second baby followed immediately then a third within two years and a fourth two years later. Four kids under five. Who had time for more schooling?My husband was big into weight training by the time the youngest started school. There was no place in town that had the kind of equipment he wanted so we invested in some and opened a fitness center for his hobby. I took a night course in aerobics and started teaching classes. This I did like as I had always tried to stay physically fit.Fast forward five years when hubby took up new hobby with new woman and our marriage ended. I had to go out and get a real job. Waitress extraordinaire was not paying the bills. I pursued a position as a security officer at a nuclear power plant facility. Talk about mind-numbing! Let's not.I kept hearing about massage therapy becoming popular. Now that was something I often did for my husband when he was sore from training. I once suggested I could maybe train for it and offer it at the center. He went ballistic with 'No Way'. But he wasn't around anymore. I researched, found a school close enough and worked out a schedule between kids and work. Within months I was a Nationally Certified Massage Therapist.The nuclear plant was nice enough to lay me off so it was sink or swim time. I needed to make a full-time living with this part-time gig. I pieced together traveling to private homes with working out of a beauty salon in a bigger city and made that work until I could open an office.The year was 1991 and massage therapy was not understood by the majority of people. There was one other lady in my town that I knew of that offered it. She was retired by the time I started. I tried to get the hospital interested. They were not on board. I had to educate the population. But the occupation was gaining a foothold and more therapists were being trained and setting up practice in the surrounding area. One young lady did finally convince the hospital it was a worthy treatment. I applauded her for succeeding where I had failed. However, she did not stay in the field very many years.There is a high burn out in this occupation. We need to self-care extensively. I was one of the first in my town to offer hot stone massage. I think the therapeutic effects of the hot stones helped save my own hands for extra years.In my private practice I also offered spa treatments like inch-reducing body wraps and combined that with hypnotherapy for weight reduction. I traveled to residential facilities to care for physically disabled or elderly individuals. In the summers I worked at a camp ground doing as many twelve massages on a Saturday.I always wanted to open a medical massage clinic and hire other therapists. I never achieved that goal. I had enough clients to keep myself busy but worried I couldn't maintain the volume needed for employing others.Overall, I had a highly fulfilling career. I truly loved helping people feel better. No one ever went away unhappy. My motto: Every Body Needs To Be Kneaded.I started traveling with my second husband who took work contracts out of state for extended time frames. Still I was able to always come back, call my clients and pick up where we left off. But eventually I realized I was sacrificing the feeling in my hands with what I was doing. I needed to decide if it was worth the pain in my joints.The final decision to retire came when my office landlord decided he could rent out my space for more money to someone else. I keep my license current and can still work on family members. But my hands do protest.Instead now I peck away at this keyboard possibly fulfilling other latent dreams.
","August 31, 2023 23:45","[[{'Martin Ross': 'My sister was an audiologist/speech therapist! Professionals who help children adapt and learn to succeed and be happy in a cruel society are my heroes, hero. I was so fortunate my grade school had a speech therapist in the ‘60s. \n\n“Everybody Needs to Be Kneaded” should be posted at every special needs classroom and clinic. Beautiful and inspiring story!', 'time': '14:54 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'What an uplifting comment. Thank you.', 'time': '16:00 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'What an uplifting comment. Thank you.', 'time': '16:00 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""That opening struck a chord. There's huge pressure on kids to figure out and know exactly where they want to be for the rest of their lives - but that's ridiculous. Life isn't that predictable. Sure, it's good to not be completely aimless, but you can't know where you'll end up, without actually walking the path to get there. \n\nThis story was a nice reflection (also, love the puns :) Not being too familiar with massage therapy, it was also nice seeing it from a practitioner's POV. The whole trying to get it accepted at hospitals sounds like ..."", 'time': '21:43 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the encouraging comment.', 'time': '01:34 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the encouraging comment.', 'time': '01:34 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks for sharing this lovely memoir Mary  keep on pecking! You're doing great!"", 'time': '17:20 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks, Derrick. You, too.', 'time': '18:20 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks, Derrick. You, too.', 'time': '18:20 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'My daughter is a massage therapist. She works through a chiropractor that also offers facials and other luxury care. It’s nice having one in the family and she loves her job. Nice history of women in the work field.', 'time': '23:22 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'I loved my career, too.', 'time': '03:42 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'I loved my career, too.', 'time': '03:42 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ela Mikh': 'That is so well put - Every Body Needs To Be Kneaded. I may steal it for my own motto. Thank you for a great read', 'time': '21:33 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking.', 'time': '03:40 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking.', 'time': '03:40 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Another interesting story on the meandering road of life!', 'time': '22:49 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for reading and liking.', 'time': '02:28 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for reading and liking.', 'time': '02:28 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Thats a great personal memoir. Just the right amount of unique drama (nuclear power plant security?!) to keep it interesting. And what a red herring! “Kneaded” I kept expecting you to take up baking;) great story Mary.', 'time': '07:28 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Maybe that security job will show up in another prompt some time 😁. Glad you liked it.', 'time': '08:37 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Maybe that security job will show up in another prompt some time 😁. Glad you liked it.', 'time': '08:37 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Mary, this story of your life and your triumphant resiliency through difficult ordeals.    It was so cool that you shared your story in such with your humour. \nGreat job! LF6', 'time': '03:20 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you, Lily.', 'time': '08:34 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you, Lily.', 'time': '08:34 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Mary,\nI loved your latest engaging story and enjoyed travelling on the bumpy road to its natural conclusion. Your narrative voice is truly engaging and has a sincerity that’s hard to achieve.\nThe incidents you describe have an interesting texture and your dry humour adds a subtle layer that’s most refreshing. \nWell done.\nHH', 'time': '22:33 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks, Howard. Very therapeutic.', 'time': '23:00 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Howard Halsall': 'Naturally :)', 'time': '23:04 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks, Howard. Very therapeutic.', 'time': '23:00 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Naturally :)', 'time': '23:04 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Naturally :)', 'time': '23:04 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': ""This was memoir fun Mary, the comedic voice in this was so honest and witty, I loved it. You had quite a meandering road and I'm happy you share it with us through such wonderful prose. \n\nNoticed a tiny typo, think this should be started -  took a night course in aerobics and stared teaching classes."", 'time': '20:01 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the typo catch and the nice comments.', 'time': '20:16 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the typo catch and the nice comments.', 'time': '20:16 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'What a wealth of experience you have had. I love the way you write, such entertaining and descriptive phrases. There is rawness and honesty in all your words.\nThank you for sharing.', 'time': '13:55 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking 🤗', 'time': '14:13 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking 🤗', 'time': '14:13 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Yvonne Scott': 'Oh the long and winding road of life. You’ve had a very interesting one. One man I knew called his massage practice ‘A Higher Knead’ 😊 Thanks for a great story.', 'time': '18:39 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you so much.🤗\nGood name.', 'time': '19:06 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you so much.🤗\nGood name.', 'time': '19:06 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'You are a non-fiction goldmine, Mary. Lots of the writers on here will relate to the problem of not knowing what to do with themselves. Certainly struck a chord with me. Thanks for sharing.', 'time': '09:03 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you, Chris.', 'time': '12:13 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you, Chris.', 'time': '12:13 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': ""I loved this. Thought you were going to bake bread. LOL. I've done massage  (did a course but the lady who taught us went bankrupt the week before we were supposed to pick up our newly signed certificates!) I also sold aromatherapy oils which went with the massaging. You are right about the sore hands and wrists. Poor you. It is because of other things, not just massage, that my wrists and hands are bad. Funny how careers aren't always about our passions or interests. Life happens while you are making other plans! I wanted to be an author. N..."", 'time': '00:14 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'The Kneaded Touch is what I wanted to name my business but I got talked out of it at the time because of stigma still associated with massage at the time. Just used my name and NCTMB after it. I broke out with allergies when ever I tried aromatherapy so had to give that part up. I got incredible compliments from my instructor and clients. I lasted longer than a lot of others did.', 'time': '00:29 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'The Kneaded Touch is what I wanted to name my business but I got talked out of it at the time because of stigma still associated with massage at the time. Just used my name and NCTMB after it. I broke out with allergies when ever I tried aromatherapy so had to give that part up. I got incredible compliments from my instructor and clients. I lasted longer than a lot of others did.', 'time': '00:29 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,092olq,Uncomfortably Numb,Jed Cope,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/092olq/,/short-story/092olq/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Sad', 'Romance']",15 likes,"
We take so much for granted. I suppose we have to. We haven’t the time to be grateful for everything we have and all that we are. We’re a sad paradox and that inherent conflict of our existence shames us.
 
I am closely observing my hands in the autumnal light, turning them this way and that, and I am thinking of all the time I have wasted. All the things that I could have done, but didn’t bother to do. I put so many things off and in deferring, I said no to them ever happening. 
 
I place my hand on my face and I savour the moment. Tears threaten to wet my hand, but I bite down and I stop them from emerging. Self-pity has no place here. If I give in to that now then I am forever lost.
 
The doctor returns. I don’t know why she had to leave the office, other than to give me a moment to process the death sentence she pronounced upon me just a short while ago. She sits opposite me and smiles. I want to hate her for that smile, but I cannot. I want to hate something, but I understand that the only thing I could truly hate would be myself, and that is never going to end well.
 
I return the smile and an inexplicable sob breaks through my threadbare resolve.
 
I compose myself, “sorry, it’s a lot to take in.”
 
“I understand that,” she says.
 
No.
 
No she doesn’t. There is no way that she could. Her empathy is cognitive. It is a cold and careless empathy. She understands the theory, but she hides behind her desk and her professionalism. That’s as far as she will ever go. If she did not have those shields, she would step vulnerably into madness and that would be a needless waste.
 
But in the end, it’s all a waste.
 
“How long… before…” I raise my hands and wave them at her. 
 
It’s a ridiculous gesture, but neither of us laugh. There is something dark and brooding in the room that trumps my absurd hand movements and render them sadly absurd.
 
“Difficult to tell,” she says, but she gleans my intent and goes further. I’m thankful for that. “Weeks,” she says. 
 
“Not months?” I ask, as though I can barter for more time.
 
“If you’re lucky,” she tells me.
 
I laugh at that.
 
She looks nonplussed.
 
“Sorry,” I say, “it’s just you reminded me of my Mum just then. She’d say something like that if I asked for an ice cream or treat, and it always meant no. We both knew it. She just didn’t want to be the one saying no.”
 
The doctor nods.
 
The rest is a bit of a blur. There are appointments booked and there is talk of treatment when there is no viable treatment. Something is eating me from the inside and they will give me pills to make me more comfortable as I am consumed. That terrifies me. Being made comfortable whilst I’m being eaten alive. 
 
My belief in hell is restored.
 
I find myself thinking of setting up an Only Fans account. Surely there are enough sick monkeys out there who would pay to drool over my excruciating and unfortunate demise? The same voyeurs of suffering that watched the Christians trying to sell God to lions, the lowlifes who did their knitting whilst class war led to the rich and powerful losing their heads. Roll up! Roll up! Come see the pathetic man eaten to death! Bring a picnic! Make a day of it!
 
I have to stop these dark thoughts. I have to make the most of what I have left. I’m thinking this as I wash my hands in the bathroom. I feel everything and I attend to it in a way I never have before. The towel feels soft and comforting. The door handle is cool and solid. I draw a finger along the wall the way toddlers do, the difference being that my finger isn’t caked in chocolate. I chuckle at that. More of that please. More of all of this. Savouring the moment and delighting in the simple pleasures of life.
 
Five minutes later, I am sat in my favourite armchair and staring at my hands. This is where my war will be lost. This is when I will fold and then I will only be waiting for it all to come to an end.
 
I have a new form of MND.
 
Lucky me! I won the MND lottery!
 
Sounds like leprosy to me. It wouldn’t surprise me if it is leprosy. What profession would want to stick with calling it leprosy? I mean, they’ve had thousands of years to work out what Jesus did. Science versus religion and religion is still winning. So they rename it to end the embarrassment of never finding a cure.
 
I laugh out loud as I think about what I should do with my hands. I keep laughing as I think of my own version of the world is about to end, so what do you do?
 
 My hands are going to end, so I had best enjoy them whilst I can. I am going to lose all feeling in my fingers and my hands and when that happens I’ll be trapped inside the husk of a body that no longer works. 
 
My mind cannot deal with this eventuality. This is not supposed to happen, and so it is not happening. Instead of thoughts, my mind produces white noise. After a while, I realise that the white noise is a distortion. Inside I am screaming. 
 
I want to leave the comfort of my favourite chair and find all the people who have ever counted. I want to hold their hands. I want to touch their cheek. I want to close my eyes and use touch in place of sight. I want to connect with everyone with a physicality that I am going to lose. I am floating in a space that I can only linger in as long as I can hold on. As long as I can feel the connection of the hands that keep me in this life. When my hands go, I will drift away from everything I hold dear.
 
I consider cutting my hands off.
 
I really do. 
 
If I remove my hands then I experience a small victory. I have exerted control and done things my own way. That seems a better way to lose my hands than giving in to the covert enemy within. 
 
Will I have phantom feeling? I read about that one time. Amputees driven insane by an itch that they cannot scratch. I always took that with a big pinch of salt. Surely it was not true? Turns out I was as wrong as can be. Sometimes the joke is on us and there’s no escaping the punchline of our life.
 
I want to write a bucket list. First entry, writing a bucket list while I can still write. My appetite for this peters out all too quickly. There are no words. Not enough of them anyway. My hands are my hands and they have never needed words. Has anyone written a love letter to their own hands? 
 
Waggling my thumbs, I remember what it is that makes us who we are. These opposable appendages have defined the way that we are.
 
Man.
 
We manipulate and in so doing, we craft reality. Our hands are vestiges of our minds. We have become complex thanks to our ability to use the world around us and mould chaos into order.
 
I stop writing my bucket list because I begin to see it in a different context.
 
Never will I…
 
I want to cry now, but find that I am incapable of doing so.
 
Alcohol is a bad idea, but then it has always been a bad idea.
 
After a large nightcap, I go to bed. I join my hands in an approximation of prayer, resting my cheek on them. Against all odds, I drift off to sleep as I think disjointed thoughts about what tomorrow may bring.
 
When I awake, I know what it is that I will do. I don’t know whether I dreamt it. Somehow it feels like I was always destined for this day. My diagnosis is merely a catalyst bringing about what was always destined to be.
 
As my bread toasts and my tea brews, I make an appointment. I crave touch and I have a notion of how to go about sating that craving of mine. I barely register the toast as I absently wash it down with the tea. I rinse the plate and the mug and I pause for a moment on the threshold of my empty house. For the first time, I understand just how empty it is. How empty I am. We echo each other, this house and I, and we are both the worse for it.
 
I walk to my appointment. It is a three mile walk, but I have plenty of time. I feel the breeze on my skin and the sun warms me. Half way to my destination I encounter a dog. I think it’s a Labrador. I’ve never been one for pets. It is walking besides its owner on a slack lead without a care in the world. On a whim, I stop and pat it’s head. It flinches and growls at me.
 
“Teddy!” remonstrates the owner, “I’m sorry, he doesn’t like strangers petting him,” she explains.
 
“It’s OK,” I tell her, neither do I.
 
I smile, but I don’t feel like smiling. The dog has reminded me that touch is a something to be earned, not taken. We take that for granted too. Having that special someone who we can hold hands with, cuddle up to, hug. I tried to take something from that dog. Something I had no right to. I didn’t even ask nicely.
 
When did I get like this?
 
I am early for the appointment, so I walk around the block. As I circle around, I almost bottle it. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. It is wrong. I stop at the far end of the street.
 
“What am I doing?” I ask myself.
 
In response, I cry. I cry like I’ve never cried before. My head turned up to the heavens, I wail accusations and sob my heart out. When I am done, I wipe the snot and tears from my face and turn back to the anonymous terrace house. I knock at the door and I hear someone approaching. There’s no going back now. Perhaps there never was.
 
“Gill?” I say when the woman answers.
 
“Tim?” she says.
 
I nod a confirmation, and she lets me in.
 
She’s a dated, walking stereotype. A transparent negligee through which I can see lacy underwear. She totters along in heels that render her legs more shapely. She’s attractive, but she doesn’t do it for me. Not like that anyway. I wonder whether there was a time when she would have. I think there must have been, but not now.
 
I follow her upstairs and as we reach the landing I feel an overwhelming wave of sadness, for her, for me. For us.
 
In the bedroom, she sits and crosses her legs. I stand like a spare part as she tells me the prices for her usual services. I take out five twenty pound notes from my pocket and put them on her bedside table. She opens the draw and sweeps them in. That part of the transaction is done.
 
She begins undoing the bow on her negligee.
 
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
 
“You want me to keep it on?” she asks.
 
“Yes,” I tell her.
 
I sit next to her on the bed. I am all at sea. A school boy out of his depth and unable to articulate what he wants for his first ever time with a woman. I want everything. I want nothing. What I need is all too simple.
 
“Can I hold your hand?” I ask her.
 
She frowns. Now it is she who is awkward. 
 
I shrug, “it’s been a long time,” I say, “I miss the simple intimacy of being with someone. The things people take for granted. I don’t want much.”
 
“But you paid for full,” she tells me, and she sounds affronted.
 
“I wanted to pay you for your time,” I explain.
 
“OK,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
 
She holds her hand out and I take it. This isn’t the natural hand holding of lovers. Her hand doesn’t not feel like a hand. I could be in a shop touching a mannequin.
 
“Close your eyes,” I tell her.
 
She does. She seems shy now. I like that. I like that she went with it and gave me something freely.
 
“Do you remember when you were a teenager and you’d hold a boy’s hand?” I ask her.
 
She nods.
 
“I’m closing my eyes too,” I tell her, “it’s good to think back to those times isn’t it?”
 
“Better times,” she sighs.
 
“Let’s lay back on the bed,” I say to her.
 
“Like we were in the long grass of a field in the Summer?” she asks as we both lay back on the bed.
 
“There you go!” I say to her, “you’ve said it, and that’s exactly where we are. There was something magical about those times wasn’t there?”
 
“I miss them,” she says, and I can hear her tears in those words.
 
I turn towards her and leaning on her my elbow, I wipe the tears from her cheeks. 
 
She opens her eyes, “you’re a soppy get,” she laughs through her tears, “what kind of perv makes a prozzy cry like this!?”
 
I shrug, “a soppy one?”
 
She strokes my cheek, “thank you,” she says.
 
“For what?” I ask.
 
“I didn’t know I needed that,” she tells me, “you surprised me.”
 
I don’t know how it happens, but we kiss and for one wonderful moment, the kiss is all there is.
 
Afterwards, we lay on the bed and chat about the good times we had in our formative years. Neither of us mentions the bad times, even as they lurk in the wings and threaten to end the pretence. I’m there for longer than the allotted hour. Morning appointments are unusual. I leave before her next client calls. We hug goodbye before she opens the door. Holding each other, but really, we’re holding onto our past.
 
I use up the afternoon. I do not need it. The afternoon does not appreciate this and it lingers longer than it should. Eventually, the evening turns up and the sun wends its way home. 
 
In the dying light, I find myself on a doorstep that I have avoided passing for so, so long. I stand there for an age as though I have forgotten myself and what it was that I was about. I don’t knock on the door, but it opens all the same. 
 
In the open doorway is a man. He is small, too small, and he is shocked at my silent presence in his doorway. I marvel at this. He has been a presence in my life for every day of the last eight years. His shock diminishes him. He looks older. Haunted. He isn’t the force that I remember. 
 
I step into the dark hallway and he recedes from me. I herd him into the house and kick the door shut.
 
“You,” he whispers.
 
“Me,” I echo.
 
“But you…” he croaks, “you shouldn’t be here.”
 
“Neither should you,” I tell him, “why didn’t you move away? You stayed as a reminder of what you did. You never cared. You never showed remorse.”
 
“It was an accident!” he protests.
 
“You killed my son,” I growl.
 
He says something, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m looking at my hands and lamenting the loss of my feeling in them, and I’m grieving all over again because never will I… hold my son’s hand. The diagnosis brought all of it back and when I awoke this morning I knew what I must do. What I should have done a long time ago.
 
I look at my raised hands and then I see him beyond them. What happens then is a natural progression. I reach out and embrace the man who killed my son. My hands feel everything as they make contact with his neck and I squeeze the life out of him. I think he hits out at me, but I do not care. I see the life drain out of him, but I feel nothing. 
 
I feel nothing and then he feels nothing and it is done.
 
My hands are tingling with pins and needles as I leave the house of my son’s murderer. The doctor said I’d experience sensations such as this as the nerve endings succumbed to the disease within me. 
 
It doesn’t matter.
 
Nothing matters.
 
It hasn’t for the last eight years.
 
I died when this man took the only thing that ever mattered to me. The rest of it is irrelevant detail. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for it all to come to an end. My hands are the only thing I can feel now and I find myself looking forward to the day that they quit trying. They’ve served their purpose. There’s nothing left for them to do.
 
I sit on the kerb and I wait. 
 
I remember sitting like this as a kid.
 
I remember my little boy sitting on the kerb, grinning at me as the sun danced off his golden hair and his eyes lit up my world.
 
Things were good then.
 
But that was a lifetime ago. I died eight years ago, I was just too stubborn to know it, too ignorant to accept it.
 
Blue lights cascade through the night and herald the end of everything.
","August 28, 2023 16:37","[[{'Sarah Martyn': ""Wow. I'm impressed with the relatable thoughts and behaviors of someone in shock and grief - over loss of their son and their health and their life as they knew it. And to see the interaction with the woman be more of an emotionally intimate scene was sweet and believable. In a way I'm glad the story didn't end overtly happy and that it was fairly open-ended."", 'time': '01:16 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Sarah Martyn': ""Also I had to look it up, but I spell it CURB but it seems you're from the UK right? Interesting they both are correct."", 'time': '01:23 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Jed Cope': ""Thanks for the great feedback. I'm bowled over that this story hit home for you. I find myself writing about people in challenging situations and exploring how they would act and deal with things. This guy had a lot on his plate...\nGlad that you looked up kerb! I am indeed from the UK and I've had some Americans lambast me for using English incorrectly. I'm suspicious of those people who think they find a stick and beat others with it in a thrice...!"", 'time': '19:48 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sarah Martyn': ""Also I had to look it up, but I spell it CURB but it seems you're from the UK right? Interesting they both are correct."", 'time': '01:23 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""Thanks for the great feedback. I'm bowled over that this story hit home for you. I find myself writing about people in challenging situations and exploring how they would act and deal with things. This guy had a lot on his plate...\nGlad that you looked up kerb! I am indeed from the UK and I've had some Americans lambast me for using English incorrectly. I'm suspicious of those people who think they find a stick and beat others with it in a thrice...!"", 'time': '19:48 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""Thanks for the great feedback. I'm bowled over that this story hit home for you. I find myself writing about people in challenging situations and exploring how they would act and deal with things. This guy had a lot on his plate...\nGlad that you looked up kerb! I am indeed from the UK and I've had some Americans lambast me for using English incorrectly. I'm suspicious of those people who think they find a stick and beat others with it in a thrice...!"", 'time': '19:48 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Great work here Jed. I liked the way you got across the detachment of the professional with her cognitive empathy.  \nThe hands are such an expression of the self and you showed that well.\nI liked the way the story twisted even more towards the end. I was not expecting it and it gave the story a sense of completion. Well told.', 'time': '11:39 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks Helen, I really appreciate your words and I am glad that you liked this story. One thing I love about both reading and writing is developing ideas and understanding. There is so much that we intuitively know, but it makes a world of difference when we have the words...', 'time': '17:22 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks Helen, I really appreciate your words and I am glad that you liked this story. One thing I love about both reading and writing is developing ideas and understanding. There is so much that we intuitively know, but it makes a world of difference when we have the words...', 'time': '17:22 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Oh Jed, this is the kind of story that cuts you open and drains you. You feel everything he feels, and doesn’t feel (perfect title). \nA hard-hitting entry this week!! Well done!', 'time': '10:08 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': ""Thanks Nina, I'm really glad it hit home and I appreciate your comments!"", 'time': '10:19 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': ""Thanks Nina, I'm really glad it hit home and I appreciate your comments!"", 'time': '10:19 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Joe Malgeri': ""Wow, I loved it, and so would have Alfred Hitchcock. The defense mechanisms of the mind can work simultaneously in our behalf as well as against us. Great work, Jed. Besides that, Pink Floyd would dig your story's title, as I also did instantly."", 'time': '16:07 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks Joe, praise indeed! Glad the story hit the spot as well as the title!', 'time': '20:12 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'Thanks Joe, praise indeed! Glad the story hit the spot as well as the title!', 'time': '20:12 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Behold a lifetime held in your hands.\U0001faf6', 'time': '20:10 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jed Cope': 'Now that, I like!', 'time': '10:10 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jed Cope': 'Now that, I like!', 'time': '10:10 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,5g9chy,From Numbness to Triumph,Doerthe Dolata,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5g9chy/,/short-story/5g9chy/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction', 'Inspirational']",12 likes,"
Lydia was a force on the volleyball court. Her life revolved around the game. She had risen through the ranks from a local enthusiast to a professional player in one of Europe's top leagues. At only 26, she felt on top of the world, and her passion for the sport burned brighter than ever. Her skills were unmatched, and she had dreams of representing her country in international competitions. But all of that was about to change.
Lydia lived with her partner, Thomas, in a little cozy apartment in the heart of a bustling European city. They had built a life together, sharing their dreams, and treating their beloved dog, Lupus, like family. Lydia had accepted the fact that she could not have children of her own due to a medical condition, but volleyball had filled that void in her heart. She was content with her life, or so she thought.
One fateful morning, Lydia awoke to an unsettling sensation in her left hand. It was as if her fingers were tingling, and she could not shake the odd feeling. She did everything she could in her power to shake it off, attributing it to a poor sleeping position or an unusually restless night. As the day passed, the tingling continued, growing increasingly noticeable, heightening her sense of alertness.
During practice that evening, Lydia's left hand felt strangely unresponsive. She could not set the ball with her usual precision, and her spikes lacked their usual power. Her teammates noticed her struggle, and whispers of concern filled the air. She tried to brush off their worries with a forced smile, but deep down she knew that fear gnawed at her.
That night, Lydia lay awake in bed, her mind racing. The tingling had not subsided; instead, it had spread to her right hand. Panic set in as she clutched her limp hands, desperately trying to regain sensation. Tears welled up in her eyes as she realized something was terribly wrong.
Days turned into weeks, and Lydia's condition only worsened. The tingling had evolved into a constant numbness, rendering her hands nearly useless. She visited numerous doctors, endured endless tests, but the answers remained elusive. The uncertainty of her diagnosis weighed heavily on her shoulders.
Volleyball, once her sanctuary, had transformed into a wellspring of frustration and despair. Her sudden change and decline left her teammates, coaches, and fans utterly bewildered. The sport that had shaped her identity was slipping away, slipping through her fingers, and she felt like a stranger in her own body.
One evening, Lydia and Thomas sat in their living room, Lupus nestled between them. The air was heavy with unspoken grief. Tears streamed down Lydia's face as she finally vocalized her deepest fear.
""I'm losing my hands, Thomas,"" she whispered, her voice quivering. ""I don't know what's happening to me, but I can't even hold a ball anymore. My career, my dreams...""
Thomas held her hand gently, his eyes filled with empathy. ""We'll find a way, Lydia. We'll get through this together.""
But deep down, both of them were aware that the road ahead was filled with uncertainty and daunting challenges. The future remained shrouded in mystery, and no one could predict what lay ahead.
Lydia's quest for answers led her to specialists across Europe. She underwent numerous surgeries and experimental treatments, each one offering a glimmer of hope followed by a crushing disappointment. Her once-powerful hands remained unresponsive, and the numbness seemed to extend deeper into her wrists.
The emotional toll was immense. Lydia struggled with anger, frustration, and self-doubt. She watched videos of her past games, the cheers of the crowd, and the victorious moments that had once defined her life. Those memories seemed like a cruel taunt, a painful reminder of what she had lost and might never regain.
Despite it all, Lydia remained determined. She began working with a physical therapist who specialized in hand rehabilitation. Every day was a battle, a relentless effort to coax movement and feeling back into her hands. The journey was agonizingly slow, but she refused to give up.
Months turned into years, and Lydia's condition slowly improved. Through sheer determination and unwavering support from Thomas and her therapist, she began to regain limited function in her hands. The numbness that had once consumed her fingers began to recede, replaced by a tingling sensation that was, strangely, a source of hope.
One sunny afternoon, Lydia stood on the beach, the warm sand under her feet. She looked out at the volleyball net that had become a distant reminder of her former life. With Thomas by her side, she tentatively picked up a volleyball, her hands trembling. The sensation was far from perfect, but it was a start.
Over the following months, Lydia embarked on a grueling journey of rehabilitation and adaptation. She relearned how to serve, set, and spike, her love for the game driving her forward. It was not easy, and there were moments of frustration and setbacks, but Lydia was no stranger to challenges.
Slowly but surely, she made her way back onto the court. The road was long, and her hands would never be the same, but Lydia had learned to embrace her new reality. She had lost and found herself in the process, discovering an inner strength she never knew she possessed.
Lydia never returned to the professional league, but she found a new purpose in life. She became a coach, passing on her knowledge and passion to aspiring young players. Her hands, once paralyzed by numbness, had become a source of inspiration for others.
As the sun set on a chilly European evening, Lydia stood on the sidelines, watching her team play. Lupus, now a gray-muzzled elder, sat by her feet. She smiled, not just for herself but for the young players chasing their own dreams on the court. In her journey from despair to hope, there was undeniable proof that Lydia had found losing feeling in her hands had not shattered her world; instead, it had reshaped it, giving her a new perspective on life's unexpected challenges and the strength to overcome them.
","August 26, 2023 08:18","[[{'Michele Duess': ""This is a story I think could be expanded on. Made into a longer story. Follow her journey through all the treatments and surgeries. How is she functioning in her day to day activities?  Or focus on only one aspect, say her physical therapy. Then discuss how she feels improvement, maybe a glimmer of hope. It's a good start and would be great to hear more detail about Lydia's journey"", 'time': '19:21 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,w3iwfy,The Studio,Mary Richards,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/w3iwfy/,/short-story/w3iwfy/,Character,0,"['Inspirational', 'Drama', 'Sad']",11 likes,"
The studio was quiet and dim. Grace had not turned the lights on in weeks. Her mother’s death had completely derailed her, even though it was not unexpected. Evil cancer had stolen her beautiful, talented mother from her way before her time. 
Her mother’s name was Lily. Everything about her suggested light and flowers. She had the magic hands of an expert potter and had instilled the love of the clay in her daughter. The studio was filled with their expert creations, shelves lined with everything from rustic mugs to fine ceramic dishes. Grace loved her time in the studio with her mother. Now she couldn’t bear to unlock the door, much less go inside, and create something, but there was a show coming up. Somehow, she had to make herself functional enough to go in and get to work.
But not today. Grace turned away from the door and walked the short distance back to the house where she knew her husband would be waiting, hoping that she had been able to break out of the solid stone which was her grief. She had been determined to be stoic for her father, for everyone. Convinced that she could tough out the sadness, Grace refused all offers of support.   
Jeremy looked up from his book when the back door opened. He was seated on the plush, blue couch, legs crossed, glasses hanging from the end of his nose. 
“Any luck?” His kind eyes were hopeful.
“No. I’m going to take a nap,” Grace responded with a sigh. 
“What can I do?” Jeremy stood up to gather Grace in his arms. “How can I help? I just wish I could help you.”
Grace rejected his embrace, just as she had done every single other time since Lily’s death.
“I’m fine. I just need time. Nothing helps.” She choked back a sob. “Go back to your book. Really, I’m fine.”
Dropping his arms, Jeremy watched as Grace turned and walked purposefully down the hall, trying to convey all the ‘I’m fineness’ she had just spoken of. He wrinkled his brow and sat back down not having a clue what to do next. 
It had been six weeks since Lily passed, and Grace was doing no better. Her father and sister tried relentlessly to help her begin to move past her grief but were always met with the same response. 
“I’m fine. I don’t need help; I just need time.” And time wasn’t helping either.
 
The next morning, Grace woke up, groggy and exhausted. She’d had a dream about the looming pottery show. Her brain was shouting at her to get up, get moving. Her heart continually shut her down. She missed her partner, her best friend, her creative mentor. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
But there was the show, a commitment Lily had made before she understood; before they all understood how quickly the cancer would steal her away from them. Grace glanced at Jeremy, still sleeping soundly, and crept out of bed. She pulled on her yoga pants and one of his big t-shirts and slipped out of the bedroom. 
The sun was just coming up, peaking through the window above the sink, shining on the clean counter surface. Mornings used to be her favorite time of day. She would make coffee and take the big thermal pot out to the studio with two clean mugs. She was always ready to hand her mother a steaming cup.
It wasn’t the same now. The sun wasn’t as bright, the coffee not as fragrant. Grace went about the morning routine mindlessly, semi-determined to get some work done in the studio today.
She picked up the thermal carafe and carried it to the sink. It felt odd in her hands, slipped from her fingers, and clanked into the sink as she turned on the water. Strange. That had never happened before. The whole process was cumbersome for her today.
Grace managed to get the pot brewing and sat down at the table, staring out the back door at the studio. It was calling to her. The clay was calling to her. She blinked hard to keep the tears at bay. How was she ever going to go on with their business without her mother? Grace laid her hand on her chest, trying to ease the pain in her heart.
Her hand tingled. Both hands were tingling, like they were falling asleep. She clasped them together and rubbed her palms, trying to wake them up. When the coffee pot beeped its final slurp, Grace stood, still flexing her fingers. She reached for a cup, then reached for another cup. The second cup slipped from her numb fingers and crashed to the floor. Her mother’s cup.
Tears burst from Grace’s eyes, a low moan from her throat. She closed her eyes and summoned all her energy to her hands to pick up the pot. She stepped over the broken cup and somehow managed to pick up the other cup and the pot and walked slowly out the door to the studio. She felt the pot getting heavy in her hands and just made it to the door of the studio where her gardening table sat, unused and lonesome, just like her shop. She set the pot down with a thud and pulled the key out of her pocket.
It took some concentration, but she managed to get the key in the lock and roll the tumblers on the old wooden door. When she turned the doorknob, the door swung open, and the light changed in the studio. Grace was overcome with the essence of Lily in the room and choked as she pictured her mother slamming the clay down on the wheel and working her magic.
Grace could hardly breathe. She propped the door open with her ceramic door stop and picked up the coffee pot. It took two hands and two trips to get the coffee and the mug inside the door and an equal effort to get some coffee in the cup.
The sun was higher in the sky and the room, even though she had yet to turn on the lights, had become brighter. There was an energy in the room that she had never noticed before. She knew there were several balls of clay that had been prepped and were ready to be worked. Grace uncovered the first one and plopped it on the wheel. There was already a bucket of water on the workspace in front of her. How did that get there? She was confused. Numbness crept past her hands and into her wrists. She turned the wheel on with her knee.
The sound of the potter’s wheel was strangely comforting to her. She should have been brave enough to come in sooner… She scooped a handful of water onto the clay and pressed the foot to speed up the wheel. The smell of the clay was familiar. She began to feel her brain and her heart have some communication. 
When Grace cupped her hands around the whirling clay, panic began to rise in her chest. She could no longer feel it. She could not feel anything. The strange sensation was up to her elbows. She began to shriek.
“What is going on? She stood up, clapped her hands together, felt nothing.
“Oh mom! Why did you have to die? I need you here! With me!” Finally, the dam broke and Grace wept uncontrollably. She sank to the floor, heaving with untouched grief, allowing it to flow out of her like a cascading waterfall.
As she sat, she became aware of the light shifting in the room again. She hung her head, no feeling in her arms, engulfed in the brutal pain of missing her mother when she felt a tingle on her cheek. It felt like a butterfly kiss. Startled, she looked up, unable to wipe the tears from her eyes with her useless arms.
Then she heard her voice, could feel her presence. 
“Let it go, my beautiful girl. You’ve got to feel the feelings to move ahead. Mold the clay.” 
The voice whispered in her ear. Grace could smell Lily’s lovely, earthy scent surrounding her. She could feel her strong arms around her.
“Accept the help,” her mother’s voice whispered. “Use those hands to reach out to people, not to push them away.”
Suddenly everything started to make sense. Her mother was still teaching her. She took the feeling from her hands so that she would begin to understand what it would be like, to not feel the soft fabric of the shirt Jeremy wore as he pulled her in for a hug. To not be able to feel his hand and he held hers, trying to lead her through her grief. To never feel the wet clay working under her hands, becoming something beautiful and lovely to behold.
Grace took a deep breath and tried to reach for her mother.
“I’m in your heart, always. You must reach for your dad, your sister, Jeremy, your friends.”
“I miss you so much,” Grace moaned as she exhaled.
The light in the room began to shift again and the scent of her mother began to fade. Slowly, the feeling started to creep back into her hands. The heaviness in her heart was less. 
A figure stood in the door of the studio and watched as Grace touched her hand to her mouth tenderly and blew a kiss as she whispered, “Thank you, mom. I love you.”
She turned to see Jeremy smiling at her.
“Heard you out here, love. And found the broken cup. Just checking on my girl.” He took a breath. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I feel like I can smell your mom. You know that musky stuff she loved so much?”
Grace stood up and touched his face with both hands, grateful to be able to feel the soft stubble on his warm skin. 
“You’re not crazy. She was here.” Grace nodded as she spoke. “I’m ready now. Ready for help.”
Without questioning her, Jeremy took her in his arms relieved that she was finally allowing herself to grieve. Grace laid her head on his chest and slowly caressed his back, hands tingling now, with love and strength. 
","August 27, 2023 20:54","[[{'Mary Richards': 'This was an interesting concept for me. I struggled with it a little, but hope I conveyed the mystical interaction okay.', 'time': '13:06 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Fatma Durmush': 'This is a story about grief and having to deal with the stuff that follows. It is impressive it is not dull It makes me believe in the characters involved and there is not much to say but heal and be healed is the answer to this type of situation. It is a writer to look out for and after all, we need to see it made right by the writer and the action of writing about difficult situations and working our tragedies and comedies so we can pass on the knowledge the experience of being the humans we are. The only downside is it is full of grief an...', 'time': '07:29 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Richards': 'Thanks, Fatma. I am struggling through the sudden loss of my husband 16 months ago. Writing about different ways to handle grief has been helpful to me. Thanks for reading and for the feedback.', 'time': '18:14 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Richards': 'Thanks, Fatma. I am struggling through the sudden loss of my husband 16 months ago. Writing about different ways to handle grief has been helpful to me. Thanks for reading and for the feedback.', 'time': '18:14 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Gloria Bartone': 'I found this unusual approach to the question of feeling very interesting and original. It took a while to get into it, but the idea of losing then regaining the feeling as she accepted her loss and dealt with it was one that many people can relate to.  Nice job. FYI, Zi also answered this prompt but differently. Read my entry too.', 'time': '21:21 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Richards': 'Hi Gloria - I will look those entries up! Thanks for reading and for the feedback.', 'time': '18:15 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Richards': 'Hi Gloria - I will look those entries up! Thanks for reading and for the feedback.', 'time': '18:15 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wendy M': ""Very engaging whilst also very sad, as someone who lost her mother far too young I could identify with your MC'S grief. That  protective barrier you put up is sometimes all you can cling to. A well written story."", 'time': '20:27 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Richards': ""Hi Wendy - I'm so sorry about the loss of you mother. I lost my husband 16 months ago. It helps to write, Thank you for reading!"", 'time': '12:24 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Richards': ""Hi Wendy - I'm so sorry about the loss of you mother. I lost my husband 16 months ago. It helps to write, Thank you for reading!"", 'time': '12:24 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'AnneMarie Miles': ""Hi Mary, oooh this was so poignant and powerful! I got goosebumps when she heard her mother's voice. And I like how you reconnected back to how Grace pushed Jeremy away, and how the loss of feelings was a warning sign of what was to come if she continued to push her loved ones away. It was a beautiful and heart tugging story."", 'time': '17:01 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Richards': 'Thank you AnneMarie! I was hoping that was how it would be read!', 'time': '12:49 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Richards': 'Thank you AnneMarie! I was hoping that was how it would be read!', 'time': '12:49 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,rebwuz,A Touch of a Hand,Gloria Bartone,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/rebwuz/,/short-story/rebwuz/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Sad']",11 likes,"
I run my hands slowly over the soft indentations and ridges of the fabric held loosely in my hands, the feel of the delicate material bringing me a little bit of comfort and security. But I know, just know, it isn't going to last. The ridges that define the quilting patterns are definitely there, the quilting tiny, even and very impressive. But deep inside I know this will change, will never be the same feeling if satisfaction and delight again. My years as a quilter come back to me in a rush of emotion-- the images crowd into each other, rushing thick and fast, colorful, hurtful, inspirational, painful,all spinning in a crazy dance in my mind, because I know this may be the end. The end of an era, and the end of my joyful career. And the end of my life in a way, because the act of creation has become,no, IS my life.Once upon a time, in a faraway land and time, I picked up two pieces of fabric and put them together. Then two more, and yet another two. Creating beauty was a challenge, a joy, then an obsession. I stitched pieces together into pictures, pillows and small gifts for friends and family. Stitching and giving was a joy, until somebody said maybe I should try quilting that finished product to a soft fluffy background,and then quilting became an act of pure pleasure. I began to stitch every time I could. I drew designs, made patterns, sewed and glued and beaded and glittered and just enjoyed seeing and feeling my creations. And I quilted. Quilting requires feeling the fabric: smoothing out wrinkles, feeling for design lines,hand pressing small areas and large one to prepare for the needle, then smoothing the finished product with sensitive fingertips, ready to soften uneven places or to pull out roughness and do it all over again if needed. It requires hands that know life, that feel to their very core, hands that can comfort or smooth or hold and hug. And I did it all with sensitive fingertips. I joyfully, fearfully, carefully, often painfully, wonderingly, adeptly, softly, regretfully, lovingly smoothed and hugged, tickled and pounded in a daily competition to make it the way I planned and hoped it would be in the end. Years of delicate,sensitive fingers climbing in and out of fabrics until I got the workmanship I wanted, the look and feel the way I had planned. Just like in life, and my work became integral to my life, a part if it that challenged yet thrilled me by its very existence.I stitched my way through life,through marriage, birth and death, sickness and health, good times and not-so-good ones, weaving a portrait of my own existence through color, action, waves and circles and flowerlets and lines of all lengths,sizes,shapes and hues. The poetry of my life, wrapped up in cotton, linen and silk, held together by faith, fabric, living breathing threads of every shade. That white one covered our wedding bed, that blue one was created for our first son. And that pink one, or that one with the cars, or trains, the dollies, the flowers and unicorns , castles and dragons or farm animals and tractors, or snowflakes and Santas and decorated trees. Or the somber one left from his funeral, or the piece of red, white and blue left over from a memorial to our list of heroes,or....... There are too many to list, too many to recall, too many to remember. Yet I can't seem to stop remembering. The memories roll by in an endless parade, some painful, some pleasant, all pounding my brain and forcing me to look at the past and remember its joys and sorrows.I put down the piece I have been unknowingly crumpling even as I stroke it and sigh. It gets harder and harder to work, harder and harder to feel the softness leaking through my fingers into rivulets of cotton or linen. The doctor's words are pounding in my head,making me dizzy and faint at the same time. Why couldn't he have waited to tell me? Why now? What difference would it have made to him if I hadn't found out until after my first great grandchild had arrived? I have already planned that welcoming quilt,that mix of sunlight and sunflower and rainbows to welcome another generation. Okay, so I have lupus. Okay, I can deal with another ailment. It isn't as though I haven't spent a lifetime fighting some illness or another: cancer, miscarriages, diabetes, arterial hardness, COVID, sight and hearing and tastelessness. One more problem, that's all it is. But to tell me my feeling in the tips of my fingers will soon be gone--- no, that's a living death. My fingers are my existence, my pleasures and comforts stem from being able to feel life clear through to my fingertips. With and in and by my fingers. After all, I haven't had fingerprints for decades because of the constant smoothing and stroking that quilting demands. But to lose feeling -- well that's a different thing altogether. How can I feel the changes in patterns and designs when my fingers grow leathery and harden? How can I tell when the fabric,like life, needs repair, if I lose that ability to feel the differences? I need to be able to feel the colors and textures and softness and... Well just everything. Does this mean a life of textureless existence, of getting up each day and just sitting, staring at my sewing machines and ,.And what? If I can't feel it, how can I feel life?My life.I know myself. I know I won't let this diagnosis stop me from living, from continuing, from feeling. As long as I have life, I will go on feeling... feeling life, feeling fabric, feeling things. No, I won't give up. Won't let some stupid disease stop me from living. I pick up the pieces of cloth,the patterns of my life as someone said already, that fell from my slowly numbing fingers and keep on working.
","August 27, 2023 22:05","[[{'Marty B': ""Great descriptions!  Losing touch is losing the purpose of life for this artistic and creative woman. \n \nI like this line\n'know life, that feel to their very core, hands that can comfort or smooth or hold and hug.'"", 'time': '19:01 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Gloria Bartone': 'I am so glad you enjoyed this. Much of it is my own story, although I do not have lupus. I do suffer from acute arthritis which makes me more aware of my fingers and hands. On a fun note, I worked in corrections as a prison teacher for about twenty years, and renewing my teaching license was always tricky because I really do not have fingerprints due to my quilting!', 'time': '02:45 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Gloria Bartone': 'I am so glad you enjoyed this. Much of it is my own story, although I do not have lupus. I do suffer from acute arthritis which makes me more aware of my fingers and hands. On a fun note, I worked in corrections as a prison teacher for about twenty years, and renewing my teaching license was always tricky because I really do not have fingerprints due to my quilting!', 'time': '02:45 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Jeannette Miller': 'Gloria,\nI can picture this so clearly in my mind. My mom quilts; although, not as much as this person; but I can still imagine how scary and challenging this diagnosis is going to be as she loses her ability to do the one thing she treasures so much. \nWell done!', 'time': '16:42 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Gloria Bartone': 'Thank you.', 'time': '02:46 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Gloria Bartone': 'Thank you.', 'time': '02:46 Sep 03, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,a96whk,Cracked Back,Hazel Ide,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/a96whk/,/short-story/a96whk/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Contemporary', 'Happy']",10 likes,"
The reddish-brown crustacean, spotted with subtle hints of blue and green along its hard yet permeable back, is more vulnerable than I anticipated; I'll think about that sound of his shell cracking for years, which is amusing in itself because most people consider the meat within a delicacy; they relish that satisfying crack, using metal tools designed for effortlessly fracturing the body, spindly long picks for poking and sucking out the meat. For most, they exist as bragging rights, for the expensive delicacy, to take pictures of, to post, and feel like a local, though locals roll their eyes and rarely partake. I've always considered them a cockroach, an oceanic bottom-dwelling, trash-feeding insect. Regardless, when I cracked its surprisingly delicate body, I was wracked with guilt.When I looked at the eight squirming sea bugs all stuffed in my bag—lobsters, as they were—and clipped off their rubber bands, which holstered their snapping claws, not because they were angry but because they were afraid, I, too, became afraid that one would snap my finger right off, and so I squeezed his body too firmly out of fear, and that's when I heard the crack.It was subtle and slight and barely perceptible. But it was there, and maybe the lobster felt it because when he whipped his carapace body in my hand, it was with significantly more energy than his brethren.No matter; I had a plan and would not allow fear to overcome—mine or my poor new lobster friend's—though I felt guilty for his unfortunate luck at cracking, if only slightly. It was my birthday, after all, and though a life release is a personal thing, when I stood at the edge of the briny, seaweed-laden water, which lapped at my sneakers, I let the joy of setting him free wash over me and conveniently tucked that little bit of guilt into the back of my mind.We all share a fate in death. But theirs was looming, a sure thing a mere gluttonous meal away. Beyond that, what little life of theirs remained was stuffed in a small glass container, with barely enough room for their shells and shapes to coexist, and when they were plucked from the uncomfortable prison, it was for their weight and color. I like the looks of that one, he looks real fat, I'll take him. They were not chosen for the life they led or the freedom they held in open water, which we should only be so lucky to taste, even if an insect's life is not even remotely enviable.Had I told the fishmonger at 6 AM that morning that the eight lobsters I was purchasing at nearly $90 would immediately be released back into the ocean, I wonder if he'd have even sold them to me. As it was, he whistled like I was a big spender, and perhaps, that morning, because it was my birthday, I was.I took the thick paper bag, a foil-lined contraption that insulated the lobsters, designed to survive in the vegetable drawer in your fridge until you were ready to boil the creatures alive. There's a way to put the lobster to sleep before that slow, torturous death. I know this because my father was a lobsterman, and he told me so, and after years on the sea, he no longer ate lobster. But people didn't bother putting them to sleep before boiling them alive because they were lazy or forgot or never cared in the first place that they were living beings who did, in fact, feel pain. Their weedy legs would lose feeling first, with the least amount of nerve receptors. The heat from the boiling water changes the protein in their body; they turn red, and that's when you know they are done. But these eight lobsters held a different fate.It was a cool fall morning, the air brisk, and though the coastal beaches of Maine were inundated with tourists all summer long, they finally dwindled in company by the time October pulled near, and besides, it was early enough to evade attention. I quickly stepped among the rocks and, one at a time, hurried each creature along. With shaky hands, I cut their rubber bands, narrowly evading their snapping claws; with the exception of the one I likely cracked and doomed to a worse fate, albeit unintentionally, they were surprisingly gentle creatures. They looked up at me with their beady black eyes and curious antennae, pushing onward among the rocks, sand, and salty cold water, pumping their claws and many legs and fin-like tail, urging themselves forward as if I were mere seconds away from re-snatching their freedom.Their homes weren't too far if the store clerk hadn't lied about where they were caught. A lobster boat off in the distance made it clear their kind dwelled nearby, regardless. I'm sure a marine biologist had a lecture at the ready for reintroducing wildlife back into the ocean, but that morning, I couldn't bring myself to care because the point was to give another creature on the chopping block a chance at life. And if one of the sea bugs had the bad luck to get recaptured by that lobster boat up ahead, well, that was just his misfortune.There was something I was supposed to say, but I was afraid for my fingers and in a rush, and I had forgotten all the words. There were a few people around, early morning beachgoers with dogs and frisbees and sneakers for running on low-tide packed sand, but none paid me any attention; only my dim paranoia had me glancing around, heart beating out of my chest in the excitement.I caught a glimpse of one lobster's back as he hauled himself toward the deep waters, though it could have been a piece of seaweed or the gently lapping waves cresting the small rocks. My feet were a little wet and would become filthy with sand when I trudged through the soft sand back to my car. A lobster can live up to fifty years. Nothing about a life span makes one animal more worthy than another. Still, death is an interesting thing, and does it matter what you are—ant, lobster, elephant, cat or dog, fish, or human—for there to be a difference in the joy of grasping that freedom, if only for a little while longer?
","August 26, 2023 21:52",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,i7yoq2,Orphanage kids ,Tsion Dawit,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/i7yoq2/,/short-story/i7yoq2/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Friendship']",9 likes,"
Once there were two siblings from an orphanage, but they were not normal kids.They had powers. They don't feel any pain in their hands. As they got older, they learned that they should keep their powers a secret. Then, a really nice couple came and said they wanted to adopt two kids, and they picked Daisy and Mathew. Daisy and Mathew were so happy that they finally had a real home. But soon the couple started to get meaner, and meaner. Before, they were really kind and made the kids feel welcome, but nowadays, the parents screamed at Daisy for accidentally breaking a plate and hit Mathew on the hand when he stood up for her. Of course, he didn't feel anything. When Daisy and Mathew went to school they had a bully on the first day of school they found a girl that was named Moron. Well... She was really popular, and on the first day, she hit Mathew and Daisy on the hand for what seemed no reason at all. But they didn't flinch. She did that multiple times, but they still did not flinch. She got really mad and started following them the whole day. She overheard them laughing about their powers and the worst part was she recorded it. The next day, the whole school was talking about them. Their powers had turned into a curse. Daisy and Mathew were miserable! They couldn't take it anymore, so one time at music class, the teacher announced that whoever was the best student would get a free trip to London. Daisy and Mathew knew this was their chance to get away from everything and everyone, so they worked hard. Mathew and Daisy didn't get it. But Guess who did? Moron grinned at them, ""You got what you deserved."" Daisy got mad and said, ""No wonder your parents named you Moron."" Moron slapped Daisy across her face and they fought until Mathew pulled them apart. ""Leave us alone, Moron,"" said Mathew, but Daisy and Mathew were secretly happy now Moron won't bother them anymore because she is going to Londen in a few days. Still, they had more problems to worry about. When they were leaving, Moron whispered in Daisy's ear. She said, ""Well at least I am not dumb, Daisy. You were not good enough to get the free trip."" Daisy screamed and tried to attack Moron but Mathew said, ""Don't Daisy, it's not worth it."" Mathew wondered why Moron always hated Daisy more than him. They, almost acted like they knew each other. So he tried to remember if he had met Moron before but he couldn't remember meeting her at all. ""Well, I must be overthinking it."" So he went to bed, but what he didn't know was that Daisy was hiding something from him something BIG. But the next day, he asked Daisy if she was hiding something from him. She seemed hesitant and quickly changed the topic, but Mathew didn't let it go, so he kept asking her and she kept denying it. That got Mathew more suspicious, so one day he yelled at Daisy and asked her what she was hiding. She seemed shocked :O but she still did not answer. So he asked Daisy one more time, Daisy burst into tears and it hit Mathew. She was lying to him. She said, ""I'm so sorry. I lied to you. Mathew, you are my only friend, please."" She looked at him in guilt. Mathew didn't want to believe her but deep down he knew that she was lying he did not say anything and just walked away, leaving Daisy in despair. Mathew ignored her and it bothered Daisy a lot. But Moron, who still hasn't left for Londen, was happy seeing Daisy so sad. Because she had heard Daisy and Mathew talking last night. Mathew didn't want to show it, but he was really curious about what Daisy had lied about. He knew that it had something to do about Daisy and Moron knowing each other, so the next day, he asked Daisy to tell him what she had lied about. She seemed hesitant but she told him. ""Me and moron we were best friends a long time ago."" she started. ""WHAT!? What do you mean, BEST FRIENDS? How did I not know her?"" ""You remember when we were kids and there was this girl that we used to hang out with?"" She said. ""Well, that was Moron"" ""Really? But why did she become so mean? ""I will explain more later. There are people here, they will hear us."" This was too much for Mathews's brain. They went to the school playground and sat down on the swings.""Well, can you explain how?""  She turned mean because . . . well, ok. She was mean because I did something to her-"" ""Yeah, she did something to me. Do you wanna know what she did, Mathew?"" ""Be quiet, Moron"" said Daisy. ""No. One time, when everyone was asleep Daisy asked if I wanted to go spray paint on the orphanage wall with her. I said no and she begged me. I agreed but when we were doing it, we got caught by one of the meanest teachers. When Daisy was asked who's idea it was, she said it was mine. I didn't know what she said, because she was in the office and when I got called in, I thought she said it was her idea to spray paint the walls so I said it was my idea too so she wouldn't have to take all the blame. But the teacher hit me on the hand and suspended me for two weeks. I could never forget that day and-"" ""Oh please. We were kids for god's sake."" Started Daisy. Mathew slowly walked away in shock. ""Mathew wait! What is wrong with you Moron!?""""Me?! What's wrong with you? It's not my fault you didn't tell him earlier.""""Look, I wanted to be friends but you kept fighting with me.""""Yeah, because you were too annoying."" ""Can we try to be friends for Mathew's sake?"" ""Fine.""""Look, Moron. I'm sorry for saying 'No wonder your parents named you moron' It's a unique name. """"Thanks and I'm sorry for saying you're dumb, you're really smart."" ""Thanks. Now let's go find Matthew. ""But when they went to look for Mathew in his schoolroom, he was gone. They looked for him all over the school but he was not there. They started to worry. 2  HOURS LATER""We've been walking for almost 2 hours, where's Mathew?"" said Moron.""I don't know."" groaned Daisy. ""Well, does he have a place he usually goes to or somewhere he likes? asked Moron, frustrated.  ""Oh yeah! He likes to go to the back of the school. ""Why did you not tell me earlier?! Let's go!"" Mathew where are you?? It's almost night time and the school is freaking me out, said Moron. (rustle)""What was that!?"" yelled Moron. ""Shhh! We need to be quiet. The janitors are cleaning the school, so they might hear us. And you know we're not allowed to be inside the school after hours.""""Speaking of janitors, there's one that's so mean she hits you for absolutely no reason.""""We should really focus on finding Mathew. I want to go home, Moron.""""Stop being a scaredy cat! Come out MATHEW!"" screamed Moron.  ""What?! Oh my god, Mathew! We've been looking for you for hours!"" said Daisy ""I-"" ""Sorry to interrupt, but the janitor is coming so we better run or we get suspended. Run! Go!""""What about you?"" asked Daisy. ""I'll take the blame, again. Now GO!""""Wait-""""Come on Daisy!"" yelled Mathew, and she and Mathew ran as fast as they could and escaped, just in time.""Hello, teacher,"" muttered Moron. Young lady, you are going to be expelled for staying on the school grounds after hours."" Yelled the mean teacher. ""Now go!"" ""But-""""No buts, go home now! I'm watching you!""Daisy was so sad that Moron was expelled and she didn't see or hear from her for a really long time.    2 years later ""Moron is that you?!"" Exclaimed Daisy. ""Oh my god, Moron! It's been two years since we saw each other!""""Yes omg!! Where's Mathew?""""Oh Mathew, he's right there. Mathew come over here!""""What? Oh wow! Hi Moron! 
","August 27, 2023 19:15","[[{'Liya Dawit': 'This is such a fun story! Thank you so much for sharing!!!!!', 'time': '23:21 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Tsion Dawit': 'No problem always here to share my stories :) :O', 'time': '00:14 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,ucwxia,PLAYED GUNNER,Charles Corkery,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ucwxia/,/short-story/ucwxia/,Character,0,"['Science Fiction', 'American']",9 likes,"
PLAYED GUNNER
 
“Why don’t you tell us something of your everyday life? Your living and working conditions; life for others around you. We know your purpose, of course, but we would all love to hear about conditions generally”.
 
The soldier, strongly built, muscles rippling beneath his waterproof lycra top, stared at the gathering, a hundred or more cave dwellers, looking upon him with a mixture of fear, awe and hatred. Two of this community, older, were doing all the talking.
 
“I...can’t seem to move. My fingers and toes are numb. What’s happening to me?”
 
“It’s just the force field. Don’t be alarmed, it’s quite natural. You have taken us by surprise and, naturally, we have to take precautions. Talk, please. Perhaps start with climatic conditions?”
 
“Rain, lots of it. Cold rain. Never ending. I can’t recall what it’s like to be warmed by anything other than an electrically charged fire and that’s when there is power enough to operate it. I’m not even thirty years old but I’ve no memory of this thing they call the Sun. I know it exists because they teach us about it from the moment we can read. How bad it was. How they, the ingenious, heroic scientists that we on this planet owe our lives to, managed to discover solar geoengineering and, at great risk, got close enough to the inferno to unleash particles that blocked out that burning ball, temporarily; just enough to slow down the heating up of our planet, a by product of climate change. That was forty years ago, apparently; before I was even born. Unfortunately, they neglected to maintain their records: film and paperwork, formulas and calculations; all destroyed which means that they haven’t been able to reverse the situation”.
 
“It sounds as if you are, shall we say, a little sceptical?”
 
“Sceptical? No, I’m not complaining; I don’t know anything different. I was born into this way of life. I’m completely accustomed to living in the cold and the constant wetness. And darkness! Let’s not forget that. There is no light other than artificial illumination. Yeah, it’s pretty miserable but it is what it is, right?”
 
The two elders sat down quietly, content now to allow this intruder to continue talking.
 
“I’m a Gunner and, like I said, I’m twenty nine years old, almost thirty, and I’ve been a Gunner for six years. I trained to be a Gunner for four years before my eventual graduation. So, I’ve been a part of the Gunnery environment for ten years in total and I’m good; undoubtedly the best at what I do, I say modestly. Leastways, no other Gunner comes close to matching me in my successes. For that reason, I get a lot of extras; perks of the job you might say. For one, I get free vitamins; lots of them. They’re vital to my welfare; especially vitamin D. Being a Gunner is tough work, very often violent. Without that vitamin D, I’d have racked up a hell of a lot of broken bones. I’ve seen normal people go through that too often for my liking. Some people can’t be fixed, have to be terminated after a bad break; another fallout of no Sun.
 
The vitamins also keep the scurvy at bay. I’ve never actually seen what scurvy can do but, from what I’ve been told, it sounds horrific. Whatever, I don’t plan on losing out on my vitamin supply any time soon. Vitamins are like gold; literally. Normal people can’t afford them, that’s for sure but, then, there’s not much they can afford which is part of the natural order of life on Earth in 2077”.
 
The audience was rapt listening to this account spewing from the mouth of this soldier they had long feared. The Gunner, himself, seemed to revel in his new found loquaciousness and continued on.
 
“Everybody is expected to live within designated sectors and special permission is needed to venture outside one’s zone. Oops, shouldn’t have said that. We stopped using that moniker ages ago; too dystopian. Forget I said that. Right at the beginning of the great reset, they were called 15 minute towns but that made zero sense as, sometimes, in the case of larger communities, facilities could be as far as an hour away; sectors is a far better description. People were given advance warning that it was coming but few believed it. They were told, way back, that they, the people, would have nothing but would be happy so it’s not like anything was suddenly sprung on them; everything was completely above board and transparent”.
 
One of the elders, who appeared to be the leader of this commune, asked: 
 
“What of happiness? Are people happy? Are you happy?”
 
“Are we happy? Who the fuck knows what happiness is? I’m not a normal citizen so I’m kind of above the rules that govern most. Am I happy? Like I say, define happiness. Hang on a moment, can you please turn the volume up? I just want to catch that bit of breaking news on the big screen”.
 
With a subtle nod from the leader, the sound on one of the giant screens affixed to the cave wall became audible. The Gunner listened intently.
 
“Damn! I fucking knew it. Pope Ignatius the Third just announced that the Catholic Church has agreed that all graveyards can be excavated, the remains and coffins cremated and the land used for the building of living pods. Un-fucking-believable! Do you realise how much fucking land that frees up? That’s not all though: in future, the Church will only recognise cremation as a way into the afterlife. Holy shit! Watch the other religions follow suit. This is big news and, years ago, it would have caused mass riots but not many have the energy these days; the food supply sees to that. The Liewell Corporation have the monopoly on our food, having been busy, for decades, grabbing land as it became available”.
 
“You seem somewhat disturbed by this news. How so?”
 
“Damn right, I’m disturbed. I could have made a killing if I’d been able to get a bet on. I’d have gambled everything I had on the Church capitulating eventually. They always do, ever since the three score years and ten thing. You know, when the biblical definition of man’s lifespan was officially reinstated by the Catholic Church under pressure from the Web. Nobody is allowed to live beyond the age of seventy. It makes total sense if you really think about it. It completely eases the drain on Web funding; no more pensions, right? No more medical expenditure on people who have outlived their usefulness and contribute nothing to society.”
 
The leader seemed disappointed at this response.
 
“Ah, you are upset only because you predicted this event and could not capitalise on it; not because of the event itself. How did others react to the limit on one’s lifespan?”
 
“Well, it was tough at first but it had to be done. The kids are taught this; it’s part of the school curriculum. Death is inevitable. Some live longer than others but everybody dies eventually so there’s no sense in getting upset when it happens; empathy eliminated in a generation. Plus, it’s not all mandatory; it can be voluntary, after all. If somebody wants to opt out earlier than their three score years and ten privilege, an actuary will assess the difference they would have cost the Web if they lived from their current age until the age of seventy, then the Web will pay fifty per cent of that figure to the family of the VR applicant. That can make a hell of a big difference to a family’s life these days”.
 
The soldier read the puzzled look on the two elders’ faces.
 
“VR? Voluntary Retirement. It used to be VE, Voluntary Euthanasia, but the Web decided, once again, that it was too gloomy a label.”
 
“Thank you for that explanation. What of the rise of eugenics?”
 
“Eugenics? Oh, you mean HI? Hereditary Impure. Sure, we have that, of course. Totally necessary. What’s the point of bringing a child into the world when tests have shown that it has some sign of abnormality? Naturally, some are not identified pre-birth and slip through the net so, once a defect is recognised, at any stage in their life, they must be terminated. Look, we are taught in Gunnery school that, without such laws, the population of Earth would explode. Right now, even with all these necessary rules, the population is close to eighty billion but, if things stay as they are and all laws are strictly enforced, especially the sterilisation charter, that figure can be halved in the next fifty years. It makes sense, right? And that’s where I come in. My job is to hunt down and eliminate all those who, by one means or another, have evaded the law of the Web.”
 
“Yes. Your reputation is well known among us”.
 
As the Gunner had been speaking, one of the elders had been noting everything down. He now asked:
 
“Tell us about the Web”.
 
“The Web? That’s the organisation that rules the planet. There are no governments, no Presidents, no Prime Ministers. Not since before my time anyway. They were only puppets after all. Like I said earlier, total transparency. Why pretend who is really running things? The Web is what we all call it, though it has no formal title. Imagine a spider’s web that has many concentric circles -all spreading out from the centre. That centre is the real power, the elite, the wise men that make all the decisions. The rest represent different levels of lesser influence; front men, if you like. The Liewell Corporation is the functional part. It owns pretty much all of the agricultural and manufacturing conglomerates worldwide. I’m directly employed by the Liewell Corporation and, as long as I do my job to the best of my ability, the Corporation provides me with my own living pod, a salary, all the vitamins I need and a vehicle; electric of course. Sure, sometimes, I can’t charge it but I never have that issue if I’m on a hunt; the hunt always gets priority”.
 
The rain could be heard beating down on the ground above the cavern, here in the west of the country. The gathering of revolutionaries sat all around watching and listening to these words spoken by this Gunner whose reputation had engendered great fear among their community. All around, screens, computers and machines of various descriptions flashed, displaying images of news channels, CCTV security cameras, alarm systems and the like, all powered by generators. The two scientific leaders of this group conferred as they studied their captive.
 
“Remarkable! Unquestionably, the best educated of their kind that we have come across to date. Uncanny how advanced this model is. We shouldn’t, of course, be surprised. It accounts for its success in the field”.
 
“Yes, they imbue them with just enough of the truth to make everything they say plausible and, if we didn’t know better, believable; at the same time, justifying their very existence. As you say: quite remarkable”.
 
“Why, may I ask, are you gentlemen talking about me so strangely and, hey, my whole body is tingling now. What’s going on?”
 
“Excuse us. We forget that, even disabled, you can hear and talk as normal”.
 
“Disabled?”
 
“Yes, as soon as you entered this cave, our early warning system deactivated your movements,though your ability to hear and speak remain operative”.
 
‘More than just operative, I’d say. This one is the most garrulous yet but I still think it’s amazing that the Liewell Corporation, for all their advances in technology, have still done nothing to prevent these droids from being disabled”.
 
“Droids? You refer to me as a droid?”
 
“Yes, you are a robot; designed, built and programmed to hunt down those, like us, who can recall what the sun looked like, felt like. People such as us who will never stop fighting tyranny in all its forms. Your recollections, your viewpoints, are nothing but artificial intelligence implanted at embryo stage. They have lied to you about everything. You did not spend four years “training” to be a Gunner. Nor have you been active for six years. You have been operational for only twelve months which is when we first became aware of you. Those aren’t vitamin pills you swallow each day; they’re lubricants to keep your parts active and mobile. You serve evil and you have committed many murderous acts in the name of the Web. You cannot possibly comprehend the harm you have done by your actions. Yet, despite all that, we know that you are merely a machine, weaponised by the real harbingers of doom. Your creators played you; lied to you. We don’t blame you and we mean you no harm. Our hope is that we are able to turn you and use you for the benefit of good”.
 
Watched closely by this audience, the Gunner seemed unable to process all that it had been told. Its eyes betrayed its conflict as it struggled to compute this information.
 
“If what you say is true, then I would curse my very existence. Alas, my neural network rejects everything you say and I’m afraid that it is you who fail to understand the consequences of your actions. When, may I ask, was my system disabled?”
 
The cave dwelling guerrillas stood up from their seats suspiciously, their survival instincts alerted.. The two scientists exchanged concerned looks before the leader responded.
 
“Exactly twenty nine minutes ago”.
 
“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. I have hunted rebels in the deserts of discarded wind turbines in the east. I have gunned down dissidents in the forests of lithium batteries to the south. I have tracked and killed insurgents among the mountains of gas vehicles in the north. All these things will be lost in time, like tears in this interminable rain. You see, gentlemen, the Liewell Corporation wanted me to be deactivated if captured. By disabling me, you have switched on the nuclear reactor within me that has been set to detonate after thirty minutes”.
 
For the first time in its short existence, the Gunner smiled wistfully as it spoke its final words.
 
 “Time to die!”
 
 
","August 25, 2023 22:32","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Definition of Desi.', 'time': '23:28 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,repqhb,Where Touch and Soul Meet,David Lasaine,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/repqhb/,/short-story/repqhb/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Sad']",8 likes,"
Does one ever think of the power of touch? It is one of the senses of the human body. It’s an assumption for most that it is as basic as breathing. For some, that relationship of touch in their hands or fingers ends at those exact points.
For others, those who allow the feeling to travel along the nervous system back to the neurons in the brain, face an affliction of unpredictable events.
Religious institutions and spiritual traditions believe a soul exists within us. I believe it safe to say that the soul is multi-faceted, and travels in every cell of our body. When a person says their heart is broken or their head hurts, caused by non-physical external or internal trauma, the soul is affected.
Over 5 decades I have served others. I’ve been a Boy Scout who held old ladies’ hands to cross a street. I’ve held my grandmother’s hands many times for years as she wanted to die and join my grandfather. I was a Volunteer Fireman who helped people by using CPR or helped carry them on a stretcher to receive higher medical care. In the middle of life, my babies needed to be held to offer love and comfort. Time sped by fast, and what seemed like a blink of an eye, they were grown men. The touch was not needed anymore from me.
A new career opened as a Certified Nursing Assistant. What a joy to see a smile on someone who suffered from pain to find relief from a simple touch by a hand on their head, or on their shoulder. Touch was far deeper than physical. It is also an invisible energy that can be transmitted just with a look. Look into an elder’s eyes who has been abandoned by their family and feel the warmth of the connection.
An unexpected work accident caused me to change careers again. This time, I was to enter a new arena using soul, touch, and feeling. I trained to be a Massage Therapist.
Being a C.N.A. was a rewarding career, but to have the honor to care for over 8,000 people was more I ever dreamed of, with humans.
I was allowed to learn from the best to be the best. I was able to use my listening skills, to use the education received from doctors, and to study people who gave of themselves after death for people like me to learn.
We are alike, every one of us. Peel off the skin and we are nothing but various networks much more complicated than a computer. In fact, we control computers. We tell them what to think and do. For now. What they cannot do is have feelings because they have no soul.
This new career I entered was more than offering care. I was also a confidant. I heard things from people from all levels of society, I can never repeat. Ever. Not even a psychiatrist or clergyperson heard thoughts from their patients or parishioners as I did. Except, I did not send a bill or dole out Hail Mary's because they sinned. The client was given more than a massage. They felt the love from my soul, my heart, my mind… through my hands.
My hands composed of bones, ligaments, muscles, and undamaged nerves gave them touch from the point in the brain, which I would not call the motor region, but what some may call the God Spot. Many clients told me I had hands from God. Egotistical thoughts never entered my mind. I would only say, it was the doctors who taught me.
One fact I left out of the career change from C.N.A. to Massage Therapist. Due to the work injury, I suffered three herniated discs in my neck and a torn muscle in my shoulder. The surgeons wanted to jump right in, and I said no. While I was in pain, the determination to succeed, to graduate, to give, to serve…pre-empted any thought of quitting.
Let’s dig deeper into the realm of touch. It goes beyond human interaction. Humans are the only creatures to use language. That is what scientists want us to believe. Every living microscopic organism has its own language. To ponder the thought beyond the norm, rocks, the hard silent ones that water wears down, are made up of minerals. Minerals, we are made of. So, it is fathomable that rocks can communicate and therefore can feel.
The loss of feeling for me began years ago as my spine began to deteriorate. Nerves were pinched. Surgery was not an option. Multiple massage clients over the years had the same surgery in the same area 3 or 4 times. In my case, more than one-third of my spine was affected by herniated disks, and an abnormally large spine left a narrower spinal canal. Additionally, to put more icing on the cake, add calcification buildup, and disk degeneration. There is no choice for surgery for me with the possible outcomes, of paralysis, or as the drug commercials say quickly in their disclaimers…experience death. I don’t think I want to experience death. Is it a one-way or two-way ticket?
What is the mindset of the person losing feelings in their hands/fingers?
Very few young people think of mortality. It may be safe to say a majority think of misplacing their keys more than losing feeling in their body. Stoics say, Memento Mori to invigorate life, and to create priority and meaning. They treat each day as a gift and constantly remind themselves not to waste any time on the trivial and vain.
The most special gift besides surviving my childhood was to become deeply attached to dogs. Emotionally, and with touch. Dogs are the only domesticated animal that will give unconditional love no matter how poorly it is treated. All is forgiven with a touch of the hand, the touch of a nose to fur, a touch of the side of one’s face to their face.
Their love kept me alive three times during my sixty-five years of life. Their touch and allowing me to touch them was yet at another level of love beyond giving to all the people I served over the years, with my hands, fingers, and soul.
I told my friend when I stopped giving massages my hands would begin to die. It was true. The last Geriatric-style massage (pressure and range of motion techniques with a fully clothed person) was on December 25, 2022.
Even so, with that ending, every day for ten years, my dogs would roll on their backs for belly rubs and skin scratches. For my Bambaloo, heartbreakingly, her life ended on February 03, 2023, by my decision. My other dog, Bailey, still receives the attention. Now I have a new furry one, Fiona. 
Per my prediction, one week later during the first week of January 2023, I woke up in the morning as any other day. I went to pour myself a glass of chilly water.
Wait. What is that pain in the base of my right thumb? I never overused my thumbs in massage therapy. It was painful to the touch and hard to move. There was no injury to the site I could think of. As I bent my fingers, my knuckles snapped. More pain. Arthritis? So fast?
Two days later, my left hand felt as if someone was stabbing needles into it. Heart attack symptoms? No, the old ticker just passed a few exams. What was happening to me? Carpel tunnel syndrome from nowhere? No. The evident nerves affected because of numbness only in the thumb, index finger, the F finger, and ring finger, were the Radial, Median, and partial Ulnar.
I began to drop things. I’d pick them up and drop them again. The strength in my once strong forearms and hands was now diminished by at least 60%.
The good news is change of diet has reduced the inflammation removing the tingling sensation. However, the result of the most likely culprit, the spine we need, has caused Neuropathy. Yes, the tingling is gone, the fingertips now have little to no feeling. Everything I was as a giver to others has ceased. The action of rubbing and scratching my dog’s tummy and sides is still there. They feel my hands and fingers, but I don’t feel their skin. Sometimes I want to cry.
Yet, now, for the rest of my life, the gift I was given of touch, to heal, to relay the messages from my soul and neurons… is gone…,
Forever.
","August 27, 2023 07:43",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,gkonu1,Project Un: The Fall of Abal,Samuel Bowen,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gkonu1/,/short-story/gkonu1/,Character,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Fantasy']",8 likes,"
	Abal could feel darkness. It was not an emotion nor was it truly a sensation. The lack of touch blinded Abal as his callus hands gripped the Aexian blade. He missed the cool smoothness of the grey steel. He longed for the subtlety of texture in the leather grip. Yet the darkness of his nerve calluses gave only the indication of pressure. Abal stared at his knuckles watching them go white with tension. Pressure. That was all he could feel; that feeling like the building tension in his aging bones. 
	Abal grunted. This was the curse of Polancy and reckless youth. His eyes were as sharp as a hawk. His sense of smell was near inhuman. Yet with the darkness of touch, confidence fled from him. With unsteadiness in his heart, Abal turned to his companion. Hilan sat clutching his gut. The bald man had the silver robes patterned with the inter-spiralling triangles of the Ord. A smithy to some, an armorer to others. In truth, Hilan was a creator and a destroyer. Twice as important to Abal as the Aexis flowing in his own skin. 
	“Bloody Purge,” Hilan muttered between groans. “Is he trying to kill me?”
	“It’s an uneven road,” Abal said as the waggon rattled over loose stones. Hilan glared at Abal who stifled a smile. 
	“Oh really?” Hilan said scowling. “I didn’t notice!”
	Hilan gripped the sides of his seat and writhed like a worm in sunlight. The path was unorthodox. The half paved route led under the cover of ashen trees. The scarlet leaves formed a veil of red between them and their destination. Glimpses of a dark tower loomed above the Audon forest and Abal grimaced at the sight. 
	“Nearly there,” he muttered much to Hilan’s relief. The wagon driver nodded beneath the earthen cloak. The horse trodded along without missing a beat. Hilan made more noises of discomfort as the group continued along. Abal could feel the tension inside him build. This whole contract had him unsettled. A traitor among the lancers of Tril hidden in the Forbidden Tower. Too clean of an accusation. Abal shook his head to clear his thoughts. He shifted the Aexian blade to his left hand and reached over the side with his right. His hand brushed through red leaves. Once he had been able to see the veins, to feel the life pulsing through the trees. Yet now he felt them like a child catching the wind. 
	The wagon stopped at the edge of the forest. Dark soil of fertile ground stretched to the base of the tower. The horse snorted impatiently. Abal dropped out of the wagon without a sound. Hilan mumbled and grumbled his way off. The driver cut loose the wagon and mounted the horse. With a ‘good luck’ whispered, the driver rode back the way they had come. Abal exhaled slow and quiet. Silence would be their ally in this endeavor. 
	“Poor man lost his cart,” Hilan muttered with mock sympathy. And we might lose our lives, Abal thought. He retrieved his Aexian blade and unsheathed its twin. The dual guardless swords felt sturdy in Abal’s skilled hands. They were symbols of course. One edge, sharp for the swiftness of judgment, the other firm for defense of the innocent. Two blades as there is always two sides to justice. Abal tested his strength and pulsed with Aexis. The energy flowed into the blades giving them a faint glow. One steaming with shadow from the negative charge, the other sparking with light from the positive charge. The Aexis pulled the blades closer together and Abal strained his muscles to keep them apart. He held them apart until the Aexis faded from the blades.
	Both his strength and his Polancy were potent. Abal then felt the sting of numbness trickle from his forearms. He grimaced. Perhaps too potent. If he did not get a handle on his unsettled emotions, he might over extend his power. Abal did not need more callus nerves.
	Hilan had sat down and remained still. Abal did not bother him. As vital as Hilan was, he had been through three days of purging in preparation for the coming moments. The man’s face contorted in pain. Hilan had once said the flow of Aexis was interpreted as fluid in his body as opposed to energy. Men had the tendency to overuse the Ord, preferring inflamed limbs and toxicated death rather than the daily pain of unuse. Yet the women of the Ord had no issue with this. Some even rumored that purging only happened once a month for them.
	Abal never understood the pain Ordmancers had to go through during a purge. The Aexis in his body sparked like adrenaline waiting to be used. There were the waves of exhaustion when he did not use the Aexis, but that was nothing in comparison to the removal of Aexis fluid by the body in a purge. 
	“Ready,” The words brought Abal back from his distant thoughts. Hilans eyes opened in tired relief. Abal fingers danced on his hilts. Hilan stood up and his skin turned silver. Abal dragged cloth over his nose and mouth. A cloud of Aexis billowed from Hilan. He stretched out his arms and the cloud began to flood the forest. It filled the field and clouded the view of the spire. 
	Abal sent pulses of Aexis through his feet. With a scattering shadow behind him, he flung himself in a polantically charged leap forward. The inhuman speed pulled on his body like gravity doubled. He landed near the base of the tower. He crouched low and ran with blades ready towards the tower. The Aexian stonework was as smooth as a polished diamond. Abal rounded the Tower base at incredible speed. He hardly noticed he had returned to the start until he saw his footprints in the dirt. 
	Abal frowned. There was no entrance to the Forbidden Tower. He looked back towards Hilan. Hilan cocked his head, but gestured upward with his head. Abal nodded, but gestured for Hilan to come close. Hilan approached still with arms out, now pushing the cloud of Aexis upward and around the spire. The man’s arms were as red as fresh blood. Hilan met Abal’s gaze with a twisted grin. To the end, Abal thought. Abal gestured upward with his head and Hilan nodded. 
	Abal leapt feet first towards the wall. Aexis pulsed in his veins and down his legs. His feet steamed shadow and as his feet hit the wall, it too darkened where he stepped. Crouching low on the tower side, Abal began to run upward against gravity. Shadowed prints faded behind in his ascent. Behind him, Abal heard the rush of fluid. He dared a glance to see Hilan walking beside him. The man stepped into a flowing wave of silver that coalesced into a solid stair. Hilan walked as he spread Aexis in a wave of fluid before him. Every step solidified the Aexis into solid and as his foot left the step behind would melt back into a silver fluid. All the while, Hilan kept an arm raised to push the grey Aexis cloud further upward in a spiraling shroud.  
	Abal reached the top of the tower and leapt inside. His eyes darted here and there, but saw no one. Hilan approached behind him. He let the cloud fill the room and the fluid swirled inches above his palm in a condensed ball. No one could be seen. 
	“Hello Abal,” A voice said. Abal snapped his attention to the figure who spoke directly above him. The man dropped towards him and Abal caught a glimpse of light reflecting off metal. Within a blink, Abal sent Aexis pulses through him and charged himself and Hilan. 
	They flew back as the man struck Aexian blades onto where they had stood. Abal took in the black uniform of Polancy and the matching blades. The dark hair of the man drifted above him like shadowy serpents. His eyes glinted with passion and sparked with Aexis. 
	Target: Kayne. Traitor to the Lancers of Tril. 
	Kayne flared with Aexis, charging at Abal. Abal met blade with blade in a rapid succession of parries and repostes. Spikes of Aexis flew towards Kayne, who deflected with one blade and slapped the ground with the other. A pulse charged Abal’s legs and he had but a second before Kayne switched poles on his blade. Abal’s footing was blasted away as his legs shot backwards. As Abal fell, Hilan covered him with a barrage of Aexian fluid. Abal tumbled to the right. He caught his footing at the edge of the tower and watched as the fluid formed half plate armor around him. 
	Abal looked up to see Kayne leaping at Hilan. The Ordmancer didn’t move. The cloud solidified and created a wall that Kayne smashed into. Dazed, Kayne blinked hard at the wall in front of him. Abal crashed into him a moment later, blade piercing the man’s chest. The blow was off center and ended a near glancing blow. Kayne slashed Abal’s right arm before slamming his blades together. The resulting blast sent Abal flying back. He dug a blade into the ground to slow him and sent Aexis charges to create a blast of his own to still him. Kayne leapt to the side to attack Hilan again, but Abal’s blast caught him a moment later in the air. Kayne flew off course and Hilan took quick advantage of it. The Aexis cloud became a river that covered Kayne who lay on the ground. It solidified and mixed with the Aexian stone of the tower to create a pure prison. 
	Abal approached with a grin behind his cloth mask. Kayne stared at his eyes with a deep hate burning in them. Abal pointed his blade at Kayne’s throat. Abal then felt the numbness overcome him. The blades fell from his hand as his arms went fully numb. Overextended, even his legs gave out. Kayne’s eyes went white as Hilan reached out to his companion. Kayne sent a blast of energy that destroyed the Aexis prison. Splinters flew in a circle around him. One splinter drove itself into Hilan’s eye and he dropped to the ground in a scream.
	 Abal blinked as his vision swirled. Kayne stood above him. Then there was a wave of silver and Kayne was on the ground again. Hilan stood above him with a grim expression and one hand to his head to staunch the flow of blood. With a shriek, Kayne leapt at them. Hilan’s attention turned with a hand outstretched as a greatsword appeared from the cloud of Aexis. Kayne could not slow down and it struck him in the chest. Kayne slashed with his twin swords and the silver robes of the ord grew red with blood. Hilan stumbled back with his other hand to his chest. Abal could hardly feel anything, but he knew there was Aexis inside him. Hilan fell to his knees and gave one last look towards Abal. He mouthed one last word. Friend.
	Hilan's eyes glazed and he fell forward dead. Kayne dropped his blades and ripped the sword out of his chest. The greatsword fell at Abal’s feet. As Kayne clutched his stomach, Abal could see the man would most likely die. Abal rolled to his feet. He couldn’t stand for long. He pulsed Aexis through his body to keep him up right. He charged the ground with Aexis until the Aexian Greatsword glowed white. Abal switched polarities and the blade leapt into his hands. Abal aimed the blade at Kayne’s neck. A blade flew to Kayne’s hand as well. Abal snarled and let loose every ounce of Aexis in his veins. The greatsword shone like the sun and Abal switched polarities for the last time. The blade left his hands. 
	Abal glowed like an angel and the blade plunged itself into Kayne’s neck up to the hilt. Inches of flesh were left on either side, just enough to keep Kayne’s head from rolling. Kayne’s face of shocked horror was the last image Abal saw before his world faded to black. With the satisfaction of vengeance, Abal felt the nerves in his spine, the ones he could never endanger, go callus.  
","August 28, 2023 02:55",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,1k7gmu,THE SLIP OF THE HAND,Glenna Agnew,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1k7gmu/,/short-story/1k7gmu/,Character,0,['Fiction'],7 likes,"
 
THE SLIP OF THE HAND
Margaret carried her empty coffee mug over to the kitchen sink, at the last second it slipped from her hand and crashed into the bottom of the sink, shards of porcelain exploding like shrapnel. One of the shards dug into the back of her hand. She gave a sigh of frustration as she grabbed the shard and pulled it out leaving a tiny bloody trail.  She stared regretfully into the sink, it was her favourite mug, isn’t that always the way she thought? It was the mug the children in her kindergarten class had designed for her the year she retired. The mug had each child’s name carefully printed out in tiny letters. They must have worked very hard printing each letter so small, a real labour of love to fit twenty-six names on one small mug and each name spelled correctly, just as they had practiced every day since September.
 
She peeled off several pieces of paper towel off the stand and started to gather the broken fragments onto the paper towel.  She picked the first piece up. Evan, she read, Evan was the class clown, always ready to joke and laugh. Latoya, a sweet, sweet girl, always so willing to help her classmates. Gurpreet, the class mathematician. Margaret shook her head. No point going down memory lane, she thought and bundled the pieces of broken mug all together, wrapped them in a newspaper, and deposited them carefully in the garbage can. She then rinsed the sink out and washed the cut on her hand. It didn’t hurt, she barely felt it at all. That in itself was a problem. Lately, she hadn’t been able to feel much in her fingers and hands. The coffee mug wasn’t the first item to go. As a matter of fact, it was just another in a growing list of things fumbled or dropped.
 
At first, she had just chalked it up to clumsiness, but lately, she had been forced to take a long hard look at the situation. It was one thing to drop a scarf, a jacket, or a pillow while making her bed, but then she had started to drop other things. Her cell phone’s screen was beginning to look like it had gone through a war zone. Several plates had gone the way of the Dodo Bird as well. The second time the plate was accompanied by her entire dinner on the floor, and she had to make due with a hastily made ham sandwich.
 
 Yesterday while making her porridge, she had dropped the pot and spilled hot oatmeal all over her hands. She felt no pain but the skin was red and badly blistered. She had immediately rinsed her hands with cold water, or at least she assumed it was cold water, and then put some aloe vera lotion on them. As a concert pianist she was trained to take care of her hands, her money makers, her agent had once called them. Now they were only a liability, useless appendages that hung from her arms. 
 
Appendages that tingled and refused to cooperate with the simplest of commands. It was like the link between her brain and her hands was completely severed.  She lacked muscle control and simple movement, there was tingling and numbness, and a lack of coordination.  As if that wasn’t enough, she also had periods at night when shooting pains ran from her fingertips up the length of her arms.  She suffered from unbearable burning sensations and crippling cramping feelings. She would wake up and try to massage her hands as best she could, but both hands refused to cooperate very much.
 
When her new grandson and daughter had come for a visit yesterday, she had refused to hold him, afraid she might drop him.  She had oohed and awed over him but she knew that Kelly’s feelings were hurt when she didn't hold the baby, but she just couldn't bring herself to admit to what was happening to her physically. Pride goeth before a fall they say. She wanted so desperately to hold the baby in her arms, kiss his soft cheek, snuggle his warm wiggly body, but the weakness in her hands wouldn’t allow her to take the chance even though living alone meant she was often very lonely, and craved the simple touch of others. She finally remembered the burn she had received that morning and used it as the reason she couldn't hold little Jonathon and Kelly had seemed somewhat mollified with the excuse.
 
The past few days her physical health, or lack of it, was starting to register with her, and not in a good way. All her life Magaret had been a creator, sewing, knitting, crocheting, painting, and pottery. Then there was her music.  Music was not just something she enjoyed, it was part of who she was. Now the things that had once been so easy and so soul-quenching, had become physical labour. Her fingers, once nimble and deft, would seize up. The knitting needles would not fly along the rows as they once did. Her knitting projects became a jumble of missed stitches and knots.  The notes on the piano sounded like a cacophony, harsh and discordant.
 
 After yesterday's disappointing visit with Kelly and Jonathon, she was feeling blue and went to the piano to console herself. It never failed to lift her. To send her soul soaring.  She had tried to play her favourite concerto, Rachmaninoff’s Concerto Number Three, one of the most difficult pieces ever written with its dynamic range, technical difficulties, and dexterous hand jumps. As a concert pianist, it had long been one of her most famous and well-played pieces but now it was so jarring to her ears that she had stopped abruptly and sat for a long time, staring at her hands, noticing the loose skin, prominent veins, ugly liver spots, the swollen joints, and the knobby bumps on the joints of her fingers that had somehow formed without her really noticing them.  They were once the hands of a concert pianist, famous for their strength, agility, and accuracy. Now, they barely responded to the barest of the demands placed upon them. She tried a piece of music that was simpler and less demanding. She had always loved  Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody but even this relatively simple piece was beyond her now.
 
 
She somehow subconsciously knew, years ago, that it would someday come to this. The writing was on the wall. After years of playing for hours before huge audiences, her fingers would ache and then there came a day when she realized she could no longer do justice to the music she played, at least not for the paying public. She played her swan song to a packed house, it was better to go out on a high note she thought. After that, she taught kindergarten for years, and the children didn't care if she hit the odd wrong note on the classroom piano. They were not harsh critics, they loved her music and begged for more. But those days were gone as well.
 
 She lifted her hands to her face as the tears fell through those traitorous fingers. At last, she straightened and carefully and deliberately lifted the lid-prop on the grand piano and closed the piano lid, then ran her fingers lovingly over the keys and shut the keys away…forever.
 
Margaret walked slowly over to her comfy chair, sat down with great defeat and resignation, and waited to die.
 
 
 
 
","August 31, 2023 23:23","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Written like someone who knows this kind of pain.', 'time': '03:49 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'The melancholy is heavy Glenna, really feeling for Margaret. You do a great job of sprinkling details such as work and family throughout that make this a big story crammed into a little space. Traitorous fingers really stood out to me. Wonderfully sad story, well done.', 'time': '19:51 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Oh my goodness.... so sad... !! :(\nI hope Margaret can find some light in other pursuits once she comes to terms with her condition. There was always another angle. She can still appreciate music!', 'time': '08:54 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,xdh5dr,Fireheart,Wyrd Smith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xdh5dr/,/short-story/xdh5dr/,Character,0,['Fantasy'],7 likes,"
“Come on… One more time.” Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I shake out my stiff arms, hoping to shake out my anxieties as well. I stop, close my eyes, and take a deep breath, willing my mind to clear. The act takes a few seconds longer than it should, but soon I can feel the familiar and welcome spark of energy deep within me. Magic. 
 
Focusing all of my attention on that spark, I urged it to grow. It heeds my command. Warmth floods my torso as it increases. Once satisfied with the amount of energy burning within my chest, I urge the fire to spread to my shoulders. My skin and muscles tingle as the force follows my command. I next push the magic through my arms, my extremities again feeling the effects. 
 
I allow the magic to stop there for a moment while I calm myself. This is where it keeps going wrong. One last big breath. In… and out. 
 
I push the magic further into my hands. My palms begin to burn ever so slightly. Not nearly as much as they should, but the fact that I can feel the magic at all is a good sign. Keeping my eyes closed, I move my arms forward, spreading my fingers wide and pushing my palms forward at the metal target I know is several yards in front of me. 
 
Finally, I push my magic towards my fingers and beyond, using the direction of my palms to direct the flow of elemental flames that should burst from me. I anticipate my fingers burning with the transference of power.
 
Yet I feel nothing. The pent-up energy that had transferred from my core to my palms simply fizzles into nothing. I open my eyes and drop my arms in defeat. Such a simple spell, a beginner’s spell, and I cannot do it. 
 
My name is Soren Fireheart, and I am a Mage’s Apprentice. Since the age of twelve, I have secluded myself within the depths of the Moonshire Wood along with my master, Eamon Waterheart. Mages are few and far between, making up less than one percent of the realm’s population. About ninety percent of that tiny population live in near constant isolation, just as I do. Overall seen as menaces for our abilities, we are shunned from society and only called upon to use the very powers we were ostracized for to aid in a crisis. 
 
Fifteen years ago, a forest fire broke out as the result of a few drunken kids from town who’d lost control of a large campfire. After ignoring old man Eamon’s existence for years on end, the town called upon the mage to use his water to put out the fire. Once the flames were tamed, the townspeople’s gratitude was grudging. I was only six years old at the time, but I remember my fascination with the man’s power. My young mind couldn’t understand why he wasn’t accepted in the town. 
 
Fifteen years later and a mage myself, my adult-mind still cannot comprehend why our kind are not accepted into society. When I asked Eamon, he told me a story of centuries past when mages first began to emerge from the populace. These elemental wielders considered themselves blessed and above those without magic. Drunk on power, they used their new-found abilities to oppress the public, ruling with fear and cruelty. 
 
Refusing to come together, in-fighting between mages was common, effectively dwindling their until the masses, who were tired of the tyrannical rule, came together and overthrew their self-proclaimed sovereigns. 
 
Following the revolt, magic wielders were banished at the first signs of power, forever to be ostracized and blamed for transgressions of those past. No one knows that causes the magic to manifest, as the trait does not pass from parent to offspring. 
 
A long time had passed from the day I was banished until I finally accepted this fate. For no fault of my own, I was now destined to either wander alone for the rest of my life or find join one of the many small nomadic mage societies that wandered throughout the wilder parts of the realm. I was never truly alone, as Eamon quickly took me under his wing as his apprentice. He spent the eight years teaching me how to control my heart’s fire, hone my skills in magic wielding, and to earn my new surname as was tradition for mages: Fireheart. 
 
His lessons came to an abrupt end a year ago when the old man passed. It was peaceful, at least, and he deserved nothing less. His passing left me with no purpose. So, I filled the lack of his presence the only way I knew how. Fire wielding. If I was busy honing my skills, then I would be too preoccupied to notice how quiet the world around me had become. 
 
But now, even fire wielding was leaving me. Over the past month, I have been steadily losing feeling in my hands. The numbness began with aching joints in my fingers, which felt swollen and clumsy, though showed no outward sign of damage. I pushed through the pain until my magic stopped working as well. 
 
Eamon’s first lesson to wielding heart’s magic was to be one with yourself. You had to feel every limb your magic traveled through and be in tune with your body’s condition in order for transference to be successful. With the loss of feeling in my fingers, I had lost that crucial ability. I threw myself even harder into training, sometimes going full days without rest. Yet the harder I tried, the harder I failed. 
 
With my emotions numb along with my hands, I dropped where I was standing before the metal target and stared at the thick canopy far above me. What was I supposed to do now? All I had in this world was Eamon and my magic. Eamon was gone and now I was losing my magic. 
 
What glimpses of blue sky I could see through the canopy slowly melted into hues of orange and pink as the sun dipped below a horizon I couldn’t see. Orange faded into purple, which darkened to a deep blue, finally giving way to the black of night.
 
Alone with nothing but my memories, I spent hours filtering through them. Eamon and I would watch the night sky on nights like these. Our conversations were hushed, Eamon would tell old tales of the mages that came before us, how different the world used to be, and all the places we could travel to if we ever decided to leave our little hovel in the woods. 
 
Sudden realization has me sitting up quickly with a gasp. When telling tales of the wandering mage tribes, Eamon told me that if I ever found myself alone and in danger, then to seek out the wandering mages of the Sable Desert. He claimed that no matter the circumstance, these mages would aid me in whatever troubles I may have. Losing function of my magic seemed a trouble worthy of seeking out help. With Eamon gone, there wasn’t much stopping me from picking up and leaving. 
 
The next morning, I packed what few items held sentimentality or purpose and set off. Remembering the directions Eamon had forced me to repeat until I could recite them in my sleep, I headed west. 
 
Four days of travel through the Moonshire Forest brought me to the base of the Fang Mountains, aptly named for their sharp spire-like summits. Travel through the forest had been quiet and uneventful, giving me hope for the remainder of my travels. Those hopes were smothered in my trek through the numerous passes within the Fang Mountains. The rough and rocky terrain gave little way for vegetation, and my food and water supply dwindled quickly. Though I itched to call upon my fire, I preserved my energy for the journey. Harnessing magic requires a staggering amount of energy and concentration, leaving me not only physically depleted, but mentally exhausted. 
 
 A full week after leaving my little home in the forest, I finally emerged from the mountains and onto the great Ocean Prairie, named for the tall grasses that swayed in the wind like waves on the ocean. Grateful to be free of the mountains, I continue my journey westward. 
 
After hours of walking through the ocean of waiving grass, I feel as though I am in a dream. The world is quiet and peaceful. The sound of the wind howling through the grass is constant and soothing. The second day, I noticed that I had gained a few traveling companions in the form of coyotes, who stalk me for two more days. Eventually, they make their move. 
 
The silence of the night is shattered by high pitched yelps. There are only a few voices that sing out in the night. Their songs are haunting. The first few yips are joined by more from behind me. Within seconds, a whole choir has joined in, and I am surrounded by shrill cries of the hunt. 
 
I felt at first that I was safely hidden in the tall grass, out of sight from my hunters. As they close in on my location, I realize that I am the one at the disadvantage. Hairs tingle on the back of my neck and I follow my gut feeling, jumping to the side as one of the hunters lunge for me. 
 
Following my instinct, I call forth my fire without thought or concentration. I should have known that it wouldn’t work considering all of my recent failures. To my utter surprise and relief, fire busts forth from my upraised arms, nearly blinding me as the flames illuminated my immediate surroundings. 
 
Horror induced nausea crawls up my stomach as I see dozens of eyes surrounding me, reflecting the light of the flames. They do not scatter, as I hoped they would, though they do halt their advance. My flames go out, plunging me into darkness once again. Silence coagulates around me as I realize the coyote’s yips and cries have halted. 
 
My heart pulses rapidly and I wonder briefly if the hunters can hear it. A single yip sounds near me, and I startle, twisting toward the sound. A second later, another answers from a little father off. Within mere seconds, the night is alive with their cries once again. 
 
Praying to deities I had never believed in before, I spread my arms toward the sky once more, and I call forth my fire. Surprising me again, the flames burst forth. The last thing I want is to catch the ocean of grass around me on fire, so I keep my arms raised above the level of the vegetation and swing my arms wildly. Yips of alarm answer my flames. One lunges towards me again and I intercept them with my fire. The smell of burnt fur is strong as the hunter cries out and darts back into the grass. It’s companions finally decide that I am not worth the measly amount of meat on my bones and retreat just as the last of my energy is depleted and I drop to my knees. 
 
I don’t remember falling asleep after that encounter, but I must have, for the next thing I know, I am forcing my eyes open to the blinding sun. Although miraculously unharmed, I am exhausted. My limbs try to resist my demands to rise and continue west, but persistence wins out and am finally moving again. Well, perhaps stumbling is a more apt description. 
 
Once I’ve found food and a small stream to replenish my flasks, I try calling forth my fire again. Despite my success last night, not even my palms feel the warmth of my power now. 
 
Over the course of the next two days, the tall grasses of the prairie grow sparse. I find fewer and fewer sources of water and food, and I spend one last night on the border between the prairies and the Sable Desert. Despite the hardships I had faced on my journey so far, this last leg was quite possibly the most dangerous. I can only hope that I am heading in the right direction when I set out the next morning. 
 
Four days. The last of my food was finished on the second day. The last of my water on the third. My skin feels so dry, I wonder if it has been flaking off to join the burning sands that rise in great dunes all around me. Just as I wondered through a gentle ocean of grass before, I now was lost in a raging sea of sand. I spent days in the sun so hot that I could not remember what it felt like to be cold. Then, I spent the nights so cold that I just as well could not remember the feel of the sun. 
 
On the fifth day, I came to terms with my fate. I had lost my family and childhood. I lost Eamon. I lost my magic. I lost my little hovel in the woods. And now, I would lose my life. I must have fallen at some point, as I am suddenly staring at the sun above me. I find it ironic that my last sight would be a burning ball of fire, while the cause of this journey was due to my own inability to summon fire. 
 
Cool water washes over me, shocking me awake. When had I fallen asleep? Dazed and confused, I try to sit up, grunting with the effort. 
 
“Shhh. Calm, boy. Stay down, you’re not quite ready to be up yet. Sleep. Rest.” 
 
The sound of the woman’s voice is distant, though I could tell she was right next to me, as a cool hand touched my forehead. I attempt to pry my eyes open, only accomplishing a squint too blurry to reveal the speaker before darkness takes me again. 
 
I am woken an indeterminable amount of time later, this time to the sound of rushing water. I manage to open my eyes, though the effort is slow going and it takes a few blinks to clear my vision. I find myself staring up at large, strange looking trees. The leaves are large, possibly longer than I am tall, and all grouped at the top of a large, thin trunk. Slowly sitting up and taking in my surroundings, I spy the source of the rushing water as I am laying on a make-shift bed by a large creek. Dotted throughout the area are more of these strange trees. Spaced between the trees are tents of nearly every color imaginable. Men, women, and children mill about between the tents, dressed in clothing as bright as their tents. 
 
“About time, boy. I know I told you to rest, but I didn’t think you would stay asleep for three more days!” 
 
I startle at the woman’s words and turn to watch her approach. She is an elderly woman, though she looks kind. She extends her arm, and water flows from the creek towards her, then down into a large pot sitting atop a lit cook-fire. My eyes widen with shock and recognition.
 
She is a mage! Does that mean I found the wondering mages? Though perhaps they were the ones who found me. 
 
“Please.” My voice is hardly more than a croak, and I realize that it must have been weeks since the last time I spoke. There was little reason to talk with no one around to talk to. “I need your help. My magic is leaving me. I don’t know what to do! I was told by Eamon Waterheart that you could help.” 
 
The woman seems to ponder this, putting her thumb and index finger to her chin. 
 
“Hmmm. Leaving, you say? Tell me, do you have any other symptoms?” 
 
Nodding, I hold out my hands towards her. “Yes! My hands! I have lost feeling in them!” I explain to her Eamon’s death, and how my fingers began to hurt and ultimately go numb around the same time my magic stopped. She listened carefully, nodding along to my story. 
 
“I see… Yes, I know what is wrong.” 
 
I can’t help but hold my breath, fearing her next words. Was I doomed? Would I never practice magic again? What would become of me then?” 
 
“You’re overworked.” 
 
I stare at the woman, my mouth agape. Overworked? I peer down at my hands. They are scared and covered in calluses, as one would expect of a flame wielder. I glance back at the woman, squinting. 
 
“My hands… are… just overworked?” 
 
During my dumbfounded silence, the woman had added ingredients to the large pot and was now stirring the mixture with a spoon. She kept her attention focused on her task as she responded. 
 
“Yes, just overworked. You practiced magic non-stop for nearly a month. As the smallest extremity your power has to pass through, your poor fingers tend to take the brunt of the work when directing your flames. It’s quite common with fire wielders. Everyone knows that. You just need a nice, long break, and you’ll be good as new!” 
 
“So… I won’t lose my magic?”
 
“Nope.”
 
“Then coming all the way here was pointless?”
 
“Seems so.” The corner of her mouth lifts up into an amused grin. 
 
I couldn’t believe it. That would explain why I was able to summon my flames against the coyotes. It had been over a week since I had last even tried to wield my magic, inadvertently giving my hands the chance to heal. 
 
What energy I had left drained from me, and I plopped back onto my make-shift bed, staring again at the strange tree. Lifting my left hand above me, I stared hard at my palm while asking the woman what kind of trees these were. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony as she told me they were called palm trees. 
","September 01, 2023 05:44",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,0vu289,Into The Oakwood Flesh,Breanna Dawn,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0vu289/,/short-story/0vu289/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Fantasy', 'Suspense']",7 likes,"
Bel, short for Jezebel, was an introverted only child who preferred her own company to a crowds. As an adult she fell deeply in love with nature and you could often find her on a forest trail, hiking in her free hours.  Today was no different, she blissfully hummed to herself over the singing birds and crunching leaves beneath her feet. She had walked this trail many times, so she was familiar and well conditioned for the winding trails up the mountain slope.  Her friends would often ask her if her solo trips were ever frightening and she would always answer no with a shrug.   She was smart about her trips and was sure to always send her mom her location in advance. Something she however didn’t tend to share was how she carried a gun in her pack and kept five bullets in her pocket, her lucky number.   She urged forward up the steep incline, eager to get to the top and around the bend where she knew would sit a ginormous red boulder. It was her favorite part of the hike and she had made it a tradition to climb to the top of it every single time.  She remember the first time she had climbed it, how it made her feel… well at first it made her feel pure terror and bit of nausea. Though once she got past the image of the boulder tipping off the cliff and rolling to her to her death. She had felt unstoppable.   It was the first time in her life that she didn’t feel trapped. Felt as if she was standing on top of the world. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest and the blood scorching through her veins.   Bel reached the boulder and began climbing, proudly doing it in half the time than the time before. Once she reached the top she scanned the entire valley with her hands on her hips.  It was an absolutely incredible view and if you knew where to look you could even see the tip of a lake poking out behind the million shades of orange and yellow leaves.   She closed her eyes against the chilled breeze, tilting her head toward the sun that burned bright even through her eyelids. Once she finally allowed her eyes to open again they involuntarily locked on a clearing below, the leaves green instead of the fall hues of the surrounding trees.   Besides it looking bizarre and out of place, she felt as if she was oddly drawn to this clearing. Convincing herself it was only from mere curiosity, she decided to make the trek down which couldn’t be longer than 15 minutes.   So with one last glance she committed the direction to her memory and began scaling down the side of the boulder.   When Bel found the clearing it was bathed in streams of sunlight that illuminated everything within in a warm glow. Her legs buckling as she stepping into the sunlight.   Before her in the clearing was a blooming field of wildflowers of every shade.Bright pinks, soft blues, fluorescent oranges, every color imaginable exploding before her. Too in awe to recall if she saw a single flower on the trail prior, she now stood in the center of thousands of blooms.She watched her step, careful not to crush any of the beautiful flowers. She tipped her head back towards the canopy above, the branches were covered in bright green leaves.She had found a pool of spring in and ocean of fall.   Her eyes fell to the soft grass where she found herself centered in a perfect circle of brown mushrooms with large flat tops.   Without thought she bent down and plucked a mushroom from the ground, holding it out in the light. She rotated it left and right, noting how it reflected red to orange in the sunlight.   Once she plucked it though, her fingertips began to tingle and then then turn numb which quickly spread down her arms like fire. “That’s not yours to take, child.” An angry voice purred from behind her.   Dropping the mushroom, it fell softly to the forest floor.   Bel turned around and couldn’t believe her eyes. Before her stood a tall, fair skinned woman whose skin was made of tree bark. She had branches that stretched, forming almost a crown above the head. Her flowing green gown was the color of aged moss.   Fear wrapped around her gut, as rage warped the creatures face. Bel had angered a member of the Unseelied court.   “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Bel's voice wobbled weakly when she whispered the words. Then could only continue to stare at this creature in terrified awe, baffled by the inhuman beauty it possessed.   “Pick it up.” It demanded coldly. Bel took a step back stumbling, the movement caused the burning fire to spread throughout her body until she was utterly paralyzed.   She began to weep in fear, all she wanted to run but her feet would not obey. The creatures face twisted in delight. It watched Bel squirm and fail to break free from the paralysis until it was breathless in laughter.   The creature crept close to her and pinched underneath Bels arm hard enough to draw blood. When she cried out in pain the creature doubled over in laughter again. Then a snap of its finger Bel fell hard to the ground, her head thudding again a sharp rock.   “What a pathetic thing.” It mocked “Pick up my mushroom right now.”   The pain shooting through Bels head was nearly blinding but somehow she reached her hand out finding the mushroom. She pulled herself into a crouch and handed the mushroom over.   “I’m feeling merciful today, you may keep the mushroom. Leave this place and never return. ” The unseelied woman surprised her by returning the mushroom to her hand. “Thank you..” Bel said confused. Tears still blurred her vision but she saw the creature freeze when the words left her lips. This time when it laughed it seemed to reverberate through her entire rib cage all the way to shuttering heart. Terror melting all the way into to her bones, Bel knew something was deeply wrong.  In a tone as hard as stone the creature said, “ and by the light of the eastern sun. You belong to me, Aeylinay Vailh of the Oakwood Flesh Court. You shall do my bidding among the shadows until the blue moon rises again.”  Shadows danced into the corner of her vision until she felt her body drop defenseless again against the ground.   The last thing she heard before being consumed by darkness was Aeylinay’s mocking voice “foolish girl.” Before it drew its leg back and kicked her into unconsciousness.   When she awoke to her new life she found herself sleeping in a makeshift tent with many other human slaves of the unseelied.   Aeylinay Claimed her nights with servant work while pain an exhaustion chased her through the day. Waiting on her hand and foot mean that Aeylinay would always have a toy to torment close by.   Most humans didn’t survive long. She watched many die until she was numb to the day to day sorrows. Sometimes they would go off into the night to serve their keeper, never to return. Others would pass silently in their sleep, sunken in hunger or exhaustion.  Life with in the Unseelied court is an awful and cruel life for any being beyond its court.   She had come to learn the unbearable pain of dancing for days until she felt her bones grinding together.   They would tie her hair in knots as she slept, send monsters to chase her into dreams. They would feed her berries that cause terrifying hallucinations that gripped her for days. Hallucinations of her close friends and family abandoning her or dying in her arms. Or of little bugs that would crawl over her skin and devour her flesh while she sat paralyzed in unimaginable pain.   Sometimes they would hold events and watch their slaves fight to the death. Occasionally allowing weapons and armor, other times forcing them to fight bare with only their hands.  They were brutal, warped creatures that she sometimes believed enjoyed torturing humans equal to their love for sweet wines and elaborate gowns.   The people of the Unseelied court were beautiful creatures, some radiated power strong enough that a glance could feel like a winded punch to the gut. Some with tall antlers or horns, others gnarled roots similar to Aeylinay.   Everything she owned was taken or hidden in another wicked trick years ago. All besides her five bullets that she was smart enough to bury in the roots of an oak tree beyond the forest line. She sadly wondered if she would even be able to find the tree again after all this time, even if she had tried. The last keepsake from her formal life.   She lost a lot of things among the court of the Unseelied. Bel wept as she realized she could no longer recall the exact shade of her mothers hair. Or when she lost the memory of an old favorite song she use to know by heart.   Another thing that was stolen in this realm, possibly the cruelest was time. Her life fading away and the person she once was slipped slowly from her grasp. Scared and alone she was made into something else entirely.   One day she stood in the shadows of the ball room, lined with other masked human slaves. Sure nobody was looking at her, she stretched up onto her tip toes to see what had caused such a commotion. Everyone of the court stopped dancing and the music drifted off into chilled silence.   The banished prince had entered and approached the queen directly at her throne.   The knights drew their weapons, metal sliced through the air ready to stop the prince if intervention was needed.   The queen nodded in approval and the knights let the prince pass with his token of forgiveness.   His gloved hands held a necklace to the moonlight, presenting a ruby red pendant that could reflect the sun even in the darkest of chambers.   However when he placed the pendant around her neck, it caused an agonized scream to rip from the queens throat before she dropped into a motionless heap on the floor.   Chaos erupted, the prince was dragged away. The queen, close to death simply by a touch of the pendant.   She’d later learned that the queen had survived the attack but that day was the first day Bel had ever seen weakness of a member of the Unseelied court, much less the untouchable, beloved queen.   That was also when she learned that of the most powerful weapon against the immortal creatures was something as simple as iron.   It took a few days to recall the bullets she had hidden and with realization, hope began to bloom in her chest for the first time since she’d arrived to this realm.  However if it was one thing she had learned from these foul creatures was that sometimes the best revenge took patience.   So in a months time when the court gathered again for their blood moon gatherings, she waited by calmly with a single bullet clutched in her sweaty palm.     Deep inside she was willing to risk her life for what she was about to do. She had already said her silent goodbyes to those tortured souls she had come to love in this realm. And to those she lost and mourned in her mortal realm long ago.   Moments before the challises were passed for the queens grand toast. Bel slipped by the wine fountain and dropped the bullet to the bottom, watching it as it sank and disappeared into the dark red liquid then she turned and evaporated into the crowd unnoticed.   The queen rose from her throne and toasted again to their marvelous immortality and once she did they all began to drink their wine, even the children of the unseelied drank deeply from their cups until empty.   Where they once stood in their riches and glory. Now lay on the ballroom floor dying an agonizing death. They were being burned alive from the insides. The iron infused wine dissolving their insides to liquid. And when they all lay motionless the silence echoed across the vast room.      The once enslaved humans stood in confusion at the dead court before them. They didn’t understand yet but because of Bel they were now free. The silence snapped like a rubber band as Bel’s cackling laugh bounced across the room. Then she began to dance and the other humans quickly joined her.      She danced and danced over the bodies of the unseelied court breathless in laughter and delight. Delirious with joy she slipped in the puddle of blood that formed in the center of the floor, it staining the bottom of her ragged, torn dress.   Unsure of how long she had danced along the other humans. A voice shattered the mirth as a chiming laugh rang out through the ball room. It was the banished prince and he hunched over in laughter at the sight of what Bel had done.  When he finally regained himself again he looked directly into her eyes as if he knew exactly what she had done.   “It is because of you I am free, I thank you for your actions, child.” The prince said with a smirk, dipping into a low bow.       Her legs buckled and collapsed cracking against the granite floors, she didn’t notice the warmth seeping into her dress. All the heard was his words repeat in her head. “…thank you.” He was now in-depth to her.  He turned and began walking away, she wasn’t sure exactly what to say but Aeylinay words returned to her after all these years, clear in her memory as if she had spoken them yesterday.   Loud and clear Bel’s voice called out to the prince, “by the moonlight of the Oakwood Flesh. I demand you return all of our lost souls to the mortal realm as we were before we were stolen.”   He didn’t turn around but he halted as her words and with one flick of his wrist, he snapped his fingers.   The world faded around her and when she opened her eyes she was no longer underneath the stars of the Unseelied court.She was now sitting in a pool of sunlight surrounded by blooming flowers. She sat up slowly and looked around. She was still in the blood soaked dress but she felt it within her that she had finally returned home. She began to sob. Sob in pity for what she had endured, sobbed in relief that she managed to free herself and the other slaves of the court from their misery.   Then in the distance she heard dogs barking and people shouting her name. With no hesitation she screamed for their help. Within a few moments police burst into the clearing wearing baffle expressions at finding the lost girl with knotted hair and a bloody gown standing in the middle in a blooming field of spring flowers in the middle of fall.   Before she knew it she was emitted into the hospital where her mom was already waiting for her in her room. They held each other crying while neither of them spoke a word, afraid to burst the reality of the moment. She stroked her mothers chestnut hair until she cried herself to sleep.   Bel had learned, what was 8 years of her life in the Unseelied court was only a weeks time in the mortal realm. Her mother feared the worst but she knew where to send the search parties looking.   Bel was of course never the same , as she returned unrecognizable by the people she had mourned a long time ago.  It took a long time for the fear to settle within her but she finally did find peace and eventually happiness in the mortal realm. She would often think and wonder about the other slaves she freed from the court. However with enough time it all seemed to fade from her memory as if a distant dream.   Bel lived a full life and grew to be 84 years old before she passed peacefully in her sleep.   Not a single soul left alive that knew she was responsible for the mass slaughtering of the entire Oakwood Flesh Unseelied court. -BDS
","September 01, 2023 19:22","[[{'Adam Bivens': 'Very interesting and different from your normal style of writing! The plot and storyline are very well written. Thanks for the share!', 'time': '14:42 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,3guu0f,Pins & Needles,Cyan Villanueva,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3guu0f/,/short-story/3guu0f/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Inspirational', 'Romance']",6 likes,"
“How are they today?” I cup her cheek with my hand, gently rubbing my thumb across it. I know her cheek feels warm and soft; she smiles up at me as we lay together. I move my hand to cup the back of her brunette wavy hair, cradling her beautiful head. Then run my hands through her hair. My fingers get caught slightly, so I carefully detangle it for her. I know it feels soft too, but right now I can’t feel it anymore. Not with these hands. I’m unsure how to tell her. I sigh and kiss her forehead, holding the back of her head again, trying to seal my lips into her. This I feel, her soft skin and the slight wrinkles she gets when she furrows her brows, which lets me know she’s either worried or thinking. I roll over on my back and stare at the ceiling. She cuddles into my side and rests her hand on my chest. I run my hand up and down her small arm, willing them to feel the goosebumps that spread at my touch. Still, nothing. “They’re being stubborn today, but I think they’ve met their match with me.” I say after some time with a smile, she stares up at me, her eyes searching beyond my attempt at a joke. Behind it, to find the truth. “Yesterday you almost burned yourself,” She remarks. The doctor mentioned I would occasionally have feelings, until I didn’t anymore.“That’s common darling, remember what the doctor said?” I ask gently, she doesn’t like doctors; ever since she lost her mother. This newest development doesn’t add any favors to them in her eyes. Again, she has to hear the words; there’s nothing we can do. It started with a slight numbing feeling, my fingers would feel like they were undergoing a soft vibration. Like they had fallen asleep. It graduated to no feeling at all, which I only realized after sticking myself with a thumbtack and Lia having to stop me and show me it was hanging from my finger. “You didn’t feel this?” Lia asked as she carefully pulled it out, some blood pooled out and all I could do was stare. I shake my head no, I hadn’t…What surprised me more than anything, was how quickly I had forgotten the simplest of sensations. How I had taken for granted the way a pen felt in my hand, the slight sharpness of freshly mowed grass, even snow. Though I always hated snow, right about now I wouldn’t mind it’s cold seeping into my hands as I make a snowball to throw at Lia. What hurt the most, is I could still touch Lia, but I couldn’t feel her. You think you have all the time in the world, or that your memory won’t fail you; but you don’t and it does. In the beginning and even now, there was this sudden desperation to cut into my hands and fix whatever nerves were stealing the smallest of pleasures…“Hellooo,” Lia knocks on my forehead lightly, “Anyone in there?”I snap out of my thoughts and look down at her slender face, “Sorry love, what were you saying?”“Where’d you go?” I shake my head and rub my eyes, this, my fingers also don’t feel, “No where, just zoned out I guess. Sorry love.” I kiss her forehead again and begin to move off the bed to stand. Lia sprawls out on the bed and tries to reach for me, I grab her hand and kiss it too. I grasp any chance to kiss her and feel her on my lips.“I have some work to do love, I need to get the final draft of the new building out.” I move toward our dresser and pick out a pair of dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt.“I thought you had finished that project.” Lia says as she sits up and lifts her arms above her head to stretch. I watch as her shirt lifts up slightly and I smile at the exposed belly button. “Almost, just a few minor notes from Stanley on materials and measurements.” “Will you go to the park again?” She asks sleepily as she lays back down and cuddles into my pillow.“I think so, it’s a beautiful day out.” I grab my sneakers and a pair of socks and slip them on. I look around quickly for my work bag and make sure my notes, drawings and pencils are all set.“Okay, I think I’ll take a nap. Oh! Can you bring those raspberry cookies I like from Estelle’s please?” She perks up and puts on her best puppy dog eyes. Which always works. I laugh and nod my head yes while moving to the bed and kissing her rosy lips again, “See you soon.”On my way out of the house I first enjoy the smell of summer, fresh cut grass and a sizzling barbecue the neighbors are enjoying. The park is about a mile away, but I like a good walk. I look down at my hands as I walk, they feel like I’ve slept on them too long again. I pass couples kissing, parents running after children with ice cream dripping down their chin, dogs happily wagging their tails. Life is all around me, but now I face moments where I can no longer feel it in my grasp.Once I get to the park, I find my favorite bench that overlooks a large pond. There are beautiful roses growing, large trees that seem like they dance as a slight breeze passes through its leaves. I set my bag next to me but can’t bring myself to work. It’s weird to hold something in your hand, but not feel it. I enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face, the way its rays hit the water's surface and make it sparkle. There are ducks swimming and I wonder what that life is like. I hear footsteps behind me and smile, an older gentleman sits down and lets out a big sigh. I notice he has a beautiful bouquet of flowers.“Beautiful day.” He remarks as he takes out bread and breaks it apart for the ducks. “How ya doing Frank?” I ask and enjoy the way the excitement of the ducks causes ripples in the water as they flock to food.“Still alive Sam, still alive.”I smile, he always says this. I met Frank a few months ago after my diagnosis of MS, if you can guess, numbness is one of the symptoms. He had just lost his wife of forty five years and I was losing my life as I knew it. Loss was eating away at us, the way MS was eating away at me. “How’s it today?” Frank asks causally as he looks up to the clear blue sky.“About the same,” I say, looking down at my hands, “no feeling today, just pins and needles.”“And the missus?” He glances down at my hands, they look normal he must be thinking. How looks can be deceiving. “Good, she’s napping now,” I look over at him, worry filling my heart as I see dark circles under his eyes, “Are you sleeping, eating?” Frank waves the question away, “You sound like Maryanne. Yes dear, I’ve been sleeping and eating. Some nights are just… harder than others.”I nod in agreement and we sit in silence for sometime. We enjoy the stillness of this moment, the way it feels like a bubble or cocoon shielding us from the life that lives beyond this park. “Frank,” I begin to say, but stop myself. Unsure what I really mean to ask. He looks at me and waits patiently for me to continue, “I’m scared.” I finally say.Frank nods slowly, “Good, that means you have more living to do.”“I don’t know how to go through the rest of this life, when my body is betraying me. I can’t even feel Lia when I touch her.” Frank nods again, “Maybe it’s not about you feeling her, but that she can still feel you. Sammy boy, don’t waste whatever time you have left with her; harping on what can’t be changed. What I wouldn’t give to see Maryanne again. You don’t need feeling in your hands to feel her warmth, it’s in here.” He says as he points to his heart. For a moment, I think I can feel the sun's warmth on the back of my hands and I smile. I am still alive, and there is more living to do. Frank smiles at me and groans softly as he gets up.“Leaving already?” I ask, watching to make sure he’s okay to walk.“Yeah, I have a date,” He says and smiles at the flowers in his hands, “Lilies were her favorite.”I smile fondly at him, “Say hello for me.”He nods, “Same time tomorrow?”“Of course,” I say in return and watch as he begins to walk away, “Frank!” I call out suddenly and he turns around, the sun hits his face and I can almost see his younger self behind the graying hair and wrinkles. “Thank you, for everything.”“Thank you, Sammy boy.” He says in return before waving and heading towards the exit of the park. I sit for some more time, the park is beginning to bustle with sounds of children’s laughter and dogs barking. I stand and begin to walk toward the exit of the park too, I have to remember Lia’s cookies. I flex my hand as I pass shrubs of healthy green and roses of deep reds. I reach out and touch them, feeling slight pricks from its leaves and thorns. I think of Lia and smile, willing myself to remember the feeling of her slender frame and soft skin. I can almost feel the curves of her body, ghost-like at the tips of my fingers. There is comfort in the fact that Lia can still feel me, that I can still touch her. There is more living to do, I’m not done here yet. 
","August 31, 2023 15:21","[[{'Andrea Corwin': ""This is a sweet story of life's unexpected challenges, physical issues, and how humans rise above them.  It is a love story on many levels, all while gently showing what one misses with the loss of feeling in their hands.  Sammy sees the beauty in the world around and the older friend gives a reminder of what is important now."", 'time': '22:26 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Cyan Villanueva': 'Andrea, thank you so much! This is exactly what I wanted the story to convey. Thank you for reading!', 'time': '00:24 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Cyan Villanueva': 'Andrea, thank you so much! This is exactly what I wanted the story to convey. Thank you for reading!', 'time': '00:24 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,g345bp,Fido,H.e. Ross,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/g345bp/,/short-story/g345bp/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Fiction']",6 likes,"
 I got Fido at the local pound, or animal rescue service, by mistake or accident. I went to get a terrier and found one but in the next cage was a almost long haired puppy cowering in the shadows of a corner. The terrier knew he had me and was jumping up and down with expectations flowing from his half mouthed tongue, so I got the puppy. Fido was beautifully thankful and I felt like a true parent maybe because of his fix on me as his leader and teacher. Our relationship was never owner/master and dog. From the first moment out of that cage it was some kind of mutual respect and love.He was a German Shepard-Collie mixture of breeds and behaved like a sheep dog every chance he had. He had knobs on his knees that quickly grew out through running in the Panhandle part of the Golden Gate Park. I am a San Franciscan and lived in the Haight Ashbury during the Hippie invasion before we were, by law, ordered to have dogs on leashes. So, after crossing two trafficked streets, one with traffic lights we were free to roam the over four miles of park to the beach.I worked at the museum in the park and could leave Fido outside during my eight-hour schedule and know he would be there for lunch and when my work ended. Once he brought a friend to see me but when he and the wolf came out of the bushes they scared the crowds who were exiting at closing.With a call of adventure I decided to go up to Alaska to join a fishing fleet and make some real money so I packed up my Volkswagen van and made a comfortable bed for Fido and off we went on our way to the wilds of Canada. I said I am a San Franciscan, right? When I was around eleven snow fell in the City around 2 or 3 in the morning. The quiet woke me and I looked out my window to see people coming out of their houses and picking up snow to make snowballs, about one-inch thick, to throw at each other. I ran out in my pyjamas and joined what became a street party of whizzing tiny snowballs and echoing laughter. I didn’t remember it being cold, just fun.I was now driving an eighteen hundred mile route in December from San Francisco to Juneau, Alaska. My eleven year old adventure was my only time ever being in the snow. It looked great on television and in the movies and nobody seemed to get cold on those screens. But, I carried a couple of pairs of gloves, a thick jacket, two sets of long johns and bought some snow boots and snow chains.We hit real snow in British Columbia and I had my first lesson in snow living when I couldn’t start the van because of my oil freezing and solidifying. The mechanic I found assumed I was just stupid and told me to wait until noon and try to start it again, and then to bring the van to him and he would change the oil and give me the heavy duty correct oil. I did it and he did it. And off we drove with renewed confidence that I had done the right thing in paying for a professional to solve my problem.There were great wild west towns with saloons along my route that I really enjoyed, always noticing how the snow alongside the highway was getting higher and higher with the pace slowing at times in both the shovelling trucks and black ice. I didn’t know what black ice was until I tried to brake and slid into a piled snow mound, well, I learned what black ice was more than once.A few days into the snow and due to driving very slowly I could not see houses any more. They were there. I could see smoke flowing up into crystal blue skies but I could not see roofs or any trace of actual houses.Fido loved the snow at first. Bounding and bounding. Burying his nose and mouth in it and biting at the flaky water of it. He was continually curious about snow and then it happened. We got out at a rest stop and I took a pee. He liked the designs I could make in the snow but after the first time did not like the taste. This one time he went bounding off into what was probably a field if there was no snow. It was a long flat area and I got back into the van and let him just have his time out there. When he came back he didn’t want to get back in the van but I wasn’t going back out. It was cold. I could see he was a bit angry but I made some hot chocolate on my little camping stove and enjoyed the warmth from that little fire in the confines of the van.As I sipped my hot chocolate I looked but couldn’t see Fido. I moved over to the other side of the van and saw his nose going up and down. It scared me thinking that some animal had injured him. I got out on my side of the van to hear his whimpers and ran, slid around to see him laying on his side. I looked around and didn’t see a bear or anything, and tried to scoop him up but he was stuck. I gently pulled his long hair back to see if it was a bear trap or something holding him. His eyes gave that I-know-you-can-solve-all-earthly-problems look that always encouraged me when I noticed his white fur under his leg was yellow. It slowly sank in that Fido had taken a pee and sat in it freezing him to the ground and freezing his leg to his body. I started laughing and looking around for somebody to share the laughing with but we were alone.After solving that problem with some hot chocolate on the leg I freed him from the ground and settled him in his bed. He actually looked angry. At me.Another day on we were snowbound in a hotel with just another thirty miles to the Alaska border when I called ahead to reserve a hotel room and found that the temperature there was verging on seventy below freezing. That was the end of my quest to make some real money fishing out of Alaska.The drive back was an impatient one but generally uneventful. I had two sets of bikers’ gloves over wool mittens and three pairs of socks in my snow boots. The heat in that year volkswagen van came off the engine in the rear of the body and it ever so often made its way up to the front where I drove using the wheel as we all do. About half way back to the States, in a hotel room shower I noticed that my fingers were off colour, sort of reddish. Getting out of bed I noticed my toes were getting a dark colour, sort of brown.When I got to the no snow area of British Columbia and stepped out of the van I almost fell over and had to hold on to the car door until I felt balanced enough to stand. Fido was in heaven running and digging up real grass, biting it and rolling in it. I was happy to take off a set of the gloves and remember having to take the jacket off with some memory of sweat letting me know I was saved and back in civilisation. The next day when I got out of the van it was the same thing. I had to stand holding the door until my balance returned.At a hotel at the California border I saw for the first time that my fingertips were purplish blue and that my toes were almost the same colour. I also noticed that the hot shower did not feel hot to either the fingertips nor the toes. The hotel manager told me it was frost bite and I should see a doctor. Back in San Francisco my doctor told me hot baths, saunas, hot tubs, hot towels, aspirin would help. I decided to go to Belise. But, that is another story.
","August 31, 2023 15:56","[[{'J. D. Lair': 'Quite a tale of personal adventure! I hope the protagonist got the feeling back in his fingers and toes. :)', 'time': '00:24 Sep 04, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,q5jvio,We’re Not Supposed to Cheat Death – It’s Part of Life,Michael Jefferson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/q5jvio/,/short-story/q5jvio/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Fantasy', 'Drama']",6 likes,"
	Senator Marcus Cicero walks through the Garden of Senators, one of Washington D.C.’s most popular attractions. He pauses at the statues of his father, Lucius, and his grandfather, Julius.
	He squeezes his hand, hoping to relieve the numbness that has taken root in his fingers.
	“It won’t be long now.”
 
 
	Marcus vigorously shakes the hand of a young constituent but feels nothing.
	The young man beams at the charismatic, dark-haired politician.
	“Your speech was magnificent. Senator. It reminded all of us that even though we conquered the Siberian Plague, we can’t stop looking for ways to live past forty. As the only person on record to do it, what’s your secret?”
	Marcus lets out a long, exasperated sigh.
	“Stress management.”
	Smiling as if he’s discovered the Fountain of Youth, the young man pumps his fist as he walks away.
	“Dang it,” Nick Toon, Marcus’ driver utters under his breath.
	“Problem?”
	The brawny, half-Cherokee’s skin turns crimson with embarrassment.
	“Oh, no, Nick. Did you lose another pool?”
	“Yeah. The money was mine until the last dude asked.”
	“So, how many times today has someone asked me what my secret to longevity is?”
	“So far? Seven.”
	“Your father ran a casino. You know gambling is seldom profitable. If you want to make the most of your forty years, Nick, you should pursue your passion.”
	“You mean my pursuit of the perfect slice of pecan pie?”
	“Absolutely,” Marcus replies. “There’s a new place, ‘Pie in the Sky’ near midtown that we can try.”
	Marcus wrings his hands.
	Nick gives him a troubled look.
	“Just a cramp. Nothing to worry about.”
 
 
	Marcus stirs cream into his coffee.
	“Dessert for lunch. If my doctor knew, he’d turn in his stethoscope. Or maybe he’d make everybody eat pie in the hope it’ll make us live longer.”
	Nick samples his pecan pie. “I’ll sign up for that prescription.”
	“So, what’s the verdict?”
	“Just the right amount of vanilla.”
	Marcus picks up his cup of coffee. It promptly slips from his hand, clanging off the table.
	“Is this gonna be a regular occurrence, boss?”
	“Don’t worry about it, Nick.”
	“Are your fingers still numb?”
	“Just a little bit.”
	“So, you’re just gonna ignore it? Enditalis doesn’t go away until you do, and I don’t want to lose my fellow pie taster.” 
 
 
	Cursing with each step, Secret Service Director Turpin Bayha limps to the second floor of his lonely home.
	Although childhood polio stunted his growth, Bayha’s austere attitude and single-mindedness have made him a political giant.
	Bayha limps into the spare bedroom where his wife, Marjorie, lies in cryogenic sleep to stave off the final stages of Enditalis.
	Bayha presses his small hands against the cryogenic capsule’s cold metal, looking through the glass dome at his wife’s solidified but still angelic features. 
	“I swear, we’re going to find a cure. Then things will be like they were. We’ll be Washington D.C.’s power couple again. We can have that family we talked about.”
	Marjorie and Turpin had met in college. At first, Turpin was convinced that Marjorie’s sorority sisters had put the 5’ 9” beauty up to asking the 5’ 4” crippled gnome as a joke. While Marjorie wasn’t his match physically, she was a chemistry major, an editor for the school newspaper, and as nerdy as he was.
	They married at twenty-four when they were both accepted as agents into the secret service.
	“…We were going to rule D.C…,” Bayha laments, remembering the day their dreams turned into a nightmare.
 
 
“This may pinch a bit,” Harriet Quimby, the head researcher for Sinvac says, smiling nervously at Quincy “Bulldog” Butler, a serial killer who, in exchange for more jailhouse privileges, has volunteered for an extended life experiment. 
	“Is he all doped up?” Special Agent Paul Page asks.
	“Yes. He should be a little drowsy for a few hours.”
	“That’s the way we like him,” Page replies. “Mind if I use your office phone? Apparently, ours don’t work underground surrounded by reinforced concrete.”
	As Agent Page leaves, Field Agent Marjorie Bayha jokes, “Some ‘Special Agent’ you are.”
	She turns back in time to see Bulldog choke out Harriet Quimby.
	The second researcher screams for help. Bulldog throws her against the wall with such force that she breaks her nose and jaw, leaving a streak of blood running down the wall to her crumbled body.
	Picking up a syringe, Bulldog charges across the room, sweeping Marjorie up into a headlock before she can draw her weapon.
	“Please, I’m a newlywed! And I’m new to the job!”
	“Pretty obvious, or I wouldn’t’a got the drop on ya.”
	His gun drawn, Agent Page blocks the doorway, abetted by two Sinvac security guards eager to fire their weapons.
	“You think you and a couple of rent-a-cops can stop me, pudgy?”
	One of the overanxious guards fires a shot at Bulldog.
	“This may pinch a bit,” Bulldog says, plunging the syringe into Marjorie’s neck.
 
 
	The serum wouldn’t have harmed Marjorie if she wasn’t allergic to some of its contents. As Agent Page and the guards ventilated Bulldog, Marjorie fell to the floor and into a coma. Instead of vaccinating Marjorie from Enditalis, the experimental serum accelerated her contracting the disease.
	Marjorie was hidden away in the spare bedroom for a decade. Turpin climbed to the top position in the Secret Service, his every move designed to bring his wife back to him.
 
 
	Dr. Beverly DeForrest checks her readout.
	“Everything’s normal except for your elevated heart rate.”
	“Maybe stress is the key to extending life,” Marcus jokes.
	“Then we’ll both live to a hundred. Our bodies are only supposed to last for forty years. You’ve exceeded that by two years. You’re a miracle, and I don’t know why.”
	“I’m lucky, or at least I was,” Marcus replies, covering his shaking hand.
	“You’re finally breaking down. We talked about what happens when the body reaches the stage of Enditalis. The shaking and numbness in your hand is just the beginning. It’ll spread. Your body will feel like it’s made of cement. You won’t be able to feel your feet, then you won’t be able to walk. Your organs will atrophy as well, and you’ll literally turn to stone.”
 
 
	Turpin Bayha and his men gaze in awe at Blossom, a seven-ton African Bush Elephant, as it stuffs a combination of fruit and grass in its mouth. 
	“And you thought they just ate peanuts,” Agent Thorn Colero says to Agent Stone Cargil.
	The broad-shouldered agent lifts his sunglasses, exposing his copper-colored eyes. “Right now, I’m more concerned with whether she eats meat. That chain holding her leg in place looks flimsy.” 
	“The seems a bit far-fetched. Are you sure this is going to work?” Bayha asks.
	“Didn’t I modify the DNA of twins before they were born?” Dr. Myles Boltman, head researcher for Sinvac replies. “Didn’t I discover new methods to promote the transvection of cells?”
	“Didn’t those experiments fail?” Thorn whispers to Stone.
	“Why an elephant?” Bayha asks.
	Dr. Boltman’s grey eyes brighten. “If we can reverse Enditalis in something five times the size of a human being, then we know a much smaller dosage of the serum will work on us.”
	“Proceed.”
	Three men in lab coats and wearing protective masks wheel out a cart containing a stand and a large syringe. They mount the syringe on the stand. One of the men pulls a lever on the stand as the trio quickly backs away.
	The syringe is propelled at Blossom, hitting her in the hindquarters. Raising her trunk, Blossom trumpets loudly, spraying Bayha, Dr. Boltman, Thorn, and Stone with her undigested meal.
	Wiping the goo from his face, Bayha states, “This had better work, Boltman, or you’ll be the next subject.”
	“And an elephant never forgets,” Thorn whispers to Stone.
	Raising her chained leg, her tusks pointing in the air as if she were on the attack, Blossom suddenly freezes.
	“It’s already taken effect,” Dr. Boltman says confidently.
	Blossom’s grey skin turns ivory white, matching the color of her tusks.
	“Full Enditalis. Her body is as hard as stone.” Dr. Boltman says. “Now the disease should begin to reverse itself.”
	A series of short, explosive sounds follow.
	A piece of Blossom’s alabaster-colored skin falls off. Other pieces crackle and fall to the floor.
	Blossom’s massive body crumbles, turning into a pile of fine white sand.
	Bayha looks at the large syringe, then at Dr. Boltman.
 
 
 	Marcus pulls his inconspicuous Honda close to the former offices of the Petry Factory. The factory has been empty for half a dozen years, making it an ideal location to hide someone on the government’s wanted list.
	“What did you bring me?” Ingrid Stevens asks, opening the heavy door.
	“A brush to straighten out that frizzy blonde hair of yours,” Marcus responds. Taking the knapsack off his back, he hands it to her.
	“What’s the matter? Don’t you like the 1960s hippie look?” Ingrid asks. “Besides, denim shirts and jeans look allow me to fit in with the crowd. I look like I run a fruit stand.”
	“I told you not to leave the building.”
	Ingrid examines the supplies, whistling at a large jug of Clorox. “Relax. I only went to a farmer’s market to buy some fresh vegetables for myself and herbs for your serum.”
	Ingrid notices his trembling hand.
	“How long has that been going on?”
	“A day or two.”
	“You should see a real doctor to confirm it.”
	“I know what it is, Ingrid. When the hand’s not shaking, it’s numb.”
	“We slowed it down for two years. It’s been five for me,” Ingrid says. “I think it’s because I’m a strict vegetarian…If I’d only been there when they created the vaccine…”
	“A quarter of the world’s population had died, They had to act.”
	“Yes, The vaccine offered the world a miracle cure from the Siberian Plague. The survivors were given the gift of perfect health. No more colds or diseases. But in exchange, our life expectancy was shortened to forty years.”
	“All the world leaders agreed,” Marcus notes.
	“The real decision-makers were dead. The people who said yes were in their twenties. Forty seemed a long way off.”
	“That’s why I came to you. I wasn’t ready to die.” 
	“I’ve tried everything. Nothing counteracts the effects of Enditalis. You didn’t die at forty, but you don’t have much longer. Maybe we’re not supposed to cheat death – it’s part of life.”
	“It’s ironic that my extended life has brought me fame, while you’ve had to hide in the shadows like a criminal,” Marcus says.
	“It’s the difference between being a politician and a researcher. You’re a public figure. You’re a living example of hope. Non-governmental research to find a cure has been banned so they can control it. My fellow researchers have either died or Bayha has hunted them down. I expect he’ll find me again soon.”
	“Not if I can help it. It wasn’t until you were captured that I understood the importance of your work, which is why I hired those mercenaries to break you out and hide you from Bayha.” 
	Marcus suddenly freezes, looking at Ingrid with distress.
	“More symptoms?” Ingrid asks.
	“I’m worried for you. What’ll happen to you when I die?”
	“I’ll open up that fruit stand.”
 
 
	Shaking his tingling hand, Marcus exits the warehouse. He’s about to get in his car when a black Suburban SUV pulls up, screeching to a halt. Another modified SUV blocks his escape. An armored car lurches to a halt nearby and a phalanx of fully armed men charge the factory.
	Bayha steps out of the first SUV. 
	A bright leer crosses Bayha’s features as he limps toward Marcus.
	“I knew you’d lead her to me eventually.”
	“You knew she was treating me?”
	“I spoke with your doctor, who was more than happy to fill me in on your state of health. Your elevated heart rate gave you away. Beztrim elevates the heart rate. It’s found in beets. Beets have been scarce for a century, ever since the plague. Only a few places sell them. Farmer’s markets, for example. I did some shopping at the market in Obama Square recently. Guess who was buying beets? We can’t let private citizens control humanity’s destiny. That’s our job. Senator Cicero, you’re under arrest for harboring and abetting a fugitive.”
	“So, what do you plan to do with me? Dissect me?”
	“Not me personally, no. Although I might reserve the right to make the first cut. No, you’re going to help the government get it right this time.”
	“This time?”
	 “Strange how the President names a bridge and a hospital after you for outlasting the rest of humanity, yet he’s never confided in you about how the plague started.”
	“Through rats, just like the Black Plague.” 
	Bayha snickers. “That explanation works every time. It’s ironic that Ingrid Stevens is trying to extend humanity’s life expectancy past forty. Before the plague, when most people lived to eighty, her grandfather worked on a serum that could extend life. A foreign operative planted in his lab stole it. His people modified it and tested it out in a small village in Siberia. Instead of extending life, it ended it. And instead of incinerating the test subjects, those commie numbskulls buried them. A couple of grave robbers dug them up. They got sick and ended up in Novosibirsk, which had a population of 1.6 million. Within two months, it was half of that.” 
	“That wasn’t Ingrid’s grandfather’s fault. And he was part of the team that created the vaccine that ended the Siberian Plague,” Marcus notes. 
	“True, but the problem remains that even with annual boosters, everyone, except you and Ingrid, have died by forty. So, now, instead of trying to keep the two of you alive, Ingrid is going to work for us to create a serum so my wife and I will live past forty.”
	“What about everyone else?”
	“What about them? Most of the people I’ve met aren’t deserving enough to live past twenty, let alone forty.”
	Marcus notices Bayha’s right hand is quivering.
	“You’re thirty-nine, aren’t you Bayha? You’re afraid to die.”
	Bayha stuffs his hand in his pocket.
	“I’ll outlive you, Cicero. I guarantee it.”
 
 
	Several days and tests later, Bayha checks on Marcus’ condition. Before entering his room, Bayha gives Thorn and Stone a probing, dead stare and agents recede into the hallway.
	Leaning heavily on his cane, Bayha takes several belabored steps toward Marcus’ bed.
	“Having trouble walking?” Marcus asks, his voice a coarse whisper.
	Bayha laughs vindictively at Marcus’ outstretched form. “Stand up and say that. What did you say, you can’t? The last several days haven’t been kind to you. You don’t even know if you have arms and legs anymore. By now you’ve lost all feeling below your shoulders. Your arteries and organs are hardening. It’s becoming harder to breathe like you’re sucking air through cement. The Enditalis has taken control. In a matter of hours, you’ll be frozen solid, a statue.”
	Marcus notices Bayha’s left hand is a gnarled fist, and that the left side of his face is frozen in a clownish half-smile.
	His tongue thickened by the disease, Marcus struggles to speak. “I see that Enditalis has you firmly in its grip too. What happened? You tortured Ingrid but she still wouldn’t give away her secrets?”
	“Funny thing about interrogation,” Bayha sneers. “Some people can handle any form of torture. When I told Stevens her grandfather had created the serum that led to the Siberian Plague it was too much for her. We found her hanging in her room.”
	Gasping for air, Marcus manages to whisper, “…I’m sure you gave her the rope…Ingrid was the only person who could have helped you… You’re as dead as I am.”
	A tear forms in the corner of Marcus’ eye.
 
 
	Agents Thorn Colero and Stone Cargil rush up the stairs of Bayha’s porch, confronting Ada, his panic-stricken caretaker.
	“He’s locked me out!”
	“How? He’s an invalid stuck on the second floor,” Thorn notes.
	“He’s able to run everything in the house by remote control, including the locks.”
	Thorn and Stone bang their bulky bodies against the door until it springs open. The two agents run up the stairs, shadowed by Ada.
	Bayha’s bedroom is empty.
	Ada’s scream sends them running into the spare bedroom.
	Bayha is in his wheelchair, slumped over Marjorie’s cryogenic bed.
	It takes both men to push Bayha’s solidified body back in his wheelchair.
	“He told me his wife died ten years ago,” Thorn says. 
	“He’s kept her on ice all this time?” Stone asks, looking at the bewildered caretaker.
	“There was an old theory that you could cure Enditalis by freezing someone,” Ada replies.
	“Ten years is a long time to wait to get healthy,” Stone comments.
	“Not to her,” Ada says. “Majorie is literally frozen in time.” 
	Thorn looks at the control box.
	“The power’s off. The chronometer says it’s been off for an hour. Bayha must have turned it off before he died.”
	“So, if I can’t live, you can’t either,” Stone comments. “Typical Turpin Bayha move.”
	Thorn looks down at the glass.
	“Fog.”
	“What?”
	“The glass is fogged up.”
	Thorn pulls out his Glock service pistol. Bringing the butt end down on the glass until he smashes it.
	“What are you doing, Thorn?”
	Majorie coughs, opening her eyes. Her hardened, porcelain-colored skin begins to turn pink.
 
 
	Nick sits on the bench facing the statues of Marcus, Lucius, and Julius Cicero.
	“Hi, boss… I wanted you to know they’ve found a cure for Enditalis, and get this, it was because of Majorie Bayha… I found this great place, Marcus. It’s called ‘Miss American Pie’. They’re now at the top of my list for the best slice of Pecan Pie…”
	For a moment, Nick is certain he sees a tear in the corner of Marcus’ statue.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","August 31, 2023 17:00","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Original!', 'time': '17:34 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michael Jefferson': 'Thank you!', 'time': '18:07 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Jefferson': 'Thank you!', 'time': '18:07 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,lnc4yt,A Woman Of Feeling.,Pencil Durmush,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lnc4yt/,/short-story/lnc4yt/,Character,0,['Coming of Age'],6 likes,"
I am losing it the times I touch my hands to see how I am feeling. I am lost somewhere elsewhere in old age. I am colder than I ever been the lost lasting harm from years of suffering of suffocating and now it is in my hands.
Where did my lies get me I must have told them. I told so many lines that they have come to my hands. I am not older I am still youthful I am in my sixties come on it is not that old.
I go through the door come back again and rest on my hands. The pain is intense in my hands I must get up there is so much to do. I must get up there is nothing else on my mind. I did not rest the whole night not to be in this way. I must feel refreshed to add to the day. Make others happy. I am no longer able to mix and that matters to me. To him, he is resting too in the house unable to bear my company for more than an hour or so.
It is his conscience because he married her instead of me. He is now sad and worn out he is hopeful that I would not bear a grudge.
But I do have this grudge I am mad with the sadness of years of waiting for him to leave her. Destroyed everything destroyed my hands in waste.
I crawl inside just thinking of the lean years as they wasted my time and my life in emptiness. I did not give up I thought if I had somehow got creative that would fill me up. It did but she tried to ridicule me and made me feel my efforts were a bore.
How boredom sets in inside me. I am unhappy because the thoughts and feelings are so intense. It has got through to my hands. He went away in the eighties and today is the 2023 I am through with waiting as if the sadness was the saddest part.
He got back when I was narrowly killed and came to look after me.
Life was stranger.
I am a strange fiction no one likes me as if hers was the only life worthy of attention. I am no use as a beauty. She is. Her bosom is sure to fire an engine.
My own is good too but I do not wear their bras push-up bras. She does and she sure looks good for her age.
I do not mean to be a cat but what is the matter with me?
“I am left standing with hands empty.”
“If I don’t sell something I will be without a home.”
“She said nothing she wants me to be without a home?”
She said I took her husband. Well, the thing is I do not want to go on but she did have another man’s baby and they frolicked on until all hours with the friends' women she catcalled because she loves women in bed with her.
I am straitlaced compared to her.
I do not do women in bed I talk them to death instead. Look honey if you want to sleep with me that is not going to happen. I am what I am a nice woman. But she said she is a nice woman too because everyone in the street talks to her and she is invited to all the weddings. That is no concern of mine because you slept with the woman and probably the husband you are their own.
Then she shows her cleavage. I stare and then try not to look she does have a nice bosom and Freud did speak bathos that may happen if we stare too long. As my mother said do not look into the sun too long and she was right.
I jumpily get out of that mindset and move on to the troubles I am having with my hands. She is a doctor too. So she will not see me. What is this aristocrat? She is a brilliant woman she is every woman. She is a Rock Hudson in womanhood. She will not accept no for an answer.
She thinks the letter no is not right she is what she is.
How he was foolish enough to marry with that? But she is sadly a good grand actress believable. She used to be his mate and then he married her and found out what an Alpha fool he had become.
“I am sorry?” She snarls.
I did not mean to make his life a misery but looking at me has made him see how his behaviour had affected me. His whole life he had led a hippy life. He did what he did and wanted for nothing but love and the home comforts. He was a superior man without much morals. He was also bad for me.
The treatment worked the good working order I am now the woman who is in charge and I do a good deal of things to make this house work.
The whole point is to do stuff in the wild but not marry a rotten woman. I do not mean she is rotten with syphilis or anything like that but she is a rotten wife. A rotten mum. She is nothing of the sort her daughter who is constantly being raped would answer.
Their daughter the Serpent my dad has got her and she has given birth to my half-brother. So we are now connected. We have the best family relations.
The whole stormy life is now in my hands I move them gingerly and realise that the hands are not the only issue my life is too late.
I have seen so many stories end unhappily that mine has to end not violently it must be happy. I need a happy ending where does he come in? Well, he was the whole story he is my only one and there is nothing the matter with that is there?

","August 28, 2023 08:35",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,g5y4g7,Handy Helpers,Cade Holter,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/g5y4g7/,/short-story/g5y4g7/,Character,0,"['Horror', 'Suspense']",6 likes,"
I don’t want to reel my hands in tonight.That may sound odd to you, but I’m being entirely serious. Since the age of thirteen I’ve had hands that can detach at the wrist, connected only by a pair of loose, red strings. This is normal for me, though it took a fair amount of time for me to really warm up to the concept, something not especially helped by my first impression of it. The night I found this strange part of my anatomy was a particularly burning summer, one that leaked into the night well past the time that the moon rose up. I was laying in bed, my skin slick with sweat and my covers bunched up in a bulging pile at my feet. I remember kicking them off me in a tantrum fit because all they were accomplishing was pushing warmth into my weeping pores, but that’s not the point.That night, when my bedroom was blacker than the dull night creeping through my blinds, I felt an odd, uncomfortable sensation in my forearms. It was as if something long and thing was stringing down between the bone, a descending quickly enough that I could feel something crawling against the veins and tendons. I was, at the moment of that sensation, tapping my fingers on the hard mattress, incapable of laying perfectly still. I could still hear the muffled thumping of fingertips on said mattress but they began to become increasingly and near imperceptible distant as it continued. This all, of course, prompted me to look down and, wouldn’t I know it, my hands were off my bloody body.To clarify, no, there was no blood or spurting gore that I had to contend with, but I could still see the bones, the most prominent being the Lunate and the Scaphoid, which jut out the most from the the shiny red meat from the inside of my hands. My reaction was predictable, as you might imagine, and alerted my Mum and Father to my room. Their reactions were the outlier, I’d say, that being due to the sheer lack of one.Father was the first to the room, but it was Mum who gently nestled my hands back into their sockets, forcing those horrible red strings to shoot back up the inside of my arms, which made me shudder from the sensation of it shoving past my veins again. Mum told me it was alright, it was nothing to worry about, and that her and Father would explain it in the morning, which was all the truth.That morning, during breakfast, Father popped his wrists out in the same way mine did, though I imagine the look on my face is why he reeled them back in so quickly. He says to me “Billy, us Millers have a special kind of anatomy, and it lets us send our handy helpers out to, well, help us out.” Why would I need that is what I asked him. “Not a bleeding clue, but you have it. I’m sure you’ll find some use for it.” He got very serious after that comment, and he leaned over the table right close to my face, close enough I could feel his hot breath and smell his gingivitis. “One rule for it though.” He said in a low, grave tone. “Never keep ‘em out for more than five minutes.” I ask him why again, and do you know what that bastard tells me?”No idea, just don’t do it.”School started a week after that, and I was frankly torn on showing my friends my new trick, and I eventually landed on showing them, but then I saw Tommy Milton, some poor younger kid with big ears, getting jostled around by the older boys, so I didn’t bother with it. Never did either, not even when I was alone with Don, who was just fucking odd to be frank with you. If I thought I could get away with it though, I’d let ‘em go after a pencil I dropped or a kids bagged lunch. I did that last part for kicks, never even ate anything I took. Left Barts lunch in an air vent once, but don’t you go feeling bad for him cuz he was one of her who liked yanking Tommy’s big ears.That was the extent of my use of my Handy Helpers really, I hardly ever did it at home unless I was feeling like a funny guy; wanting to scare my younger sister Katie. Mum never liked that one. Father did, though he never let the other two hear it. I used to call him Dad back then, but now, aged twenty six, I’m not giving him the courtesy. Why? Cuz the bastard never properly warned me about the strings going blue.It happened one day, after work, I didn’t feel like getting up from my chair in my flat, so I had my Handy Helpers go and get me some popcorn out of the kitchen. Of course, I never even looked where they were going cuz I trusted my memory, right? I’m busy watching the tele while they’re climbing up the drawers and cabinets, and I won’t deny being an inattentive bloke, but even still I only noticed that I stopped feeling my fingers thumping against the hardwood when I looked down and saw the red strings had turned blue.I didn’t think much of it at the moment, aside some mild concern, so I just turned around in my seat to see what my hands were doing. I saw the left one just sitting there, with its knuckles facing me and it pointer finger tapping, and I thought ‘I’m not doing that, am I?’ I looked over to where I saw the right ones strings going, and I saw it sitting on the knife block, trying to use its middle fingers to grab at one of the handles. That made me reel them in right quick, but I didn’t even feel it when righty got slammed right onto floor from his perch, I even heard em smack down.When they were back in my sockets, I clenched them into fists. I did that hard enough that I could see my knuckles going white. All I felt was a dull straining in either one. It’s been getting worse over the past month. I’ve had sausage fingers ever since that night and, since I work with my hands moving tree limbs to the chipper, that’s a serious issue for me. My boss took notice and I told him I didn’t know what was wrong with em, so he tells me to go to the hospital, which I did.They told me shit all about the issue, told me my circulation was fine, told me nothing was visibly wrong with me. Lefty threw up the bird at her after that comment, which shocked both of us cuz I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want the pinky on lefty’s hand to start bending itself backwards when I got home either, but that was the point I realized I wasn’t about what I wanted anymore. Even with the numbness in my hands, I could still feel the pain enough to want to stop it, but Righty wasn’t budging. It was like mashing to chicken cuts together, so it was basically impossible for me to prevent my pinkie from snapping backward, first at the top knuckle, then, right after I recovered enough to stop breathing quick, the bottom knuckle. I felt every twist of that finger even when I couldn’t feel myself palming the wall to stay up. I could feel it twirl itself in circles in the socket, swing itself back and forth and back again with a bunch of horrible crunching sounds. I saw it all too, and I also saw that pinkie stop very suddenly right as it was pointed at me.I’ve not been able to feel anything in my hands since yesterday, they won’t do what I want them to do, nor what I need them to do. I can’t call my boss, or the doctor, or Mum and Father to ask for help. They worked themselves off of my wrists the night before tonight. They did it while I slept, so when I reeled them back in this morning, Righty was right pissed about, he kept rearing his fingers back into a claw and shooting them out toward me, trying to get me. Lefty, for his part, seemed content, which made me quite a bit more uncomfortable than if he was also throwing a fit. His pinkies still broken as well, though I’ve stopped feeling any of it. I don’t think I want to feel what they’re up to tonight though, and I don’t wanna see it either. I’ve tricked them into thinking I was asleep, so when they went roaming, I pushed my door shut with my shoulder.I can’t sleep, and I can’t eat or drink or put clothes on either. They’ve got a monopoly on those luxuries, and they don’t want me to have them anymore. I don’t think they want me to have a lot of things, so I’m going to keep to myself for a while, let my Handy Helpers sort themselves out. I can hear them scuttling on unclipped nails out there, and I heard something solid hit the ground not long ago. I’ve got an idea that Righty might’ve finally gotten at that knife he was after. I can hear them dragging something up the stairs, something that clangs in each of the hardwood steps. I don’t know what I’m going to do now.It’s just occurred to me that, in my current state, sitting on my bed in the pitch dark of my room, that neither one of us is going to be able to get that door open.
","August 30, 2023 03:22",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,xzz9tw,A Portrait of a Son,C. Charles,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xzz9tw/,/short-story/xzz9tw/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Drama', 'Sad']",6 likes,"
	The ringing phone pulled Derek from the depths of his stupor. He was on the couch with the TV blaring and an empty bottle of rye lying on the floor next to him. 	“Who the fuck–” he slurred as he groped for the phone on the coffee table. Every time his finger touched the wood, the tips tingled with pins and needles and bubbling fear returned to his stomach. He found his phone. “Hello?” he croaked.	“Derek?” came Sally’s voice, “Where were you? I’ve been calling you.” Her voice sounded frantic.	“Sorry, I was sleeping,” Derek said, “What’s wrong?”	Sally’s breath shuddered. “It’s Mom. She’s at the hospital. Annie took her in this morning.”	“What?” Derek said, sitting up. The sudden movement made his head throb and the room tilt.	“She’s having organ failure. Derek,” she choked, “she’s not gonna make it. The doctor said it will probably be a few hours. You have to get here.”	Derek felt tears welling in his eyes. “Sally,” he started, “I– I can’t. I–”	“What do you mean you can’t!?” Sally cried over the phone. “Our mother is dying!”	“I’m sorry,” Derek sobbed thickly. “I– I can’t drive. I–”	“Jesus Christ, Derek, you’re fucking drunk! Again! You are un-fucking-believable!” she yelled. 	Derek started to cry. “Maybe, I don’t know, someone can come–”	“Nobody is going to drive over an hour to come and get you and drive back, Derek,” she spit his name out. “You figure it out. She’s at Johnson Memorial.”	“Sally, I–” but she hung up. “Oh God,” he said. He dropped his phone and stood up, staggering. “Oh, God, Mom– Ow!” he bumped into the coffee table. He stood in the middle of his dirty apartment and tried to think of what to do through the fog. It was dark, so he turned on the standing lamp, illuminating the room and mess.	Ashley. He would call Ashley. He stumbled towards the couch, fell to his knees, and picked up the phone. Between the alcohol and the numbness, he struggled to open it and call her. “Come on, please pick up. Please,” he said as the phone rang. It went to her voicemail, so he left a message. “Ashley, honey, it’s Dad. Please call me back as soon as you can. I don’t know if Aunt Sally or Aunt Annie called you already but Gramma is in the hospital.” He had to stop, “And it’s not looking good, sweetie,” he croaked. “I was hoping you could pick me up and drive us there. Daddy– Dad can’t drive right now. Please call me back, honey, I love you.” He hung up and put his phone down. He hoped that she would call him back, but she rarely did. 	He ran his hands through his thinning hair and his fingers prickled. What could he do? He only had on a pair of sweatpants and figured it was best to get ready to go in case he found a ride.	He grabbed a pair of jeans and a (mostly) clean shirt on the back of the couch and threw them on. He was looking for a pair of socks when he heard his phone start to ring. He was sobering slowly and rushed towards the couch for it. He wanted another drink.	He had more feeling in his hands and he answered the phone easier than he had when Sally called. Before he had a chance to say hello, he heard Ashley’s voice.	“Dad?”	“Ashley!”	“Are you at home?” 	“Yes, I am. You got my message?”	“Yeah. And I just got off the phone with Aunt Sally. I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”	“Thank you, honey,” he said thickly.	“Dad?”	“Yeah?”	“Please don’t have anything else to drink.”	“Ashley, I–” but she had hung up.	“Fuck,” he said out loud. Shame seemed to creep up from the floor and crawl up his body until he thought he would be sick with it.	He decided that with twenty minutes, he would try to quickly tidy his apartment; he didn’t want Ashley to see it in such a mess.	He grabbed the garbage can and went through the house like a whirlwind, collecting garbage. Then he gathered up as many glasses and bottles as he could in his hands and started carrying them into the kitchen. He had just stepped onto the linoleum floor when the rye bottle slipped out of his hand and smashed on the floor.	“SHIT!” he yelled. He looked at the clock; Ashley would be there any minute. He stepped around the shattered bottle and ran to the sink with his armload and unloaded. That’s when the buzzer for the building door went off.	He rushed over to the intercom and pushed the button to open the door. Then he rushed into the kitchen and started to pick up the shattered bottle as fast as he could, careful not to cut himself.	He’d just finished with the big pieces and grabbed the broom when he heard her knock; He’d just have to keep her out of the kitchen. He ran over and opened the door and Ashley was standing there, her hair up, frowning, and with tears sparkling in her eyes. She was holding a cup of coffee. “Hi, Dad,” she said before her eyes grew wide. “You’re bleeding!” she said grabbing his hand– he’d sliced it on the bottle. There were red lines of blood running like rivers around his hand and on his arm while blood dripped on the floor. He hadn’t even noticed.	Ashley cleaned him up and bandaged him before sweeping up the rest of the remnants of the bottle. “Your hands are getting worse aren’t they?” she asked as they headed out the door. Fear crested in Derek’s stomach and he could only nod.  	*		*		* 	They had twenty minutes or so left on the highway before getting to the hospital. Derek had asked about Brandon, the kids, and Ashley’s work, but she didn’t give up much. They both steered clear of the reason for their spontaneous trip. It was a door neither dared to enter, too afraid of the sincere feelings it locked away		After the conversation fizzled out, they rode in silence, Ashley guiding the car toward the hospital and Derek watching the lights and highway lines flash by and thinking about his Mom.	As the ride wore on, Derek was becoming more and more sober and his thoughts and memories were becoming clearer. He thought about warm days by the beach while Olga watched from shore and cold winter nights where they’d sit by the fire singing while Olga played piano. 	The piano. It was Sally’s now; she was the only one with the room for it. It was an old upright Heintzman, with yellowed ivory keys and the gold worn off the pedals. Olga’s father had bought it used and it stayed in the family ever since. It sat against the kitchen wall, the lacquer faded and the bench worn down to bare wood in places. Derek could remember his mother wearing polyester skirts and how the tiny splinters sounded when she stood up, trying to cling to her.	The upright sat against the kitchen wall, with the west-facing living room window on the right. On Sunday evenings after supper was cleaned up, Olga would sit down at the keyboard and play her favourite pieces. Derek would sit on the couch behind her, while the golden light of sunset streamed through the window.	Ashley said something but it was far away and distant, like it was coming from a television in another room while you had your nose inches away from the pages of a good book.	“Dad? Are you all right?”	“Hmmm?” he moaned, half asleep.	“Are you all right?” Ashley asked again, watching him more than the road.	“Yeah, honey, I’m all right,” he said. He started to sit up when a wave of dizziness slid over him and he slumped back. His heart was racing.	“OK. We’re almost there.”	“OK.”	There was silence for a few more seconds. “Did you remember your insulin?”	“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he said. He hadn’t, but he hated it when she started on him about his blood sugar.	Ashley grabbed her purse and threw it onto his lap. “I knew you’d do this. There’s some orange juice in there. We’re almost at the hospital and we’ll get you a sandwich before we go to see Gramma–”	“I’m not hungry,” Derek said, shorter than he meant.	“Too goddamn bad, Dad. You’re not going to pass out in the room while Gramma dies. Aunt Sally will kill you and, honestly, I won’t stop her.”	Derek, defeated, pulled out a box of orange juice and fought with his numbed fingers to get the straw open and through the foil, while fear cooly rolled in his stomach and tears slipped quietly down his cheeks as they continued down the highway and into the night.* 		* 		*	They stopped for Derek to get a sandwich and another coffee. He had lied about not being hungry but he didn’t want to stop. He just wanted to get to the hospital.	Once they got to the hospital they parked and made their way in. “Aunt Sally texted me. Gramma’s in room 415,” Ashley said.“Ok,” Derek replied in little more than a whisper. He hated hospitals.	They found the elevators and rode up in silence. Once on the fourth floor, they stepped out and Derek froze, staring down the hallway. It seemed endless, doors, floors, and fluorescent lights all converging at a single point in the distance. Derek’s mouth was dry and sweat was beading on his forehead. He started to put his hands on the counter and noticed they were shaking. He dug them into his pockets and felt the rumble of numbness roll up his hands.	Ashley took a few steps before realizing that Derek hadn’t moved. “Come on, Dad,” she said, tugging at his shirt. 	He broke out of his trance and started to slowly follow Ashley like a nervous child on the first day of school.	They found the door to 415 open and Ashley stopped. She gave Derek a sad, tired look, and stepped aside for him.	He went into the dim room. Standing in the corner across from the door was Sally, who looked at him with anger and grief on her face. Next to her, asleep in a chair with her head resting on Sally’s hip, was Annie.	Derek looked awkwardly at Sally for a moment before forcing himself to look at the bed.	There lay Olga, withered and small underneath the blankets.	Her eyes were closed, and she was intubated with various other medical devices attached to her. An EKG machine beeped softly next to the bed.	Derek seemed to float in, past Sally’s glare and Annie’s slumber, until he stood beside his mother. There was an empty chair and he gently pulled it next to her. Tears dripped off the end of his nose and onto the edge of the bed as he sat down. “Hi, Mom,” he said, “I- I- m-made it.”	He heard soft crying behind him. He turned and saw Sally and Ashley hugging each other, with Annie looking around dazed as she woke up.	He looked back at Olga, at a face that was equally familiar and hard to recognize. He took her small, wrinkled hand in his and thought about being young, five or six, and sitting on the bench next to his mother, her hands guiding his over the weathered keys while his feet dangled next to hers, her feet working the pedals. 	He could even vaguely remember being even younger, three maybe, and sitting under the bench and trying to push the pedals with his hands while his mother giggled and played above him.	Her hands then had been pink and smooth, with long fingers and manicured nails. Piano hands. Now they were wrinkly and knobby, ravaged by arthritis and covered in purple veins.	“I love you, Mom,” he said, and she gave him a tired squeeze. Pins and needles rippled in his hands. * 		* 		*	Olga slipped away in the night. The four of them were allowed to stay on the condition that they stayed quiet. When she passed, the women hugged each other and cried while Derek wept by himself. He felt sick and his head pounded. 	Once the doctor came in, he left, rushing out of the hospital as fast as he could, trying desperately to catch his breath. He finally stepped out of the hospital and into the night air, gasping. He needed a drink. *	 *	 *	They all went back to Sally’s to get some sleep. Sally barely spoke to him, except to tell him that he could sleep on the couch. He slept terribly.	At one point, he got up to use the bathroom and found a bottle of mouthwash. It took the edge off, but just barely. He needed a real drink so he’d stop thinking about the funeral.	He went home with Ashley. The ride was long and arduous; Derek felt awful. He needed to eat. He needed insulin. But most of all, he needed a drink. They stopped for food but it was hard for Derek to choke it down.	Once they got to his apartment, Ashley went up with him to ensure he was OK. He checked his blood sugar, shot a dose of insulin, and called work to start his bereavement period while Ashley made coffee. Satisfied that he would be all right, she left, but not before asking him not to drink.	After she left, he waited a few agonizing minutes before leaving for the liquor store. His thoughts of his mother and Ashley and Sally and Annie and rye and diabetes were only interrupted by the jolt of numbness in his hand as he opened the door. *		 * 	*	“And now,” the funeral director said into the microphone, “Olga’s son Derek would like to come up to the piano to play Olga’s favourite composition; Chopin’s Nocturne Opus nine, number two.”	Derek had called Sally and begged her to let him play. At first, she was vehemently against it, but after nearly an hour of begging and arguing and fighting and crying, she relented. 	“But,” she warned Derek, “So help me God if you make a mockery of our mother’s funeral or you puke all over that piano because you’re drunk or you pass out, I don’t know what I’ll do to you.”	Derek got up from his seat and made his way, as steadily as he could, toward the piano. He looked at Sally and her face was twisted with anger. He’d drank before the funeral; he had to. Once seated, he stared at the piano, nervous to bring his dumb hands to the keyboard, nervous to touch them and not feel them.	Olga had committed Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 to memory and so had Derek. He’d been so proud the day that he sat her down to play it for her without following the music, smiling the whole time.	He worked up his courage and brought his hands to the keys; his fingers responded with pins and needles. 	He took a deep breath and pressed the first note– a B flat. The piano responded with a warm, gentle tone that reminded him of the Heintzman and how it would fill the house and how they’d get lost in the melodies and intricate harmonies. Olga would get so enraptured that she would slam her way through the fortissimo passages (usually to Derek’s father’s chagrin; he would ask her to keep it down regularly) or let her fingers whisper across the keys when the music called for it.	Following the pickup note, he started into the harmony with his left hand, numbly but gently waltzing through the twelve-eight-time signature while his right hand sailed through the melody.	He reached the melancholic sixth bar and started to dig in a little harder on the keys, making the piano sing and pushing the time but not rushing, the way Olga used to. 	He was nervous about the trills but his fingers cooperated in kind and the melody sang out of the funeral home’s little upright. He let the time breathe in the bars that were marked poco rit— the same way Olga would.	Sally and Annie sat stunned; it sounded like it was Olga up there playing instead of Derek. He had always been a wonderful piano player, and maybe at one time had a bright future as a musician. At least until the drink got him, the way it had gotten his father. 	Derek continued to make his way through the piece and thought about how goddamn good it felt to play that way again, in a way he hadn’t in years. He started to think about how Olga had taught all the kids to play, and while Annie and Sally knew their way around a keyboard, they were much more interested in singing. 	But Derek, Derek loved to play. He played anything he could get his hands on. Classical, jazz, rock, it didn’t matter. He loved it all.	He continued to play and with every bar, it seemed he was getting more and more sober. And, it at least seemed to him at the time, that feeling was coming back into his hands.	He reached the last few bars and played the repeated thirty-second note run perfectly before running the last of the melody down sadly to the next-to-last chord. He let it hang in the air, the harmony filling the funeral chamber and surrounding everybody warmly. 	When he laid down the last E flat major chord, his head felt clear and the numbness in his hands was replaced with something else, something he would later swear was Olga’s hands laid over top of his, playing the final chord with him.
","September 02, 2023 03:14","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Hope this inspired him to give up the poison.\n\nThanks for liking my pieces.', 'time': '18:23 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,74ahsr,The Night Watch,Sarah Van Langenhoven,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/74ahsr/,/short-story/74ahsr/,Character,0,"['Sad', 'Fiction', 'Drama']",6 likes,"
I held her pressed up against my chest, my arms tightly locked around her as if to trap her there for an eternity to come, but it only lasted a moment. The moment and my grip faded, time slipped between my fingers and before I realised, she had moved back to sit beside me, I found my arms empty.“I never took you for the sentimental fellow.” She jested, a gentle chuckle escaping her lips, blending into the crackling of the fire before us. “Thought you’d nearly squeeze me to death there.” I looked at her and forced the corners of my mouth to return a soothing smile, but my gaze must have betrayed me. She had always been able to look past the façade I raised, had always seen a glimpse or hint of my true thoughts. She possessed a magic I could not place, but either her talent was waning, or my walls had grown thicker and stronger.With a sombre look, her lips finely pressed together, her shoulders slightly raised, she averted her eyes back to the fire and exhaled deeply. “I should get some rest. I’ll take over the night watch in a few hours.”My eyes, now too, seeing her draw away from me, returned to the dancing flames, gently warming my front. The warmth gently caressed my cheeks, while the smoke gently stabbed at my eyes. I opened my mouth to wish her a sweet rest, but the sound escaped me. All I could produce was silence, a painful silence, as if my words were balled up in my throat and unable to leave.“Goodnight.” And with those words, she turned her back to me and lay down to rest.The night had always felt like a dark and cold place, only illuminated by the even colder shimmer of the stars and moon. Many poets sing and rhyme of the beauty of the moon and stars, about how much it calls to them, about how much it represents a deep love or companionship. Something forever present, something as certain as the idea of the sun rising in the morning.When I looked up at the vast night sky, I never felt comforted. I never saw what those hopeless romantics saw in that endless void. While they stared themselves blind onto the flickers of light, all I could ever feel or see was that ocean of darkness and distance. Cold and vacant. The emptiness hanging over our heads and clinging to our backs as we sit in front of the fire, like a shadow sown to our flesh and running its sharp claws over our skin. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of its lingering presence, or the absence thereof.Then she joined my travels. As arbitrarily as she found me, some of that light found me, too. I never believed I would find that warmth and reassurance, but seeing her look up at the sky in sheer wonder and glee… It equally shattered something in me, as it gave way for something new. Something vulnerable, although I could never put it to words, let alone explain it to her. Gods know she’d never stop talking of the day she changed that stubborn ass’ mind and gave him hope. I took to her like I had never taken to someone before, and she knows. She must know. The way she smiles at me, the way she carries herself around me, the way she looks-The way she looked at me, until this night. I was always a man of few words, but my silence tonight was different than any other night we had spent together before. My silence felt heavier and more painful, like daggers stabbing at my chest with every word left unspoken and every gesture left unanswered.Perhaps she noticed. Perhaps she noticed and didn’t know how to answer, although that would be a first for her. Or perhaps, she noticed a difference, a change that no one could explain.At first I was able to pretend that the numbness in my fingertips was a temporary side-effect, that I was just overworked or simply required more rest. Once the denial made space for panic, the absence of gentle touch spreading through to most of my fingers’ length in my dominant hand, hiding from the future and the consequences became a daunting task.Soon, I won’t feel the grip of my sword, the burn of the rope of my bow, the warmth of the fire, the cold of the water, or the gentle touch of a hand grasping mine. My strength wanes, even as I think of it. I am running a race against time, my own body failing me on the way, but not that it matters. Time is not known to be beaten. I will lose, and that is something I will have to come to accept, but it’s treacherous when my body is not willing to give in and still fighting the losing battle. I want to reassure it, that we’ll be okay, but perhaps my body knows more than my beaten mind.Tonight, I wanted to hold her as if it were my last time holding her. I wanted to bring her between my legs and kiss her forehead and just hold her there until daylight would break and the others would wake up.I wanted to cement her touch into my skin so I would never have to part with her again, even if it meant it would sear her body into mine.Instead, I lost myself in the few seconds she spent in my arms, trying to grasp the feeling so badly, the moment slipped between my fingers and faded away like any other vague memory.One of these nights will be the last one. One of these nights, will be the last night I hold her. And if the gods will it, one of those nights before it, will be the last time I will feel the touch of her skin. Do I risk dimming her shine, by telling her of my hardening touch, or do I let her live blissfully, to go on and inspire me and others blithely until I can no longer hide behind the silence?All I can think of, is this final moment and the darkness that surrounds it. She is my star, my warmth in the night, my forever presence. Perhaps it is only my fate to be her night sky.
","August 30, 2023 13:59",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,9rtnmp,First Mission,David Willett,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9rtnmp/,/short-story/9rtnmp/,Character,0,"['Science Fiction', 'Fantasy', 'Funny']",6 likes,"
	Protocol dictates I should not have plunged elbow-deep into the unknown alien goo. To hell with protocol, the crimson, amber and turquoise swirls were hypnotic, and they beckoned me to touch. So, I dived right in, consequences be damned. 
	'What the hell do you think you are doing?' Came the shrill voice of Mission Supervisor Marie Anderson. 
	'I am not quite sure,' I replied. I was still hunched over in a cat's pose, my silver landing party uniform growing increasingly dirty from the desert sand beneath me. 
	'Get your arms out of there immediately, Mission Specialist Taylor. Have you lost your freaking mind?' She asked a very good question. I was still not quite sure how I got there. I was not quite sure I wanted to leave, either. 
	It was supposed to be a routine survey of a desert moon in the Proxima system. However, I was about to learn that exploring other planets would be anything but routine.
	'Taylor, can you even hear me? Get out of there now. I cannot even tell you how many rules you are breaking.' Anderson was right. My predicament defied all logic, yet there I was. 
	'I want to, Marie, honestly, I do, but I can't. It is so beautiful, and it will not let me go.' 
	'Russell, I want you to focus on the sound of my voice.' Using my first name got my attention, and I angled my head to look directly at her. Anderson's piercing emerald eyes were fixed squarely on me. Her hair was the same colour as the golden sand that soiled her uniform.
	'I can't feel my hands, Marie. I don't know what is going on.' I stumbled on my words as I regained clarity. Whilst my hands may have been numb, I had grown aware the skin on my face was as dry as the desert itself. Moisture welled up in my dimples and almost instantly evaporated.
	'Alright, Russell, I want you to stay looking at me. I have called for the rest of the team, and we will get you out of this.' Her calmer tone helped keep me in the present even as my gelatinous captor tried to tempt me back into confusion.
	'I can't believe I screwed up like this on my first planetary mission.' I felt like if I kept talking, I would not succumb. 'I have looked forward to this moment since the Astrolabe left Earth. Hell, this is all I have dreamed of since applying to be on a generational mission.' 
	Marie scrunched up her forehead and softened her eyes at the same time. It was the kind of expression that conveyed pity or perhaps worry. It was hard to tell.
	A feeling of hundreds of little spider legs started clawing at my wrists. The further up they got, the less sensation I had. What had started in my hands now threatened to consume more of me. 
	'Don't look at it,' shouted Marie. She took a step in my direction before hesitating and moving away. I had not even realised that my gaze had shifted back towards the tempting liquid that was now devouring my arms. 
	'What do you think it wants?' I asked, my words breaking as they passed my trembling lips. 
	'It wanting something implies sentience Mission Specialist. What we have here could be as simple as what they used to refer to as quicksand back on Earth.' 
	'Does quicksand have a way of getting inside your head, so you become obsessed with it? Because that is what is happening here.' Marie's face contorted. I could tell she did not know what to say. 'How far away is the rest of the team?' I asked.
	'They took the landing pod up toward the equator for weather measurements. They said it would take them about thirty minutes to get back.' She glanced worryingly at the display on her wrist before looking back at me with a smile. 'Good thing I stayed behind with you, Russell.' 
	'Thank god for small miracles.' We both laughed just a bit. 
	The clawing in my arms had stopped just below my elbows. My mind was racing through numerous thoughts to divert attention from what was happening. 
	'How old are you, Mission Specialist?' Marie asked as she took a risk to close the distance between us. 
	'Twenty-three,' I replied, knowing I was a baby to her. She must have thought I was ridiculous. Here was a career space explorer with countless planetary missions under her belt counselling a rookie who couldn't grasp the simple concept of look but don't touch.
	'Older than I was on my first mission. I was only twenty when I first blasted out of the solar system on the Astrolabe.'
	'How many actual Earth years has it been since then?' I asked; I wondered how far some older crew members were removed generationally. 
	'It has been close to a century now. But for me, it has only been about twenty-five years.' She said, looking off into the distance as if remembering something just for her to know. 
	Mini sand blooms billowed under her knee as she moved to equalise our eye levels. This was a side of Marie I had not seen before. She had helped recover me from digital preservation when we first entered the Proxima system; my first impression was harsh. From the no-nonsense Mission Specialist who threw my uniform at my face to the sympathetic person keeping me calm whilst I was being eaten by goo, perceptions change fast. 
	'Russell,' she snapped me back into reality again. 'I need you to listen to me now. I have never lost anyone on a mission in twenty-five or a hundred years. Today is not the day I start tallying up lost Mission Specialists.' She was trying to cheer me up. Although, I could not help but feel that it was a deal that would be hard to keep. I do not think I had any control over what happened next. 
	All the same, I smiled at her and said, 'Deal.' 
	She probably hoped I didn't notice how she placed a reassuring hand on my body and recoiled instantly. I would not have wanted to touch me in that moment, either. 
	Suddenly, I noticed I could no longer make out Marie's face. It was like the sun had blinded me, only I was facing the wrong direction. As things became clearer, I saw her porcelain skin through rivers of rainbow light, which I followed to its source. It was radiating out from where my hands once existed. 
	Marie skidded back to her feet so fast that the shockwave of sand stung my face like a thousand little needles. I tried to regain some sense of what was happening, but all I wanted to do was vomit.
	The crawling on my arms returned as the imaginary spider colony clambered beyond my elbows. As they advanced, what was once a slight tickle was now a scorching pain. Trying to pull backwards made it feel like what was left of my arms would tear right from their sockets. The light and sand still hampering my vision.
	'Marie, please help me.' Was she even still there? Had she run away to save herself? 'Please, it hurts.' 
	I felt a pressure clamp around my ankles. A gentle force tugged at them, and I went from being on my knees to flat on my stomach, arms still splayed out in front of me, the goo now up to my biceps. 
	The pressure had moved further up my legs, closer to my hips. I felt like someone was trying to pull my pants down. I managed to lift my face up and turn my head. Marie was desperately tugging at my legs in a futile attempt to save me. 
	'Marie, don't, it will take us both.' I could not let the Astrolabe lose such a valuable crew member. They didn't need an idiot like me who would jump into the first pretty gel puddle he saw. But Marie, she was priceless. 
	'I am not losing you, Russell. We made a deal.' She was screaming. Why was she screaming? 
	I had not even noticed that Marie's attempts to save me had sped up my consumption. I could see the ballet dance of colours racing towards me. There was no stopping it now. 
	The burning in my arms ceased. A wave of Arctic cool washed over my face, tickling my entire head. An indescribable flurry of images completely consumed my vision. 
	I cannot remember what I was being shown. A download of incomprehensible information found its way into my mind. The speed of which caused an overwhelming razor-sharp headache. 
	I was no longer lying in the sand. I had no idea where I was or what was happening, and then, as quickly as it began, everything went silent.
	The silence was so soothing after the calamity that ravaged my body. Another bright light flooded my retina, only this time it had shape and form. Perception of the physical world returned to my mind as silhouettes blocked the light.
	'You are awake, Mission Specialist.' It was Marie's voice. I never knew I would be so happy to hear it. 'Doctor, we have him back.' She called out to someone I could not see.
	The white light faded, and the silhouette morphed into Marie. The smile on her face was somehow comforting and troubling at the same time.
	'Told you I was not going to lose you.' Her words made me realise that I could forever trust her. 
	With great effort, I angled myself upwards onto my elbows. My body felt strange, almost lighter and more relaxed.
	I saw the Chief Medical Officer moving toward me across the poorly illuminated Sickbay of the Astrolabe. I had not been in Sickbay since awakening from digital preservation, so I never really got to know her. She placed her olive-skinned hand on mine and glanced between Marie and me.
	'Hi Russell, not sure if you remember me, I am Doctor Jones.' She said with her calmest bedside manner. 'I am curious as to what you can remember about what happened on the planet?' 
	I stared back into her dark eyes. Like Marie, she was several years my senior, and I once again felt embarrassed about the predicament. It also dawned on me that I could not remember a thing after seeing Marie try to pull me out of the goo.
	'It was all so confusing. I remember there being a lot of pain and then nothing.' I replied. 
	Doctor Jones sighed and looked back at Marie, who said, 'Well, you were completely swallowed by whatever that gel or goo was. Only a minute later, it just vomited you back onto the sand.'
	That must have been a sight for Marie to see. Could this first mission have been any worse? Yes, it could.
	'And you are positive you cannot remember anything that happened whilst you were inside this, whatever it was?"" Doctor Jones asked. The tone of her voice was starting to worry me. 
	'I told you already, no. Why, what is wrong?""
	'Russell,' Marie interrupted. 'Actually, no, you should tell him, Doctor.' 
	'What is it?' I shouted.
	'I am not sure how to say this other than just to say it.' The inability of anyone to get to the point was starting to infuriate me.
	'We ran a lot of scans once Marie got you back onboard the ship. We were very thorough. What we found caused us to run those scans multiple times. We got the same result each time.'
	'And?' I asked.
	'Mission Specialist Russell Taylor. You are,' the Doctor paused again. 'Pregnant.' 
	The room revolved around me at a million miles an hour. I managed to centre myself just long enough to look at them both and say, 'But why can't I feel my hands still?' 
 
","August 31, 2023 03:17","[[{'Joe Sweeney': 'A very interesting story!', 'time': '02:48 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'David Willett': 'Hope you enjoyed it. My first attempt at a Reedsy prompt.', 'time': '19:02 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David Willett': 'Hope you enjoyed it. My first attempt at a Reedsy prompt.', 'time': '19:02 Sep 05, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,sztfdo,The Ledge,Sarah Fox,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/sztfdo/,/short-story/sztfdo/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Suspense']",5 likes,"
I can feel the panic slowly spreading through my body, as my hands go numb. My heartbeat racing, like that of a wild animal, as the jaws of death close around it's throat. My body is fully extended, as my hands clutch desperately at the uneven surface above and my toes balance the narrow ledge.BreatheI force myself to gulp in a lungful of the humid air, refusing to fail, refusing to fall. The sun is beating down on my face, it's making me squint. I feel a bead of sweat slowly run from my brow, down my the side of my face, where it lingers for a moment. I can feel the droplet, a tingling itch clinging to my skin. My heartbeat drums in my chest as I wait. Hoping it will defy the odds. Willing it to prevail.For a breath or two, I think it might.Then gravity seizes it's prize and the sweat falls, relinquishing it's hold on my jaw and vanishing. When it hits the ground, there will be a tiny splat as it shatters into a mess of a thousand droplets. These will rapidly soak into the dry ground. Gone. Just a hint of dampness left behind. And after a few minutes the sun will erase even that.I can't be like that bead of sweat. I can't let gravity claim me. I have to hold on.Time drips by, seconds feel like days.Already my knuckles are turning white, as the blood drains down my arms. My heart is labouring – an engine that has been firing non-stop for 32 years. I hope it doesn't fail me now.But reliable as it is, a heart is a puny force against the relentless pull of the earth. My fists are a milky-yellow. Blue veins gently pulse below the pallid skin. Almost like a gourmet cheese. The sort you'd find in a fancy corner deli. The thought makes my mouth water. My stomach growl.The muscles in my fingers start to whimper. I know how quickly a whimper can turn into a roar. I must snuff out the rebellion before it begins. Otherwise, the muscles might start to talk amongst themselves, to openly complain, to unionise and demand better treatment. Or worse, they might quit altogether. That would mean disaster.I need to distract them, to distract myself. For weeks I have been pushing any thoughts of food from my mind. Dreaming of a banquet when your body is slowly starving does no good, it only makes the hunger worse. You start to lose your mind, as you spend more and more time in a fantasy world.But as my arms start to cry, I allow my mind to picture a calorie rich spread of all my favourite dishes. Lasagne, with cheese sprinkled between each layer. A huge pot of vegetable soup, with dozens of lemon and parsley dumplings. Crispy pizza, with a rich tomato sauce and creamy mozzarella. Sweet, pink watermelon, the juice dripping down my elbows. A freshly baked scone, generously spread with clotted cream and topped with half a teaspoon of homemade loganberry jelly. Rich chocolate cake, with a jammy apricot filling and a decadent ganache. Greek salad, with succulent ripe tomatoes, slightly pungent feta, salty olives and freshly diced cucumber and capsicum.It's an exquisite kind of torture. I can almost taste the flavours. Almost. I have to swallow, to stop the drool from running from the corners of my mouth.But the pain in my shoulders...my arms...my hands...drags me back. My fists are aching, but there's also a slight tingling – like pins and needles. While clinging on, I try to grip a little tighter, then release just slightly, in an effort to coax the blood back into my hands. If I miscalculate and loosen my grip too much, it will all be over.I have to hold on.For me. For my mum. For my little boy.Jackson, with his button nose, thick lashes and shock of curls. Who loves to bake cupcakes and collects oddly shaped leaves, which he keeps pressed between the pages of the dictionary. Jackson, who's gap-toothed smile makes my heart melt.My eyes are stinging with tears, as I picture him at home, wondering where I am. Not understanding why his mum has left him. Does he think I've abandoned him? A sob racks my body.The small movement makes my hand slip just a little. I feel a jolt of energy pass through my body as I imagine falling. That was close. Too close. I almost let go.It's getting harder to ignore my body. The cry is turning into a howl. My muscles are becoming stiff and pain is mushrooming in all directions. But so is a numbness.How long has is been? Minutes? Hours?My body wants to give up, wants this to be over. But my mind doesn't. My mind was strong. My mind is in control. I am a survivor. I can do this.For a few minutes, I feel good. I feel strong. I feel in control.Then my body starts to tremble. It starts with a twitch somewhere around my left elbow, then a tremor. I try to force myself to be still, but this elbow has a mind of it's own. Soon it's shaking. The movement feels wild and dangerous – balancing as I am on the flimsiest of ledges.I try to imagine the tips of my fingers – digging into the surface. Sticky like frog fingers. Stuck with superglue. Motionless. Effortless.Superglue. I remembered using it to mend a shoe when I was little – squeezing just a couple of drops between the rubber sole and the leather upper – and squeezing them tight until it dried. I'd stuck half of my fingers together in the process and my mum had doused them with nail polish remover to un-stick them again.Would superglue hold my weight? If I put a pearl of it under each finger, pressed them down and waited the 90 seconds for it to dry, would that work? Would it hold my 60 kilograms? It was probably less now, I'd lost a lot of weight in the last week or so.I can hear heavy breathing. Is it my own? Then a clatter and a thud, somewhere to my left. I try to ignore it, drown out the world, focus on holding on.Is that a voice?No, I have to focus. I can feel my hand slipping again. Another thud. I reposition my left hand. Another thud. I move my right a little over. Another thud.My body is screaming, begging, pleading for me to let go.Another thud.I won't. I can't. I try to picture Jackson. I have to hold on. For him.Another thud.I try to picture his sweet face.Then footsteps.“And the winner of this challenge is Claire!”It's over. I can let go. I allow my hands to slip, my legs turn to jelly and I fall – half a metre onto the hot sand.“Congratulations Claire. You have won immunity this week. Nobody can vote you off the show. And you also get this peanut butter sandwich.”My hands are completely numb. White – but I watch, mesmerised at the blood slowly starts to flow back into them.“Please rejoin the group and head back to camp.”One of the other contestants helps me to my feet and I lean on her, as we follow the retreating camera-man back down the beach. Munching on my peanut butter sandwich.
","August 31, 2023 23:09","[[{'Mary Bendickson': ""The buildup and the suspense were superb. Couldn't figure out the why. Gratefully a non-lethal challenge. Very clever."", 'time': '03:39 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sarah Fox': 'Thank you Mary! It was a fun one to write :)', 'time': '21:58 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sarah Fox': 'Thank you Mary! It was a fun one to write :)', 'time': '21:58 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,ifsch1,A Thundering Noise from Afar,Gerald Boisvert,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ifsch1/,/short-story/ifsch1/,Character,0,"['Adventure', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Suspense']",5 likes,"
My wife Karen and I were watching the 6:00 pm news and focused our attention on a reported tornado path just north of us that appeared to be traveling eastward across the county just north of us. Our daughter was getting ready to head up that way to see her boyfriend, and my emphatic statement to her was, “girl, you best sit your butt down and chill, cuz you ain’t goin nowhere right now til’ that dag burn twister is out of this area!” Of course, she was madder than wet kitten after a bath, but I didn’t care at that point. Karen phoned up her mom’s to tell her and her daddy to stay in the basement while this whirling dervish was beating the ground underneath it. After it moved by, we hung up and they were in good shape and safe with little impact to them aside from some debris from neighbor’s homes, and a couple of blown down small trees. That storm had been rated an EF-2.
 
At 10:40 pm approximately, the on-air meteorologist changed view to show the storm that was spinning up a rotation signature over Pottstown. This, we knew, was probably goin to be the one that we would have to deal with. So, we watched, and it was obvious to me that the rotation on the storm was quite strong, and I mentioned that to Karen about a half minute before the station said the exact same thing. As they cycled through the storm, I noticed that the rotation pattern was heading east of us and there were debris balls associated with the rotation signature. At 10:55 pm, the debris ball and circulation signature were clearly heading straight in our path, so I yelled to Karen and Ellie, let’s git down to the cellar, and button everything up tight like. As I essentially pushed the women down the stairs, I forgot my flashlight on the kitchen counter not but 10-feet from me. I could hear that grim reaper of a thunderous roar coming towards us, but I took a chance and leapt for the flashlight and started making a beeline back to the cellar door, when the twister slammed like a 30-car freight train into the side of the house. The house was literally lifted on one side into the air creating a 30-degree angle between my reaching the doorway and getting blown back into the kitchen area. I could see nothing but lamps, desk drawers, garage shovels, rakes, even my John Deere tractor being tossed around as if it were feathers from birds flying through the calm air. I could hear the muffled screams of my Karen and daughter Ellie as they yelled for me to get to them, but the force against me too great at that point in time. Suddenly, the wind subsided a bit giving me the chance to crawl quickly to the door, but just as I got up to take a first step, the refrigerator got tossed up in the air from the horrific twisting forces, and it landed right on my right arm from the elbow down to the hand. It pinned me against the inner cabinets with such a great impact, that I could not even move one inch in any direction.
As I was secured down with the weight of the fridge, and high intensity winds of the tornado, I could feel the life within my hand and fingers move from me. It began with a numbness and tingling sensation in the fingertips that quickly traveled into my hand, my wrist, and then down the forearm. As I was in the precarious position of no movement with more than 250 pounds cinching my forearm and hand, I thought about only one thing, and that was the safety of my wife and daughter. I did everything that I could to push with my legs and jostle the fridge off me, but just as I began to feel some movement of this monstrosity, it gave way and I felt something wet smother my pinned arm and hand area. The pain was so intense and sharp that it made me sick to my stomach. Then as fast as the pain came upon me, it began to wane, and the feeling was gone. I felt nothing at all from that extremity, and knew that if help didn’t come soon, I would more than likely lose the arm to gangrene. At that point in time, the wicked twister had passed the area, winds had calmed down, the rain stopped, and as I looked up to the surroundings, I could see only the sky because the tornado had torn the roof right off the home that we had built not but 3-years prior. I could hear my wife and daughter down in the basement crying hysterically, and then at that moment, one of the neighbor friends down the road rushed into the debris laden house and saw me pinned underneath the refrigerator. He went to the other side of the fridge and must have seen my arm and hand condition because he ran to the outside of the home, and yelled for the ambulance to come this way. 
As the dust settled, and the region got cleaned up to some degree, I was getting out of the rehabilitation hospital where I had been for the last 6-weeks. My arm from the elbow down had to be amputated due to so much lost blood, and lack of flow and oxygen. I knew at the very moment while pinned underneath that fridge when my time was up for any ability to hold a ball in my dominant hand or raise a fork full of brisket to my mouth savoring every bite. Yes, my days were done with an easy life and having no troubles to a life feeling no more sensation. The warm gesturing caress of my darling Karen’s cheek using my skillful own hand was an end that came sadly to me, but I was still alive to see and experience the goodness that allowed me to weather that one day in a summer of 2014.  The reality of my life had flashed before me in a matter of less than 30-minutes, but it was just enough to allow me to feel life then loss.  From that time forward, I never, ever took one thing for granted and lived every single day of my life as if it was my last one here on Earth.
 
 
","August 26, 2023 17:53",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,tjhvq6,There was a Roach In the Peach Tree,Theresa Coleman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tjhvq6/,/short-story/tjhvq6/,Character,0,"['African American', 'Gay', 'Sad']",5 likes,"
Trigger Warning: Death, Grief, and ColorismThe milky white mucus that would leak from her eyes had left lines carved into her face. A face I would only ever describe as hypnotically gorgeous was now contorted into a strange expression. My dull brain can’t come up with a fitting explanation for this. The only thing that comes to mind is that it was from an infection. Or perhaps the anguish of taking her final breaths. All that pain made the moisture in her body turn into an indistinguishable whiteness. It was like the clouds of her eventual resting place were already in her. Even with the aching written on every visible inch, I’d still say she was the most beautiful person. The color of her torturous infection was in direct contrast to her alluringly bronzed skin. The discharge, coupled with foundation shades lighter than her, made everyone whisper.""Ugly.""It wasn’t an uncommon thing for dimwitted people to say about her. Her beauty mystified them, and with that came envy. Everyone else in my hometown had the color that comes into your bloodline when a master overpowers a slave. She was our original shade and was ousted because of it. The last time I’ll ever see her, they made her as hideous as they pretended she was. Some vomit crept into my throat as I looked upon the horrors of envy on her face. No one had even thought of shutting her eyes. Those pools of obsidian seemed out of place next to her falsely lightened skin. They no longer fit in her body, which was laid in a casket.I shiver while rubbing my hands against the cold mahogany. A splinter makes my finger leap from it. The small droplet of blood leaves a dark stain on the white cloth lining. That one speck of color is more in line with what she would have wanted to be buried in. White was a choice the town made to go against her. The vomit and pain in my chest made me do the unthinkable.I had to do it.I reached out my calloused, bloody finger to her still slightly warm face. I feel how the shea butter she always wears makes her skin so soft and supple. Her eyelids give in easily as I close them.In a time of mourning, the town always warns not to touch the dead. I spent so many days being told not to without being told why not. It was a veiled threat as successful as ""don’t touch a hot stove."" You have to do it to actually learn. Warnings are never enough to end curiosity. I almost want to laugh at the thought: If I touched a stove now, my fingers would blister, but I would never feel the heat. ""Don’t ever touch no dead body lying in their casket. They are only for God and rest now. You go ahead and touch them; they gonna steal something from you.""My grandmother repeated this to me almost every second in the days leading up to the service. As if she already knew I was going to do it. They had slapped on some ill-fitting dress before laying her in the casket. They bought the wrong makeup before laying her in the casket. Left her eyes open in the casket. They were begging for me to touch a dead body. To disturb her sleep, and in doing so, she took something from me. However, I would have gladly given her everything.""Ain’t no sense in touchin' a roach, no how.""""She ain’t a roach."" Saltiness fell from my eyes in my many attempts to defend my lover’s beauty. ""Zama.""Her mouth had formed enchanting notes the first time she ever spoke to me. She told me her name meant to try. And she had spent her whole life trying to defy expectations. Zama lays there unmoving, her eyes finally closed. I can tell she is trying to make sure I don’t cry. With that one touch, I could feel our past in her velvety skin. The tickles from the peach fuzz on her face bring me back to summer. The warmth of it brings me back to being under the sun, sitting on the peach tree in my backyard. ""There’s a roach in our tree. Go get it out. ""My grandmother yelled out to me as I was sweating through my clothes, leaving wet stains on my bed sheets. The summer sun was brutal that year. The last thing I wanted to do was face it and risk burning. I never imagined that once my lazy feet made it past the threshold, I would see her. Not a roach, but a charming girl climbing up our tree. I had heard about Roach many times before. But I never gave that name to the stranger I would see in town. Zama waved to me before quickly making her way to the highest branch. Her family never fed her enough throughout the day, making the tree the perfect refuge. She appeared to be maybe a year or two older than me. One day I’d be older than her, while she’s stuck at this age. That time between girlhood and being a grown woman. I learned how to climb just so I could ask her what her name actually was. That became the most delectable pastime. Every day, I risked the sun to sit in a peach tree. We ate the unwashed fruits until our bellies hurt while telling jokes and swapping secrets. The tart flesh of peaches would burst from their skin and into my mouth. That satisfying sensation was nothing compared to the first time Zama held my hand. I felt all the wonders of touch in her embrace. Her bluish-black skin made the sun and moon battle over who could show her off best. She would hold my hand under the light of both. The tingles and sweat from my palm would make her giggle. That was better than a peach too—not saccharine sweet, just right. Her clothes were tattered, but she only ever wore her favorite colors. Reds, oranges, and yellows fit in with the peaches. Red tempted the most; it clings tightly to her body like paint. Whenever she wore red, I swear dozens of peaches would fall to the ground to make room for her. And I'd smash them under my feet. They were undoubtedly jealous. Zama’s tiny frame felt like home whenever I reached out to graze it. I must be special to have been allowed to stroke my rough hands against her.On our last night together, she told me I was beautiful. A comment I was told by countless people but should have only belonged to her. I was dull. My loose curls looked silly next to her tightly coiled ones. Her hair stood taller than the trees. If it had grown any longer, it would’ve reached God. As her spirit left to greet him, he would detangle her hair and put it in braids for her. These braids would fall from the heavens to the earth, and I’d climb them. Even if the straw-like feel of them cut through my fingertips, I’d climb. Bloody, I’d embrace her before, even thinking to acknowledge God. I learned how to use these hands to climb and be with her wherever she goes.The image of her long braids and giggles in heaven pales compared to the sight of her in the casket. My hazy, tear-filled eyes can’t adjust to this image of her. When my hand finally leaves her, I let it fall to my side. There is so much we feel without even being aware of it. The light feel of air left my fingers. And before long, numbness trickled up my whole hand. When you touch the dead, interrupting their sleep, they take something from you. Zama took my sense of touch. Feeling was something that had already left me the day she died.  ""Was it worth losing your touch? Never being able to feel the softness of a baby's face? Or the papery feel of a flower, the prickliness of wood, or the feeling of your own skin? You gave up all that to touch a roach?''The whispers followed me out of the church and all the way down the block until I was in front of our tree. When I rub my fingers on the bark, I feel nothing. But I am glad to have felt love once.
","September 01, 2023 03:36","[[{'Иляя Илчка': 'https://themyelitedatequest.life/?u=0uww0kv&o=1e0px26', 'time': '17:56 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,xvi9yy,The Honeymoon,Caroline Jenner,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xvi9yy/,/short-story/xvi9yy/,Character,0,['Urban Fantasy'],5 likes,"
I woke up and stretched. My fingers felt weird. Not quite long enough and in the wrong place. My head seemed to be sitting all wrong on my shoulders and somehow I was splayed on the bed in a really odd position. It was Sunday morning and we were due to fly home. My honeymoon had been an unmitigated disaster and I wondered how things were going to work out once we were back.
‘There now, that’s much better,’ I heard Dan say.
I tried to reply but words didn’t come out of my mouth, just this strange sound – a sort of yowl. I tried to sit up and fell over sideways. My eyes weren’t functioning properly, everything seemed to be black and white with occasional shades of grey. I felt Dan’s hand – it seemed to run down my body in a way that was about the most sensual it had been the whole holiday.
Dan had spent the fortnight telling me that I was fat, that my clothes, especially swimwear accentuated my chubbiness. He drank too much and told me just how unattractive I looked compared to the other girls on the beach, by the pool, at the bar. In fact it would appear that everyone had been more attractive than me. I tried to stand up again – I knew I hadn’t drunk that much the previous night. I could see out of the corner of my eye the suitcases all packed in the corner but I still couldn’t quite make my legs and arms work.
Someone opened the door.
‘Did it work?’ It sounded like Eleanora the chamber maid – the very attractive, slim, elegant chambermaid.
‘Like a charm,’ I heard Dan reply. I was confused – it looked like she was wearing my jeans and top – the ones that I bought before I put on the weight and packed to remind myself not to overindulge. I tried to speak again but another yowl came out.
‘Ah here pussy, pussy,’ I heard her say and then another hand, rougher this time seemed to somehow pick me up and put me outside the door of the chalet. I sat on the floor of the verandah and tried to make sense of what had just happened and that’s when I noticed the tail. It seemed to come from behind me somewhere and then appeared to go underneath me. I felt like I was squashing it somehow. I tried to move and the tail moved too. I rolled over and the tail sprang free and that’s when I realized it was attached. I scrabbled to my feet but didn’t go anywhere. I was rooted to the spot. I seemed to have four feet, four legs …. and a tail. 
Wobbling as I tried to gain my balance I moved nearer to the French windows that opened into the room. Dan was snogging Eleanora – the full works, tongue down the throat, hand down the jeans, my jeans, and Eleanora was clearly enjoying it. A knock on the door stopped their antics and a voice called out that their taxi was ready. Dan passed the luggage out and looked towards the verandah. He spotted me looking through the window and waved. 
‘Bye Fatty, enjoy the rest of your life …’ and then he and Eleanora disappeared.
I sat down on the floor and tried to make sense of what was going on. I thought I must be dreaming and that perhaps if I pinched myself I would wake up but I didn’t have any fingers. I tried biting the tail but I couldn’t reach it so I nibbled my leg. It just hurt. I thought perhaps the dream was a sign that I should definitely leave Dan once we were home and not try to lose weight and patch things up. Well I thought most cats can jump so let’s see if I can jump onto the comfy basket chair and mull over my options.
Fifteen minutes later I had rather inelegantly managed to scrabble up the wicker chair and arrange myself on the cushion. I seemed to have too many appendages and sorting out which leg went where and avoiding catching my whiskers was quite challenging. The sun was just swinging across the verandah and it was warm and cosy. I settled down for a snooze.
I was awoken by an Eleanora lookalike bashing me with a broom and chasing me off the verandah,
‘Shoo, pesky stray – get away,’ the broom swept me off the verandah into a bush. I tried to explain it was my room but again no words, just a weird mewling sound. ‘Great big fat brute, go away and don’t come back.’ She slammed the door and I could see her stripping the bed linen and removing the towels.
Fat – I thought to myself – rude!
‘You need to find your own patch you can’t stay here.’ A voice made me turn round and fall over my feet. I wondered how long this dream would last and whether I would learn to walk properly before I woke up. I looked toward the voice and saw a thin black and white cat, with green eyes and a spiteful expression. 
‘Don’t think anyone will have any sympathy for you … you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. You’ll get over the shock soon enough.’
I tried to reply but couldn’t. The cat just laughed and stalked off – tail held high.
‘Don’t forget – move on, this is not your patch.’ I heard as the cat strolled off down the path towards the beach. I decided to try walking again, watching the cat and trying to mimic its actions. Every couple of steps I tilted and found myself lying on my side.
‘Having trouble?’ I heard a voice. It sounded kind and warm, a purry sort of gentle voice. I glanced round to see a large ginger Tom looking at me. ‘Don’t take any notice of old sour puss … she was abandoned here years ago and is still angry with her partner.’
I tried to look like I had some idea what he was talking about. I tried opening my mouth but nothing came out. I slipped sideways again with the effort of attempting to speak. I swear the ginger cat was trying not to laugh. He came and patted me with his paw in a friendly way.
‘Look, you need to know there is no way you can go back. This is the Dominican Republic but we are right on the Haitian border and there’s some serious Voodoo shit over there. Your man has headed back home with his Haitian bird and left you here. First you need to know you can’t speak you need to think your words.’
‘Think my words, what the hell does that mean,’ I wondered.
‘Exactly that ..’ was the reply.
‘Did you read my mind?’
‘Yes, that’s what we all do – the changeling cats. There are about 11 of us – 12 with you. But you are certainly the best looking lady that’s rocked up in a long time.’
‘Hmm smooth talking cat,’ I thought and saw the grin again. I wondered what he had looked like before. If that grin was anything to go by a real charmer.
‘My girlfriend thought I was an overweight ginger minger in answer to your question,’
‘Need to make sure I keep my thoughts to myself then ..’
‘Or turn the other way – can only hear you when you’re facing me,’
I didn’t want to try turning at all, previous attempts at walking had left me looking ridiculous. I wondered if the ginger charmer might be willing to give me a few tips.
‘Don’t try to think too hard. Just move naturally. You are always going to be a human in a cat’s body but you need to separate your brain from your body and let your body just move.’
I tried, it was easier than I expected. Perhaps because back home that’s exactly what I did, working in an office where I spent most of my time inputting bloody, boring data and trying to ignore the inane chatter around me had given me plenty of time to separate myself into lots of boxes.
‘Wow, you are sashaying like a pro….’ said my new found friend, prompting me to tumble over sideways. 
I felt myself begin to well up, I wasn’t sure where the tears would come from or where they would go, but it all suddenly seemed slightly overwhelming and surreal. I was hoping that I might wake up soon, despite the fact that the ginger cat was about the friendliest thing I had found on the island since I’d arrived with Dan two weeks before.
‘Come with me,’ that warm, purry voice was reassuring. ‘Follow me down towards the beach and then behind the shed where they store the kayaks.’
I made it down to the beach and padded round the back of the kayak shed. A hole in the wooden slats at the back led inside, where there were old towels, pillowcases and odd garments that had clearly been left on the beach.’
‘We live here, the kayak guy knows but doesn’t seem to mind. There’s plenty of food. You’ll want human food. It’s one of the weird things that you retain the same likes and dislikes as before. But there’s loads of food here. So much waste with all inclusive resorts you’ll never go hungry. Are you hungry now? I happen to know they’ve thrown away a big batch of pasta’
I nodded I was actually quite hungry. If this dream was going to last a little longer then spending time with this ginger cat might not be too bad. I turned my head away so he couldn’t see the vision of Lady and the Tramp and that piece of spaghetti  dancing through my memory.
 
","September 01, 2023 07:46",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,48m840,The Sunset,Abbas Garmabi,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/48m840/,/short-story/48m840/,Character,0,"['Drama', 'Fiction', 'Science Fiction']",5 likes,"
“I’m touching you, love.”  A voice echoed in my mind.
 
I knew that I was dreaming. In a vast white background, we were together, just she and I. Just she and I, without our possessions and all naked. Our hands, big ones, are wandering all over and touching each other’s bodies lovingly, and our bodies are without our faces.
 
And I remember, I dreamed again; I hugged her whiteness with my big hands and kissed her. As I kissed her, each part became dark. I continued kissing her whole body until her whole body darkened. And then it was endless darkness.
 
A vague but welcoming smell woke me up. Half awake, I opened my eyes to the cleavage of two big white breasts, which were literally on my face, and I smiled in my mind.
 
A few minutes later, the good-looking, chubby maid finished cleaning and drying my body and was leaving our house. 
 
My electronic wheelchair started driving me to the garden balcony. I felt whole again; although I’m a disabled middle-aged former psychologist. That time of the day was always the greatest time for me; the minutes leading to sunset.
 
It’s been two years since that ill-fated terrible accident and the start of my mysterious illness. I remember clearly that day and those moments. However, I can’t express my feelings to anybody about it. Why?! If you can see me, my computer screen is churning out words, but I’m not typing on a keyboard; I’m writing this via a chipset that was implanted into my brain last year. It helps me in my daily communication and to express my feelings and thoughts through my writing.
 
What’s my illness, if you wonder? Nobody knows yet, but I was one of the first victims of this still-unknown virus that destroys the human body's nervous system.
 
I vividly remember that everything started when I lost control of my fingers.
In the last few days of December two years ago, I was driving back home, and a peculiar feeling took over my body. Then, I felt blood dripping from my nose, and I quickly raised my right hand up to clean it. But my fingers started to clench into a fist.
 
Immediately after, my left hand moved towards my right hand, and both my hands were locked to the wheel, and I could not move my fingers or hands! So, I instantly pushed the brake with all my strength and tried to hold the wheel firm with my forehead, but the ground was slippery, and it was too late! 
My car was spinning on itself and quickly overturned. I couldn’t do anything else, so I closed my eyes and gave in to my fate. The last thing I remembered at that moment was an advertisement on the back of a red double-deck bus with the words “Do not forget to touch her hand”. Are they still using these old craps in the streets of London?! I was asking myself.
 
I was in a coma for over a year after that horrible accident. 
 
And I remember that whiteness and darkness with a vague voice that led me out of it.
 
“Is he awake?” A voice echoed. 
 
“Yes, talk to him.” Another voice replied.
 
“My love! Do you hear me?” The now familiar voice again. And I opened my eyes to her lovely, bright face. 
 
Then I realized another person, a nurse. She was rubbing something. 
 
I looked around and realized I was in her hospital when I heard her lovely but blurry voice again.
 
“Love, do you hear my voice?” Blink if you do.
 
And I did.
 
I tried to smile, but my lips didn’t help. Finally, “Hey, sexy Doc!” I said with a bit of sarcasm. 
 
“Don’t be daft, please,” she replied seriously while reading my medical reports. She then ignored me and continued reading for a while. She flipped through the reports and took another look at my MRI report.
“There was an accident… how long have I been here? What’s happened, honey?!” I asked.
 
“Love, it’s been too long; you were in a coma for one year from the accident but thankfully with only external injuries. However, we found a virus in your brain that is very serious,” she replied. Then she turned her head and stared at me for a long time. “The virus is quite similar to one that caused one of the rarest illnesses recorded in medical history.”
 
“And?” I said.
 
“I can’t say for sure what it is, but…” She stopped for a long time and then looked into my eyes.
 
“Love?” I continued.
 
She made herself busy with the reports again. “Your brain condition isn’t good, love, but you are awake now. It’s been too long but I knew you would awake.” she replied and kissed and hugged me.
 
I knew my health was not good and my wife was unhappy, but something was forcing her, one of the top brain surgeons in the UK, to be like this.
 
My progress in the hospital was excellent, according to her, and I managed to walk after intensive rehabilitation. So, after a few weeks, she signed my dismissal paper, and I was ready to return home.
 
“You’re all ready for home, love. I have set up the study room with the physiotherapy machine for you to continue with the massages and exercises. I’m sure with this latest machine, you will be able to move your fingers again and hopefully the feelings in them too,” she continued. 
 
A few weeks later, I was at home resting in bed, watching my favorite sitcom, and had already started writing an autobiography about my illness.
 
The first few weeks after my dismissal from the hospital turned out to be one of the worst times of my life, but she was always there next to me, helping with all the robotic equipment they recommended for my physiotherapy treatments. But I still couldn’t move my fingers, and worse still, after a few weeks, my hands joined them.
 
My fingers had clenched into tight fists, and most of the time was spent stimulating them with the machine with vibration and heat to relax and keep them active. However, we still could not straighten the fingers for further exercises. We tried many times, but the illness progressed fast, and I lost my fingers and eventually my hands, too.
 
She was giving me her whole attention daily; caring, loving, and giving me all, and the worst thing was I couldn’t even hug her properly.
 
My fingers had ceased to show any progress and now I couldn’t feel my arms either. We just continued with the stimulations to relax the muscles, so as not to stiffen them. None of the new medicines, physiotherapies, and even alternative medicine were helping, and we were fearful I was becoming a cripple.
 
We were practising a special yoga together on our balcony daily; she helped me with the exercises for my fingers. At other times, she helped to edit my autobiography.
 
The illness degenerated quickly and spread to my legs; I accepted that I would be entirely disabled one day.
 
In our last lovemaking, we decided to have fun in our favorite place, our garden balcony. All we had were our nurse wine glasses filled to the brim, a thin bedsheet, and our bodies. She was all passionate and loving that night while my body was at the darkest point of my illness. 
 
One morning, the pain in my body woke me up dreadfully. I couldn’t move any of my limbs already by that time, and I tried to shout! But nothing happened in my mouth!
I felt terrible, strangled and drowning in myself, but her voice calmed me down. “Hey! Morning Sunshine!” She smiled and turned her body toward me.
I saw her hands on my face. Her smile was telling me, “there’s no need to say anything at all. I know every inch of you and am here for you.”
 
My efforts to talk again ended up with another horrifying sound from my mouth. She was still smiling and started to speak. “We knew this would happen, love. Remember we talked about this moment. So, do not be afraid. We have the microchip ready for you to use to communicate. Alright, love?”
 
“Now, let me do my duties before the maid appears. We don’t want her to see those dirty pants, do we?! She checked my pajama bottom and I saw her face smiling. What a clean and neat big boy we have here!” Now listen to me carefully. She was preparing and moving the wheelchair to me while talking. She told me that I could hear her voice, but because of the virus in my brain, I couldn’t talk and answer her.
 
And that’s the story of my disease as I rode my wheelchair to the balcony. However, the wheelchair stopped in the middle of the living room and forced me to see something on TV; these stupid companies made these wheelchairs so irritatingly intelligent.
The TV was on and showing a program about the horrible virus pandemic. Nobody is hopeful for a cure and for the future of the human race. Things that I already knew because I was patient Zero.
 
But the computer connected to my brain’s chipset was sending it all to my brain. The information is now useless not just for me but for everyone. The virus spreads the disease without any boundaries of race, age, or gender, and it destroys brains in just a few months. It has also spread all over the globe. 
 
And WHO is apologizing for the late warning. What the hell?!
 
A reporter asked, “Do you think the situation will get worse?” 
Some stupid virologist replied, “Unfortunately, yes. Scientists are working tirelessly to find a vaccine in laboratories, but the virus spread is unbelievably fast, and we can say the human race could be on the brink of extinction with the rapid disabilities it causes.”
 
I couldn’t listen to the nonsense anymore. I heard that a few more million people had been infected, and the number was reaching a billion rapidly.
 
Was the world going to end?! I didn’t care.
 
I knew that if I wanted to spend my last day on earth fruitfully, my only last wish was to look into her lovely face and nothing else. To close my eyes for the last time with her face in my vision.
 
I pushed my brain harder to force my wheelchair to drive towards the balcony. To her, sitting in another wheelchair, waiting for the sun to set and enjoying it, as we had been doing daily. 
 
And I finally was there, next to her.
 
She turned her wheelchair a bit towards me, although I could already see her face perfectly. She smiled, and we both waited to witness the sunset.
 
After a while... “I’m touching you love,” her voice echoed in my mind. 
“I know it,” my chipset assistant replied.
","September 01, 2023 16:08",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,lpe4dp,The Hands of His,Arely Rubio,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lpe4dp/,/short-story/lpe4dp/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Inspirational', 'Teens & Young Adult']",5 likes,"
	Hands are meant to be kissed on dates, hands are meant to be squeezed during hard times, and hands are meant to come together to pray to God when you feel there is no one else that can understand you. I used to feel the warm touch of my mother’s embrace every day before I left the house, her red lipstick leaving a stain on my forehead for the rest of the day, and I used to touch the cold snow of winter when building a snowman when snow days meant more than a chore of shoveling your car out of the driveway. As I grew older my hands were needed in other ways than putting olives on my fingertips. They were expected to move mountains rather than color inside of the lines. They were expected to mend relationships that I never broke rather than clapping out three-word syllables to the teacher. I used to put my hands on my dog’s face and wonder if I could ever love someone just as much as I loved the creature in front of me. Now, I put my hands on my husband’s wet face, promising him everything was going to be okay, when I was the one who needed to hear it the most, hoping the more I said it the more I would believe it. My hands have wiped more tears than water the Nile River can hold. My pinkies have promised more promises than a Dad has broken about showing up to their son’s baseball games. My palms have held up the heads of more people than mothers have told their child ”It’s okay he will be at the next one” as she checks her phone for any messages from him. That day, I took for granted the birthdays I had icing on my fingers and the little occasions I used as an excuse to paint my nails a different color. I hadn’t had icing in months and my nails were as bare as the day I was born. Everything changed and I can tell you ten reasons as to why it will never be the same, just don’t expect me to count them on my fingers…That day I woke up extra early, the birds were still sound asleep, the sun had yet to creep above the horizon, and my mother had not yet risen for her first out of three cups of coffee. My younger brother was passed out on the couch, still in his baseball uniform from his game the night before, a half-eaten bowl of Stouffers Mac and cheese keeping him company. He looked exhausted, worn out, in a way a 10-year-old should never look. I remember grabbing a blanket from the chair next to him and laying it across him as if that would warm any coldness he felt from never being picked up and brought to his room by our parents. I kissed his cheek and left for the shoreline.The walk to the beach felt almost just as rewarding as seeing God’s latest finger painting in the sky above. It was a fifteen-minute walk, filled with seashells, manatee mailboxes, windchimes, and footprints on the sandy roads. The houses were small and all different shades of the rainbow, making our town resemble a painter’s palette halfway through their piece, beautifully messy. It was two minutes into the walk, I bent down to get a seashell that resembled the stitching of a baseball for my brother, my index finger and thumb expected to do the job it has done its whole life. My body knows of three actions engraved into my soul. One is, lacing up my brother’s cleats in a way that doesn’t make his feet feel like “they are being choked by Hercules,” his words not mine. Two being, cooking food for the house where not a single complaint bolted from their mouths. A skill I held close to my heart given that my brother is the pickiest eater I have ever met, my mother only seems to allow caffeine to enter her body, and my father whose meal has to go well with a couple bottles of beer. The third is, picking up seashells along the way to the only place I feel like I am living my life for me and only me. The action is simple but holds the meaning of countless peaceful memories of mine. Here I am, two minutes later, still struggling to get the shell from the sidewalk into the palm of my hand. Both my index fingers and thumbs seem to have forgotten the duty of what they have done for all seventeen years of my life and now I found myself trying to pick it up with my bare feet. I can feel the early risers on their rocking chairs, holding their warm cup of coffee in both hands, wondering why there is a girl on the sidewalk trying to grab a seashell in the way monkeys peel their bananas. I decided to keep walking and let the shell be someone else's embarrassment for the morning. It was seven minutes into the walk and since my faceoff with an inanimate object, all I could do was stare at my fingers, hoping they would grow mouths and tell me why they were so mad at me. I try to distract myself. If they can’t even pick up a shell, how can I expect them to grow a tongue and speak? I look at the towering palm trees, breathe in the sea salt air, and wave to the delightful woman with her vicious dog, wondering if I could ever be like her and see beauty in the things that seem to want to bite my head off. When I was fourteen years old, when my father still brought life into the family he chose to make, he brought back flowers from the rundown garden store next to the construction site he was working at. I imagined the journey the flowers must have taken with five six-foot-tall men crammed into the back of an old Ford truck. I wondered if the flowers saw my dad laugh more than he did at the dinner table, if the flowers felt the gentle touch he used to have with me when trying to do my hair for school, or if they loved the scent of wood and pine he brought home after a long day of work just as much as I still do. I’ll never forget the smile he had on his face when bringing me home what I assumed was a bouquet of pink lilies before the truck wind blew most of the pedals away. They looked even better now than what I imagine they looked when he bought them. Now, they smelled like sawdust mixed with the sweet scent of flowers. If I could make that into a candle, I would let it burn forever. It was now ten minutes into the walk and the sweet scent of my favorite home already filled my nose, making my bare feet do a little skip. The morning sky was beginning to have a tint of orange, a message my heart had memorized indicating the sun should be up within the next ten minutes. The weather was cool, just enough to feel comfortable in a bikini and one of my Dad’s old construction shirts, it still smelled like him, the old him. I rounded the corner onto Ocean Ave and was immediately greeted by Miss Violet. Her curly orange hair gave her three more inches, and her big pink framed glasses made her eyes look like a pair of peaches.“Oh, good morning, honey!” She called from her bright purple porch, “A blessed morning on this big rock of ours isn’t it?”I had to step to the left, squat a little, and tilt my head to the right to see the elderly woman in her wooden chair sitting in the only spot that was not filled with wildflowers and butterflies. This easily grew to be my second favorite view, after the ocean.“Absolutely gorgeous,” I yelled back from across the fence, “Did you see the full moon last night?”I could hear her chair creek from across the garden, the most telling sign of excitement from a 70-year-old woman. “Oh boy, did I see it?! Sweetheart, I fell asleep outside my balcony and woke up with binocular imprints on my eyes! It was one of the loveliest views I have had in a while. I feel like I could see my Henry in the cradles of that oversized stone.”I loved how she always referred to her husband as my Henry. Even though he exhaled his last breath on Earth and inhaled his first into Heaven, they still seemed to have left enough love in the air for them to be breathing together, and that in itself was a beautiful thing. “I baked your family a little something last night, I’ll be right back!” Miss Violet said as she made her way through the stained glass front door. Miss Violet remembers our family in the cookie-cutter form. Her visions of us go as deep as the picture-perfect Christmas cards we had to retake at least seven times, school photos of my brother and I minutes after crying to our parents about how we didn’t want to wear the clothes they chose for us, and family walks to the beach after a huge blow-up, knowing that if we stayed in that house any longer one of us would never had come. I didn’t mind her perfect picture of us, in some ways it was comforting, for both me as well as her. Everything seemed to shine a little brighter in this world to her than the rest of us, and in no way was I going to be the one to ruin it.Her house sat right across from the sea, her porch, and two balconies in perfect position for dolphin seeking, sunset chasing, and thunderstorm watching. It was a bigger home for one person but she filled it with enough life to make the whole world seem small. I have only been inside once, when I was seven years old, and scraped my knee running towards the ocean trying to catch the sun before it went down. She took me in, placed me on top of the counter, and wrapped my knee with one of her colorful scarves. She told me the scarf held magic and that if I wished hard enough, all the pain would go away. She was right about my knee, but I think I needed a few more scarves in order to heal the rest of my scars. The outside of her house can only be explained as the ones you see in the fairytales. A beautiful green garden filled up her front yard, allowing vines to crawl up the side of her house. Granting Rapunzel to be saved any second of any hour. I could never name a color that wasn’t visible in her plants, no matter how hard I tried. Butterflies flew inside the white picket fence attaching themselves to you like bears to honey. If Miss Violet ever left, her spirit animal would undoubtedly be a butterfly. Miss Violet came out of the door gleaming, her hands in two mismatched kitchen gloves, displaying a tin can of freshly baked blueberry muffins, “I reheated them for you, come up and try one!”I made my way through the lilies, past the hibiscuses, and around the daisies, finally landing my bare feet onto her sandy porch. “I picked the blueberries yesterday afternoon, they were just ripe enough for this batch and I had just gone to the market that morning for my baking supplies. It was as if The Universe told me you needed some freshly baked goods in your life, and who am I to turn down such a request?” She put the tin on the glass table in front of her, took one of her gloves off, and motioned me to sit down in the porch chair next to her. She used to have two chairs, one for her and one for her Henry. However, one day, after a sunset swim, there were three chairs. That evening she invited me up to her porch and told me the story of how they met. “Try it. It has to be one of my best!” She handed me the muffin and it was as though my hand was nothing more than a hologram as it went tumbling down onto the wooden paneled porch. Freshly picked blueberries falling through the cracks. “Oh dear! It’s been a while since I fed the squirrels so they’ll thank you later! It looked a little burnt anyway.” She smiled and grabbed another, this one perfectly golden brown. Moments later another muffin went tumbling down, this time making its way past the porch steps onto the newly molded dirt. I looked at my hands wondering if they belonged to me.I clapped my hands, nothing. I twiddled my thumbs, nothing. I made the executive decision to pretend my fingers were the last food on Earth and bit down, hard. I didn’t feel the need to stop until I tasted blood on the tip of my tongue.  “Darling, are you okay?!” She grabbed a hold of my bleeding hands and put them against hers. Her touch felt warm and loving, like she held the hands of her loved ones many times before, as if her heart depended on helping others to keep beating. I grew accustomed to my father’s callused hands and yet somehow both felt just as nice. Her blue eyes were filled with worry and I could tell if I stared any longer a tear would find its way onto my freckled, sun-kissed cheeks. “They were just hot, that’s all,” I tried my best to prevent my knees from buckling after lying to one of my favorite people. “I should get to the beach before the sun comes up! Thank you again for the muffins, I know my family is going to love them.” I found myself halfway through the enchanted garden before I heard her calling after me. “But Honey! You forgot the muffins!”I look down at my palms, empty of feeling and baked goods. Never a good combination. “I will stop by after the beach. I’ll bring you some seashells I find!” I swear my heart stopped for a second knowing very well I couldn’t pick up a seashell fifteen minutes ago, and the thought of putting myself through that again made me shiver. “Okay, be careful down there and watch where you step, it’s sea turtle hatching season!”With that, I gave her what I could assume looked like a two-year-old trying to give a thumbs up, and headed straight for the shore.It couldn’t be more than two seconds after closing her fence that I found my bare feet racing across the street, toward the water. I sprinted past the couple hand in hand, the other holding their freshly brewed cup of coffees. I blew past Ray who was doing his daily morning meditations, giving me a nod and mouthing the words, namaste. I would usually sit my bum right next to him and worship the rising sun as he does but this morning felt different, even though the word feel was a sensitive topic. I weaved my way through the minimum beach chairs that sat in the sand holding nothing more than a person and their book until finally I reached the water and fell to my knees. My mind has never known steady but it has known balance. It knew when it was time to keep it together for the sake of my tired brother, my spiritless mother, and my father who knew nothing but love until the world drained him of all he had. These hands have thrown baseballs with my brother as my parents were arguing through the window. These pinkies have made promises that I would die rather than break them. I danced my first dance with my father's rough hands in mine, the night my mother didn’t come back. We were in the kitchen and he showed me his favorite country song. We danced until the ding in the oven went off telling us our cookies were ready. I missed who my father was and wondered if he would ever be back to the man I wanted to always remember him as. I looked past the horizon, towards the sun that now peeked above the glistening water. My mind became the waves, unsteady and crashing down over and over again. I breathed in the salt air and breathed out hoping my lungs wouldn’t collapse in on itself. My eyes opened at the feeling of my Dad’s old construction T-shirt meeting the hand of someone behind me. I turned my head to reveal the unknown shadow, my father’s green eyes filled with tears. I've seen those tears on him long ago, they were different from the ones I’ve been greeted with the past few years… these were joyful. I looked at him and then looked at my lifeless hands. He exhaled a breath that seemed like he was holding forever, put my hands into his, and dropped to the sand. “I love you and I am so sorry.” My father spoke as if those were the only words he knew. He kissed my hands and for the first time that day, the first time in years, I felt his calloused, warm hands hold the palms of his daughters’ and we laid there watching the sun come up, smelling the scent of wood and pine and feeling the hands of the father I always knew would come back to me.
","September 01, 2023 17:32",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,tqy75l,Losing Feeling,Thomas O'Brian,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/tqy75l/,/short-story/tqy75l/,Character,0,['Drama'],5 likes,"
	The knife clattered to the floor, sticking the blade in the wood. I look down at it in mild surprise. I was going to grab it so that I can chop this onion, but I must have missed it. “Should have been paying attention when you were going to grab a knife”,I thought to myself. “I could have hurt myself.” I am not the most graceful person, I think one person has even called me clumsy (only after they witnessed me fall straight on to my ass from a patch of ice), but I haven’t lost any fingers or toes yet so I do need to be a bit more careful.
	I grab the knife by the handle and pull it from the floor. I don’t think I was off in LaLaland when I was grabbing for the knife, but I guess I must have been. Making some dinner requires a little bit too much focus than would be required to daydream. I put the knife in the sink and go back to my task at hand. I have to hurry a bit more than I would like to get this onion in the oil that I have heating up, so I grab a knife from the rack and begin to cut into it. 
	It feels a bit strange though. My knife skills are passable, but tonight it feels a little bit off. I see that the knife is in my hand, but it almost feels like it isn’t there. There is no familiar weight in my hand for a tool that I have used for most of my life. There is no satisfying response when I cut through the onion, I hear the sound of hitting the board, but the rhythm I want from hitting the board doesn’t come. I see the slices before my eyes, they even begin to tear up with the weight of the cliche.
	I get the job done, but it is a Rough chop that I would have preferred to be a nice crisp julienne. I shovel them in the oil and grab the handle of the pan so that I can flip it all together. It feels strange too. It feels like I have a mitten on, I know that I am holding it because I can see it, but there is nothing there in my mind. I turn off the stove and set it down, I am having a hard time dealing with this feeling. Am I sick? I don’t know anyone that has just had their hands “turn-off.” How can this be happening to me?
	I start to move around my house touching things, things that I know what they are and know how they should be. I feel them and feel their ghost. It is as if my hands will go through thin air as I am going to them, but I know that they will actually touch them. I touch them and there is nothing, it is the opposite of the way that it should be. 
	Nothing has happened to me today, I think. Today is like every other day. Life is normal, why could this happen and what does it mean? There were no pins and needles, or any strange feeling, just the absence of anything. 
	Why does this have to happen to me? What have I done to deserve this?
	The numbness starts to spread beyond my hands, but that isn’t real either. I slap myself on the chest and feel the hit on my chest, the slight sting of a hit and the static that remains on in the skin afterwards. The pain is real and this feeling is real. But I didn’t hit myself with my own hand, I swung an inanimate object at it, something outside of myself.
	I begin to question every feeling that I have, when will these all go away too? This thing I have had all my life is gone and when will everything else start to fade? I spiral from my usual place of calm and fall down the abyss of my anxiety.
	The feeling knows no end and I have only begun to scratch the surface of what it has to offer me. I need to ask for help with these feelings. I go to the other room and startle my wife with the look on my face. I can feel every muscle in my face stricken and spasming with the anxiety that I feel. Her face downturns, she asks, “Honey, what is the matter?” 
	I don’t have any words to describe it, every thought but this anxiety leaves my mind and I am left staring her in the face. She is my rock and we have gone through everything together because we feel so strongly for each other, our hearts meld and beat as one. I reach my hands up to her face, to caress the soft skin that I have known and cherished for so long, and feel nothing. “I can’t feel you,” I finally got out.
	Her face scrunches in and her head tilts in that universal signal. I feel unreal right now. My whole life, everyday, I have felt the things around me and have shaped my world with those feelings. 
	“I don’t understand, what does that mean?” she asks. “I have nothing to feel with, they are numb.”, I say looking down at my hands. “Can I feel you?” I ask her. “Of course you can honey, I love your touch and the way that it makes me feel.” she answered.
	I begin to move my hands over her face and body, moving my hands over inches of skin that I know almost as well as my own. I have spent a happy lifetime feeling this body as if it were my own. We both have had the pleasure of that exploration, the caresses, tickling, poking, and flicking. Her body is the feeling of love, she is love in physical form. There is nothing there though, my mind and touch are at odds. What is reality if it is not what you feel? I can know any of this means anything if I can’t put my hands to it and grip it as if my life depends on it.
	“I can’t feel you, there is nothing there.”
 
","August 29, 2023 01:26",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,bpijbj,Talk To Me,Diamond Star,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bpijbj/,/short-story/bpijbj/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Fiction', 'Sad']",5 likes,"
Click, click, click. Says the fluorescent light swaying precariously above me. I tear my eyes away from it, scanning the room, the afterimage still blurring my vision. The room is long and narrow. I wonder what stories the saddened walls with peeling gray paint and cracks running along them have to tell. I can’t imagine they’d be happy ones. Ssss, ssss, ssss. Says the cracked white radiator jolting slightly, filling the room with air so humid it feels as if it’s pressing against my skin, trying desperately to get in. I force myself to breathe in the thick air, exhaling a shaky breath, as my mind tries to focus on something else. Beep, beep, beep. Says the EKG machine next to me, one of the only things in the room that doesn’t look bleak from years of grim and neglect. Rhythmic lines, lit in neon colors, run across the screen. Seeing my heartbeat, displayed for the world to see, makes me feel naked. I tense up, sucking in short clips of air, choking as I watch the numbers scramble up, trying to reach a height that would mean my perish. I close my eyes, struggling to calm myself.Eek, eek, eek. Says the mint green swivel chair, a sigh of relief as the pressure of the weight perched on top of it releases. A reassuring hand touches my shoulder, and I force myself to open my eyes. For a fleeting second, I think I see the two big chestnut eyes I’ve spent hours gazing into, wanting to dive into them. Live in them. But all I see are two icy blue eyes dripped in sympathy, looking down at me. Tap, tap, tap. Says my finger as I try to listen to the buzz coming out of the doctor's mouth. My brain is working overtime to jumble his words. As though if I can’t understand what he’s saying then the memory won’t latch. This can all be forgotten. A far away pain that my body can’t feel. A pain my brain won’t remember. Tap, tap --- Tap, I tell my finger, but it doesn’t respond. It sits there, limp and defiant. I try to move my wrist, but it’s just as uncooperative as my finger. What’s happening? Panic sets in as I will my body to move. My brain says thrash. My body says nothing. My brain says get up and run. My body says nothing. I realize that the room is quieter. I lift my eyes to the light above, willing it to say something but it just sways, waving goodbye. I peel my eyes away, finding the radiator. Old friend, won’t you talk to me? It stares at me silently. My eyelids feel heavy. Am I still alive? My defeated eyes close. “Wake up beautiful” a voice calls to me, gently pulling me out of my dreams. I open my eyes to see two pools of chestnut staring at me. His lips touch mine, lingering for a moment, then pulling back. “Food will be ready in 10” he yells as he disappears into the hallway. I lay back down, my body buzzing with the vibration his kiss sent through me. I want to savor it. Bottle it up, keep this feeling safe. My stomach rumbles as the sweet smell of pancakes pulls me out of bed. I grab his t-shirt, the ivory musk comforting me, as I pull it over my head. I catch a glimpse of myself in the skinny floor mirror, decorated with fake spiders and cobwebs. I touch the nasty purple hickey sticking out against my tawny skin. The curls atop my head, trying to escape the hastily put together bun. This isn’t what I expected. Was I a woman now? Pattie always said, that once it happens, you’ll feel like a woman. But what did being a woman feel like? I felt sore, my legs shaking slightly like I needed to figure out how to use them again. Is this what being a woman felt like?""Food's ready!"" His voice yanks me out of my thoughts, drawing me towards him.CRASH! Frozen in the bathroom doorway, holding a little white stick, I watch as the mirror, along with the Christmas lights, comes tumbling down. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he says, rushing toward me, eyes wild. “You dumb bitch, why did you wait so long to tell me? The anger in his voice slaps me awake. “I - I didn’t know, I just thought I was eating too much until I looked up the symptoms” I say, eyes on the floor, still clutching that stupid white stick. Silence.I look up and see those beautiful chestnut eyes that I love so much staring at me, dark and hardened now. The tears come then, and I double over, holding myself. “ I’m sorry, just tell me what to do” I wail, wiping my nose on the hem of the t-shirt I’m wearing. Click click, click. Says the fluorescent light, swaying, waving hello. “Miss Thomas, you’re awake, good. The procedure went perfectly, now you’ll likely experience bleeding and should refrain from any…” I force my brain to quiet his words. I don't want this memory either. He’s handsome without the face mask on, but as he stands to leave, his eyes hold the same sympathy they did earlier. SLAM. Says the door as he leaves. I look at my hand, begging it not to move. It doesn’t listen. Defiantly, it lifts my gown and I stare at my stomach. It's flat now, the fullness that was there earlier is gone. I feel empty. My hand, as if to prove a point, rubs my belly. The motion makes me sick. Is this what it feels like to be a woman?Squeak, squeak, squeak. Says the wheelchair as I’m pushed into the lobby. “Okay hun, now you’re sure someone is coming to pick you up?” The nurse says, looking down at me. I see sadness in her honey brown eyes. “Yes, I'm sure” I mumble. “Okay, just let me know when they’re here and I’ll take you outside” She pats my back and heads for her desk. I swipe open my phone, my fingers hover hesitantly over the keyboard. I’m scared, what should I say? I’m done, can you come get me now? How far away are you? Chris, answer me, please! This isn’t funny, I just want to lay down, are you on your way? Do you need the address again? Answer the phone!PICK UP!!Chris, please, answer me. I love you. I love you. Please. I love you. Message Not Delivered. Message Not Delivered.Message Not Delivered. 
","August 29, 2023 05:35","[[{'Michael Jurasek': 'Powerful story that was enhanced by the use of onomatopoeia to ground the reader in the setting. Made me feel like I was in the procedure room with your character. Well done.', 'time': '00:09 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Diamond Star': 'Thanks Michael! I’m so glad you were transported to the setting.', 'time': '15:58 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Diamond Star': 'Thanks Michael! I’m so glad you were transported to the setting.', 'time': '15:58 Sep 07, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,fg0c48,Infected,Littlepage Green,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fg0c48/,/short-story/fg0c48/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Speculative']",5 likes,"
	I knew something was wrong when I poked my finger with a sewing needle––very Sleeping Beauty of me, I know. The blood bubbled up, but I couldn’t feel the stinging pain that should follow. That was on the tip of my pointer finger. I tried poking my middle finger and could barely break the skin it hurt so much. Chalking it up to poor circulation, I went back to repairing my brother’s work pants. The Company wouldn’t be pleased with the hole in his knee. Even though they’re the ones that make him do the work that wears holes in his pants. Thinking about it gave me a headache. They’d been getting worse. The fluorescent lights at the primary school always caused headaches during the workday, but they’d been getting worse and more frequent. I’d be woken up in the middle of the night with piercing pain enveloping my whole head. I could keep working despite the pain, and that’s all that mattered. I had to take care of my mom and brother; there were no other options.	A few days later, I jammed my thumb in my desk drawer. Nothing. No biting pain that makes it hard to breathe. No throbbing. Just surprise on my part. A sprinkle of fear started to fill the hole where the pain should be––could be CMD-1. It couldn’t be because I was vaccinated. I bite my lip and furrow my eyebrows. CMD-2? They haven’t even confirmed it yet. But there are murmurs on the web. Whisperings of paralysis so painful you’d rather die than keep living. Would the Company even admit that CMD-2 was out there? And what if I did have it? They’d kill me. They say it’s just a rehab facility they the Infected to, but everyone knows what happens. We’ve seen the pictures of the bodies piled in the mass graves. CMD-1 isn’t deadly, but the Company is. Would my brother keep his job? He would be blacklisted from every job application if they fired him for having a family member Infected; it wouldn’t matter if he knew. How could he manage the hospital bills for our mom without my income or his? We had savings––not enough. Would they kill him, too, in fear of contagion? It wasn’t that contagious, but the Company wouldn’t take that risk.	“You okay, sis?” My brother asked, pulling me from my spiral.	How long had I been sitting there? When I slammed my finger in the desk drawer, it had been early morning. My brother shouldn’t be back until the end of the day. Had I just been lost in thought for a whole day?	My fear must’ve looked close enough to pain that my brother believed me when I said, “Just slammed my finger in my drawer. Just hurts.”	I pushed out of my chair to get ice.	It wasn’t anything to be worried about, just a weird day.	A week later, my fingers were completely numb. I had accepted I had CMD. Didn’t matter the strain, I had it. Symptoms were there: gradual loss of feeling in fingers, headaches that make migraines look like child’s play, hours of lost time they call “blackout periods.”	I picked at my cuticles all the time by that point––I couldn’t feel them, so what did it matter? The paralysis wouldn’t set in for another month. The numbness would climb up my arms until it reached my brain, then it would spread. That’s why they called it the Central Motor Disease. It ate away at your senses until you couldn’t move. How could I teach if my hands went numb? I’d have to quit. That’s fine, as long as my brother kept working. Turning myself in now would mean my brother would be fired. I was sure of that. It was all over the news––people laid off by the Company for even talking to an Infected. The Company offered rewards for those who called in an Infected––money, vacations, job security. If I could just manage to make it another couple of weeks, I could come up with a plan to keep my brother’s job and my mom’s treatments.	Two weeks passed, and I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t really have any more time either. I couldn’t feel my arms and the migraines were nearly constant. I was in blackout periods longer than I was lucid. Quitting my job, eased some of the symptoms, but it wasn’t like they were gone. I just didn’t notice them as much.On a Saturday morning, I pulled my brother into the kitchen.	I rubbed my hands together, trying to compose the best way to break the news. It’s an odd sensation, knowing your hands are touching, but not feeling them.	“Stop.” My brother stilled my hands with his. “You have it, don’t you?”	The air evacuated the room. “How…?”	A sad smile crossed his face. “You almost cut off your finger the other night. Any normal person would have been a mess, but you just said ‘ow,’ like it was an afterthought.”	Anything I thought I would say just disappeared. Shock, not a blackout period––I had trouble distinguishing the two at that point. My brother’s thumbs rubbed comforting circles over my hands. At least, he was trying to comfort me, not that I could feel it. Until that moment, I hadn’t thought about what I was really losing. All the times I messed up my brother's perfectly styled hair, feeling the soft strands and the crunch of the gel. The calluses that marred his hands would never again scratch against my hands as he passed the just-washed plate to me to dry. I would never feel human touch again.	“What do we do?” My voice was barely a whisper.	“We keep going.”	“But your job.” My vision blurred with tears.	“It’s a job. If I quit now, I can’t be fired. They’ll let me teach at the primary.” He wiped away a tear on my cheek. “They’ve already offered me your spot, actually.”	A sob escaped. His thumb scratched my cheek, and I could feel it. I filed the feeling away to replay when I couldn’t feel it anymore. I said, “You’ll have to take care of both me and Mom.”	“That’s fine.”	Relief washed over me. He would take care of us.	A week later, I couldn’t feel anything at all as Company workers pulled me from my bed. I couldn’t feel their gloved hands pull on my arms, nor the coldness of the metal sheet they put me on to load me into the back of their van. I couldn’t feel the tears running down my face.	My brother watched the whole thing, phone in hand.
","August 30, 2023 22:21",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,dkzyat,With Thy Grace,Gillian Corsiatto,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dkzyat/,/short-story/dkzyat/,Character,0,['Drama'],4 likes,"
TW for religion, gore, and self harm
 
Christian’s mother hadn’t given much thought to his name thirty three years ago when he was born, but in his current life, it proved to suit him very well. Christian Hartfield was used to not having much money since early childhood so as an adult, living cheaply and sparingly was something he was very used to and in a way, very comfortable with. He figured he was lucky enough to have stability that he couldn’t really complain about anything else. Especially not if someone, somewhere, in an invisible realm in the sky above him, was watching and judging his every move.
 
Christian worked as a church organist and he lived underneath the church in a suite he rented. The suite was fairly rundown but it had all the necessities of kitchen appliances, a bathroom with a stand-up shower, and enough living space for him to squeeze in a bed, a couch, a dresser, a TV, and an electronic keyboard on which he would diligently practice his hymns for his work in the church. 
 
One Sunday morning, Christian’s beeping alarm woke him out of sleep. Each Sunday, the church in which he both lived and worked, had three back-to-back services. The first at 9:00 am, the second at 10:30 am, and the last at noon. Unless there was a funeral or a wedding, he usually had Sunday afternoons off and that’s when he usually headed on public transit to do his weekly errands. This included a laundromat run, as his quaint home did not have laundry capabilities other than hand wash. Christian was up at 8:00 and seated at the organ at 8:45, ready to play some soft hymns as the congregation found their seats. He noticed that the recurring members of the church always had specific seats. Mr. and Mrs. Zelensky always sat in the middle of the third row. Miss McKenna and her four kids always sat in the back so that she could make a quick escape if the baby started getting fussy. Mr. Smalls and his elderly mother always sat in the front right, and the Reid family in the front left. Miss Kinney, who always came alone, sat one row behind the Zelenskys. 
 
The organ music had started and the congregation was getting settled. At 9:00 am on the dot, Christian paused his music so that Pastor Starling could start his introductions, grateful for the short break in playing.
 
Pastor Starling cleared his throat. “Good morning and God be with you,” he said.
 
“Good morning and God be with you, too,” replied the congregation robotically. 
 
“We start today’s service with the singing of God’s Only Wish on Earth.”
 
Christian resumed his organ playing. This was a hymn that was done often enough that he knew it off by heart and had no need for sheet music in front of him. The congregation sang along as he played both the accompaniment and the melody line for them to follow along in case they didn’t know the song. He held the final chord of the piece for a few seconds to let everyone finish singing on their own time. 
Pastor Starling instructed the church members to take out their bible and follow along as he read aloud. Christian, at this point, completely zoned out. His fingers were starting to tingle. He balled his hands into fists and punched them together in an attempt to make this tingling sensation go away. The tingling in his fingers was starting to happen more and more frequently, and just as concerning, his whole hand was now sometimes going numb after playing his organ or keyboard for too long. His hands would then hang limp, unusable and out of commission. 
 
As the pastor spoke, Christian’s mind went elsewhere. He shook his hands, pulled on and cracked his fingers, and did anything he could to ease the tingling sensation.
 
“God be with you,” said Pastor Starling.
 
“And also with you,” replied the unenthused congregation.
 
That was Christian’s cue. Next on the agenda, Come, Holy Ghost.
 
A simple song in ¾ time in the key of G major, Come, Holy Ghost, was a hymn that, like the previous one, Christian had completely memorized. Again, he bothered not to take out his book of sheet music. The tips of his fingers still tingled but he had no time to stall. He played the intro and then when the congregation started to sing, he mouthed the words along with them quietly.
 
Come Holy Ghost, Creator Blest, 
And in our hearts take up Thy rest;
Come with Thy grace and heav’nly aid
To fill the hearts which Thou hast made,
To fill the hearts which Thou hast made. 
 
His heart fluttered at the last line. The tingling sensation was persistent today and he began to feel a terrible nervousness about it. The service had only just started. It could not continue without an organist and yet, the organist’s fingers were beginning to fail him. For just a moment, Christian wondered if maybe he could learn to play organ with his toes. 
 
When the hymn ended, Pastor Starling cleared his throat again loudly. Christian intertwined his fingers so that he could stretch them. The pastor set down his open bible so that it was laying pages down. “Let us pray,” he said.
 
The congregation bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Christian did the same, although, he decided to do a prayer all on his own. He silently mouthed the words to himself hoping that the only one to hear him would be the very God itself that which the rest of the church was also praying.
 
“Dear Lord, if you are really truly out there, you would not have the hands of a church organist malfunction during a church service in which his duties are most needed.”
 
Realizing how abrasive he unintentionally came across, he changed directions.
 
“I mean, Lord, watch over me and the rest of the congregation during service today, and please return normal sensation to my hands so that I can continue providing the organ accompaniment for the services today.”
 
Pastor Starling finished leading his prayer and closed it off with an “Amen.”
 
“Amen,” the congregation regurgitated like parrots.
 
“Amen.” Christian did not mean to say this out loud, he meant to only think it, but the word left his mouth as if possessed by the Holy Ghost himself. Mr. and Mrs. Zelensky shot him a weird glance and then turned to each other to whisper something under their breath that Christian could not make out. His cheeks flushed with red and he turned away to hide it. Nervousness was building and he wasn’t sure how much longer it would be before it rendered him completely useless in his duty as organist.
 
During the next hymn, he completely zoned out, again. His fingers were set to the organ, but his mind left this realm. He was on autopilot, if there was such a thing for an organist. He looked ahead, but his eyes didn’t see. Christian was completely dissociated from the situation and he didn’t even notice the tingling sensation building up and shooting through his fingers, down his hand, and into his wrists. That was, not until his hands wholly failed him and the abrupt end to the music jolted him back to reality.
 
The congregation stopped singing. Without the organ accompaniment, how were they to go on? 
 
Christian lifted his arms but found his hands and fingers dangling limply. He was unable to move his hands. He tried to clench his fingers and make a fist but they just dangled like they were dead. Panicked, he shook his wrists and his limp, dangling hands followed along, swaying as if picked up by the wind.
 
After a period of uncomfortable silence, Pastor Starling cleared his throat again and picked up his bible. 
 
“We now do a reading of. . .”
 
Christian did not stick around to find out which reading was on the agenda. He bolted from his spot at the organ and dashed down below the church to his suite where he collapsed on the floor. He smashed his hands against the hard floor and the walls. He did this until they were bloody and bruised, but he could feel none of it. He bit his hands and tore at the flesh with his teeth. No sensation followed. 
 
An idea came to him in the spur of the moment. Using his left elbow, he turned on one of the stove burners to its highest setting and lay his numb hands over the hot, metal coil and shut his eyes tight so as not to watch the disturbing and gruesome scene unfold. 
 
When he opened his eyes some time later, his hands were as red as cherry tomatoes and the skin was loosely hanging off.
 
Then, suddenly, the sensation returned and he howled in pain. The pain was hot and unbearable.
 
“God, take it away! Don’t let me feel it!” he begged.
 
But God would not take the pain away. His scorched hands looked and felt horrific and feeling now full of terror and regret, Christian wished he had never complained about having numb hands in the first place. For now, that was all he desired of the world.
 
","August 31, 2023 19:19","[[{'Иляя Илчка': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY\n\nplease come in I beg you', 'time': '20:58 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,k2cmgh,Healing Art,Rhonda Decker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/k2cmgh/,/short-story/k2cmgh/,Character,0,['Fiction'],4 likes,"
   She walked slowly down the hall in the pitch-black darkness unable to see anything. Going only by the sound of her footsteps on the hardwood floor and her hand running along the wall to guide her. Her fingers found the light switch, but by flipping it on realized the power was indeed out. Deciding the only hope of getting any sleep at all in this stifling summer heat, she stumbled around in the dark opening all the windows to get at least some air circulating throughout the house. Moments later her head once again hit the pillow to resume a fitful sleep as she thought to herself, “damn stupid rolling blackouts again.” 
   Only a short while later, she awoke once again but this time to the smell of smoke. Coughing, she jumped out of bed and quickly threw her robe around herself to descend her way of escape. What she did not realize was that the electrical fire that had started prior, had now blocked the way out of her home. She was trapped! Looking to the window which sat three stories above her lovely garden, she wondered briefly about the outcome of such a fall, which she quickly outweighed before grabbing the pillows from her bed in hopes of breaking her fall as she jumped. 
 
   A steady beeping sound beat softly in the far-off distance when she opened her eyes to see that she lay in a hospital bed and the beeping was a monitor giving the indication she had survived. “Oh my God, what a relief!” she thought. Slowly she began to lift herself to a sitting position in bed and noticed that something was off. She didn’t feel quite herself but was unable to put her finger on exactly what was wrong. Spying the call button next to her for the nurse, she reached to press the button for assistance. It appeared to be broken as she didn’t feel the button compress down, but a nurse nevertheless entered the room just moments later. 
   “Glad to see you are awake. Lucky for you to have a few well-placed shrubs growing just beneath your bedroom window. If you’re up for it, we’ll run a few tests to make sure you’re ready to get back up and moving as soon as possible.” The nurse checked her vitals and asked her some basic questions, before ending with, “Just need to run some x-rays for broken bones and if all looks good, you could be home by the end of the week.” 
   Nora felt overjoyed by this possibility, as she had several immediate deadlines looming over her for the upcoming exhibition. A quick recovery was essential to keeping her on track at the gallery. She had worked very hard to get where she was as a curator while finally coming close to finishing the last pieces for the latest public showing of her works. She had no plans of slowing down now. 
   The day after being released to go home, Nora prepared herself for a day of work in her studio. Well-equipped to offer the comforts of home, she had decided to spend the time there to get the remaining pieces done for her upcoming gallery showing while the repairs to her home were being made from the damage sustained by the fire. As she pulled out gesso to start on a smaller canvas, pain shot through her arms. Alarmed at the pain, she went to pick up the bottle she had dropped and realized her hands had gone numb. “No, please not this!” she thought. “I need my hands. What is happening?” Immediately she commanded aloud, “Siri, call Dr. Wassef.” Nora waited impatiently as her call went to voicemail. “Doctor, I need you to call me back right away, it is an emergency.” 
   As she struggled to clean up the mess unsuccessfully, her earpiece rang. “Siri, answer.” The doctor spoke into her earpiece, “Good afternoon, I’m sorry I was detained in surgery. What seems to be the issue?” Nora spoke with urgency, “I am having trouble with sensation in my hands. Do you think you could see me today to diagnose what the problem could be?” Dr. Wassef replied calmly that her tests all came back normal with no damage, but she might have some nerve-related issues due to stress and was referred to a massage therapist. Using the information he gave her, Nora quickly went online to give the necessary info and make her appointment. 
   The place was close enough to go on foot and only minutes later she was walking up the steps to the modest building where her therapy would take place. A receptionist greeted her and led her to the treatment room which was dimly lit with only the table and a chair in one corner, while spa music played softly from one corner of the room. As Nora half undressed and lay under the warm blanket on the table, she realized she hadn’t had a massage in a very long time and found herself looking forward to loosening the tension in her muscles but was skeptical at any probability of a simple massage bringing back the sensation in her presently useless hands.  
    A mature-looking woman entered the room and greeted her in a tone similar to her favorite ASMR artist and asked if she was comfortable. “Yes, thank you. I do feel I need to ask though, do you really think you can help me get feeling back in my hands? I thought massage was just to relax.” Her therapist explained that she was most likely suffering from a severely pinched nerve in her spine which could cause tingling and numbness in the hands and she would do her best to find and relieve it. Nora decided to give herself to the idea, as she really just needed to get back to finishing her project pieces ASAP. Her upcoming art showing was significant in getting her recommended for the most prestigious position at the museum. She took a deep breath and tried her best to unwind, but as usual found this most difficult, and decided to chat with her therapist mostly about the mundane or funny things she observed in people and how she applied it to the realism of her art. 
    An hour and a half passed quickly and Nora felt very relaxed in the presence of this person when it dawned on her that she hadn’t even gotten her name. “I am so sorry for my rudeness in not asking sooner, but what do you call yourself?” The woman answered, “I am Sofia. I will let you get dressed now and there will be water waiting for you outside. My assistant will give you instructions for mobility exercises you can do before your next therapy session. Thank you for visiting today, and please call tomorrow to let me know how you are feeling.” The two women said their goodbyes and feeling lighter, Nora headed back to her studio. 
 
   Sofia stretched herself out on the foam roller and could of course both hear and feel the cracking in her spine as the fascia tissue released from her muscles. She took excellent care of herself to be able to keep doing what she loved and was happy to have a meaningful purpose despite the circumstances of life. As she finished her day of seeing clients, Sofia was ready for the walk home to a nice meal and soak in a salt bath. She lived a quiet life alone, aside from her assistant living in the small bungalow behind her home. 
   The next day she walked the very familiar route back to her office where her first client awaited her to be seen. As was normal for Sofia being a masseuse as long as she had, she saw many regular clients each week and kept quite busy. At lunchtime, her assistant gave her messages and she was happy to hear that Nora was already starting to hold a brush and felt sensation slowly returning to her hands. Eager for a full recovery, Nora had booked several appointments for the next three weeks. 
   Nora proved to be a good client, listening to the instructions given for exercises between sessions, and delighted in talking to Sofia during her therapy. With each visit, she would ask Sofia more about herself and Nora learned she had traveled to many places all over the world volunteering as a massage therapist in various clinics for patients recovering from trauma. Nora was impressed at how Sofia had obviously seen so much, and she herself had always wanted to travel more. She hoped to have the opportunity soon with a possible job promotion. 
 
   The weeks sped by and Nora was able to finish her pieces for the exhibition. She knew her work had changed slightly from its usual style, but decided not to overthink this as she had felt a sense of completeness with the finished result. She hoped the reception by critics would be at least somewhat positive. 
   At her last session with Sofia, she invited her to come to her gallery showing and promised she would have a good time even if she knew nothing of art. Sofia seemed surprised at the enthusiastic invitation but graciously accepted and asked if if would be alright to bring along her assistant. “Of course, of course,” Nora said. “Very happy to hear you’ll be able to make it. I love sharing my work with others and seeing what they take away from it.” 
 
   The night of Nora’s event arrived and she walked through the gallery slowly chatting with several people as they milled about throughout the evening. To her relief, the response had been overwhelmingly positive and many had said that there was a rawness in her work that drew an intenseness of realism that was not there prior.  
   About halfway through the event, she recognized a well-dressed woman enter the room and Nora crossed the gallery floor to greet her new friend. “Thank you so much for coming Sofia. Please have a look around and tell me what you think. I feel as though you helped me create many of the pieces that hang on these walls.” Sofia smiled graciously and replied, “I have no doubt they are spectacular. I can see your work as it shines from the person you are. Although I cannot see them with my eyes, I have felt with my hands the emotions of the person who created them and the beauty that is there.” 
   Nora stood in stunned silence. She had never seen any indication that Sofia was blind and felt embarrassed to have missed such a fine detail.  Nora apologized emphatically, “I am so sorry. I don’t understand how I didn’t ever take notice. You handle yourself with the ease of any seeing person. Sofia gave Nora a warm hug and went on, “Because my vision was weak even in my youth and had further deteriorated over time as an adult, I adapted gradually to the loss. Most people don’t notice it right away either and I am rather happy that they don’t. My inability to see with my eyes has helped me intensify my skill to see with my hands. I also love my work and the value of what can come from any human who is willing to reach out to another.” 
 
 
 
","September 01, 2023 18:55",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,qcmkdz,Numb,Kristin Keith,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qcmkdz/,/short-story/qcmkdz/,Character,0,"['Fiction', 'Funny']",4 likes,"
“Why do I only have four fingers on my left hand?”The nurse blinked. I shifted uncomfortably on the examination chair, the stiff parchment paper crinkling imperceptibly beneath my derrière. The fluorescent light above buzzed vehemently as if it were one of those overly aggressive, all-up-in-your-grill bees. You know, one of those bees that makes you think, “Maybe I’ll buy a Costco sized tub of honey this week.” “Erm, sorry. Why does it feel like I only have four fingers on my left hand?” The nurse blinked again, her thick eyebrows furrowing. “You don’t have feeling in your left hand?” I sighed inwardly. I must’ve judged her incorrectly; this must be a physician’s assistant. “Yes, in my left index finger. It’s like it’s disappeared.” There was a small brown stain on the lapel of her white coat, perhaps a stray drop from her morning coffee. She thought–or pretended to think–for a moment about my predicament. Time flowed like expired marshmallow fluff in this room, stiff and thick and gooey. “I think you should take this up with your PCP.” A pained look flashed across her face. “Also, you can take your feet out of the stirrups now. We’ll contact you about your results within the next few weeks.” She rose to leave the room, her long, frizzy hair swinging behind her as she left. The overpowering scent of Pantene Pro-V Shampoo washed over my freckled face like a wave of warm, piss-filled water in an otherwise temperature-regulated pool. As the door clicked shut, I swung my legs out of their spread eagle position and let my billowing, untied hospital gown fall to the ground. I looked at the mangled pile of cheap, scratchy medical-grade fabric sitting at my bare feet; it was an odd, demoralizing piece of clothing. Like the shirt version of assless chaps. I couldn’t think too long on it, though, because there were other parts of my hands that had begun tingling: About fifteen minutes prior, while a balding doctor rooted around my yoni to look for signs of cervical cancer, the same telltale sensation took hold of my now-dead index finger. Pins and needles pricked my right middle finger, the tip of my left pinky, the base of both palms. Curiously, it felt as though there was something cool and rigid clamped around both wrists, as if I’d suddenly decided to be That Girl and invest in permanent jewelry but had sprung for a too-short promise bracelet length. I held up my dying extremities to the light. Both arms–much like the rest of my body–were completely exposed to the elements, with no influencer-approved regalia to protect me from the frigid wisps of air trickling from the vent above. I shuddered. My right middle finger was really beginning to fail me, its nerve endings seeming to blow away with every gust of doctor’s office breeze that brushed across my naked frame. Before I could further lose control of my metacarpi, I yanked my clothes from the waiting chair and awkwardly began separating the fabric of a bright orange T-shirt. My limp sausage fingers fumbled over the rough material, alternating between sensing and unsensing, feeling and unfeeling: 65% polyester and 35% cotton blend, emptiness. 65% polyester and 35% cotton blend, emptiness. Barely grasping the sides of my ochre joggers, I forced my feet through elastic ankle cuffs, my toes struggling through the holes like unborn children clawing out of the womb.  My left palm prickled with hundreds of acupuncture pins. Using my shoulder, I shoved the thick wooden door of the gynecologist’s office open, my unclad feet slapping harshly on the frigid tile floor as I fled down the drab corridor. White-coated human-shaped smudges, metal rolling tables full of forceps and speculums, and AIDS posters from the 1980’s flashed in my periphery. I had to escape. I had infant hands; visions of tiny, Trump-sized grippers wearing little mittens danced in my mind. I imagined myself donning those little mittens, fastened there to keep me from scratching my own eyes out and protecting me from my lackluster motor skills.My heart pounded like a rabid bird fighting to escape its cage. I crushed my hands–my poor, jelly-filled hands–into my armpits while I ran. Finally nearing the end of the hallway, I threw my body against the glass door separating myself from the outside world. Stepping on my own feet, I stumbled down the pavement before flinging myself into a nearby patch of grass; my face slammed John-Cena-style into the peat without my outstretched hands to soften the blow. Somewhere in the distance, a police siren wailed. I lifted my dirt-smudged head. Something thick and black was wedged in the mud just near it–sweeping my arms out in a snow angel motion, I felt the cool, greasy surface of something distinctly electronic. My phone, yes, my phone! Using my forearm, I scooched the device closer to my turf-spattered chest. My right thumb and pointer finger worked together to unlock my final chance at curing my sudden paresthesia: tap, swipe up, enter passcode incorrectly, enter passcode again. Immediately, I was prompted with a “The Wi-Fi network ‘Gyne-call-ology’ does not appear to be connected to the internet” message. I slammed my thumb into the “Use Mobile Data” button and felt a wave of needles pierce through the rest of my appendage. My touch quality was quickly deteriorating from 4K to Minecraft-pixelated; I had to act fast. I opened Safari and began to type.“why.arw my hans goingnub”Flopping my useless, unresponsive palm onto the screen, I began to scroll. What could it be? I fervently scanned the possible explanations for my affliction. Diabetes? Guillain-Barre syndrome? Stroke? My eyes bulged as I skimmed the lengthy list of deadly ailments that could be befalling me. Lyme disease? A ganglion cyst? Syphilis? I swiveled my head to the glass doors about twenty feet behind me. Oh, to succumb at the hands of syphilis at the entrance to your OB/GYN’s office, and as a virgin, no less! It was going to be a cruel (albeit embarrassing) death. Minutes passed, and soon enough, I couldn’t scroll any more–my final shred of neurologic command over my digits gave out, and I watched in horror as they laid lamely next to my iPhone on the ground in front of me. They felt weightless, as though the elastic band of control I maintained over them had snapped once and for all. The siren rang louder. Squinting my eyes, I willed my fingers to twitch, to move, but to no avail. I released a breath, my arms shaking with dismay. I felt my heartbeat quicken; glittering shards of shattered rainbows spotted my vision. I could see my future now. Myself, in a crowd full of clapping concertgoers, using my functioning wrists to gracelessly slap together a pair of drooping, flimsy hands; walking down a quiet riverbank with my other half, my soulmate, but never feeling the soft, intertwined touch of their hand in mine; accepting the Nobel Peace Prize for something erudite and admirable, but instead of extending a firm, steady palm, I offer two forearms and awkwardly squish the trophy between them. Teary eyed, I laid forlornly in the dirt. God, I’d have to buy a 12-inch vibrator and hold it between my teeth. At the thought of this, my heart rate reached cataclysmic levels, my atria barely having time to contract and release before beginning again. The colored specks in my vision turned to blotches, then stains, and then sopping, messy blobs of deep purple and green. I saw light–blinding, terrible blue and red light. The siren screeched at full force, until it was in my ears, my head, my soul. My eyes rolled into the back of my head, my body drifting somewhere far away…I jolted awake, the electric pulse of interrupted REM sleep shocking my entire frame. I was no longer lying face-flat next to a shrubbery outside a medical practice, but sitting upright in a dark, sticky faux-leather seat. The air was tinged with burnt rubber and cigarettes; a garbled, static-filled noise bleated from somewhere in front of me. I was manspreading my legs in a way that would’ve said “come and get it” if I wasn’t drooling out my mouth, my head bent unnaturally to rest on the damp window beside me. I felt a single, weak prick of feeling spark from my hands, and I opened my eyes fully to view them. They were still motionless, resting rigor mortis in my lap, except now, there was something locked around my wrists. Something cumbersome and cold and a faded, cloudy silver. I closed my legs and sat up. Handcuffs.  A woman’s voice traveled through the plastic separator between me and the rest of the vehicle. In the rearview mirror, I saw a pair of familiar eyebrows. I watched a shadowed hand reach up to the car’s dashboard. The radio buzzed to life. “Suspect in transit. Out.”
","September 01, 2023 23:08",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,xevmup,The Midnight Forest,Nicko Gardner,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xevmup/,/short-story/xevmup/,Character,0,['Fantasy'],4 likes,"
“Shhhh!” Ilyon hissed at his companion as the crackle of breaking sticks pierced the deafening silence of the windless evening. Eurias raised his hand apologetically, realising his mistake. His lack of experience as a woodsman was really starting to become apparent, this not being the first time he had disrupted the quiet air. Pausing to regain his composure, Eurias watched on in awe as his mentor swiftly and silently dashed out into a small clearing in front of them, analysing the tracks of hopefully their next meal, and moving on to the other side to regain the cover of the undergrowth seemingly without the slightest doubt in his abilities.
Ilyon waved his apprentice on without turning, maintaining his focus on the tracks of his prey. Knowing this land better than anyone else, Ilyon prayed that this stag had stopped for a drink at the upcoming lake, for on the other side of the lake was a place he seldom entered, alone or with a clumsy apprentice. The Midnight Forest.
 
The thin, winding trail created by countless animals and creatures came to an end at the edge of a large emerald lake. Beams of golden light bounced off the water as the last rays of light escaped the thick canopy above. Eurias came to a halt next to his teacher, breathless and hungry, for the pair had not eaten in nearly a week and these tracks were fresh and their only sign of life in this dreaded place. It had been an unusually quiet spring this year. Eurias peered over the shoulder of his more experienced companion and felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
 
“What is that place?” he whispered so quietly only Ilyon could hear.
“That is The Midnight Forest,” He shuddered. Pausing for long enough for Eurias to wonder what long lost memory had just reappeared from                                                    the back of his mind. 
“What’s in there?” He enquired, unable to take his eyes off the tree line opposite them. The light orange rays of the sunset seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness, penetrating no more than a tree or 2 deep. 
“Nothing… Nothing but darkness and danger.” Ilyon warned. “Not many who enter those woods every return to tell the tale. For inside lay a dark power, capable of turning even the strongest minds to madness and despair.” He sighed, “And our only hope of something to eat walked straight into it.”
Without another word Ilyon was off again, skirting around the lake, pausing briefly to fill his water pouch.
“We aren’t going in there are we?” asked the young apprentice running after his, now seemingly insane, hunting guru who he had looked up to for the last year of his training. 
“Unless you want to go hungry another night?”
“What happened to all that ‘dark power, turning the strongest minds into madness and despair’ wisdom,” he mocked.
“If you hope to one day take my place as chief woodsman of the kingdom,” he stopped and turned to his apprentice, “then you will have to learn the labyrinth of The Midnight Forest. As I did many years ago. I have entered these woods but a few times over the years, and I sure as hell don’t feel like going in there again, but with our last hope of a decent meal before winter slowly getting deeper into that god forsaken place, I don’t see a better option.” Ilyon turned and resumed his mission, turning back briefly to add, “I sure hope the goblins aren’t out and about yet.” With a wicked smile he turned away from the now pale apprentice. Struck with both awe and fear at the thought of what this old woodsman had been through, he slipped his hunting bow over his back and hurried along behind his master.
The next hour spent navigating the lake passed by quickly as Eurias’ mind darted from thought to thought, over every corner of his mind. His mouth salivated at the thought of his last meal at the castle almost a month ago. He and his childhood friends were all celebrating their ascension from young children to apprentices. After being chosen for their respective positions as blacksmiths, bakers, stone masons, magicians and woodsmen, The newly appointed apprentices were thrown a final feast before beginning their long journeys into adulthood. While most apprentices would remain within the castle for the majority of their apprenticeships, Eurias would spend the majority of his outside the castle walls, for woodsmen patrolled the forests and perimeters of the kingdom. Hunting for both food for the castle and for signs of encroaching danger, whether it were wild creatures like the goblins to the north, or the minotaur to the south. Or neighbouring kingdoms, seeking to expand their territories. 
The last few weeks were tough on the woodsman as there had been an unusually small amount of game for them to hunt and an increase in goblin raids across their borders. Eurias’ stomach growled as he wondered at the cause of the disturbances. They had spent the last 6 days moving along the northwestern borders in search of food or foes, and had failed to come across anything yet, except the tracks of a lone stag, who they were now following.
Eurias’ daydream was whisked away from him as he stopped abruptly to see his mentor standing on the edge of darkness. Pausing for a moment and taking one last deep breath of fresh kingdom air, Ilyon stepped forward and seemingly vanished into nothingness. Eurias rubbed his eyes, bewildered by the sight of his teacher disappearing was stunned when he heard a quiet chuckle and a muffled voice.
“You should see your face. Come on, your eyes will adjust.” Whether out of instinct or a need to calm his nerves, Eurias also inhaled a long, deep breath. Savouring the sweet twilight air, he stepped forward after Ilyon. 
Engulfed in darkness, Eurias was disoriented by the lack of light, only a few meters into the dense forest from the tree line. Ilyon sparked a piece of flint with his dagger, over a small torch, something he told Eurias to always carry. The light seemed to quiver in the damp, musty air. Almost scared to reach too far in fear of being extinguished. The meagre lamp managed to reveal details about the dark region, unexpected to the green eyes of the young woodsman in training. 
Surprisingly green, fern like plants covered the forest floor. Hidden precariously in between and underneath the ferns was a sinister looking thorn, riddled with sharp barbs rising out of the stem like hundreds of needles, waiting to dive deep into any unsuspecting feet.
“Be wary of things like that in here, a lot of things want you dead here. Quickly, we are losing time!”
Eurias took another deep breath and trotted off after Ilyon. The pace was slower than when they were out in the open but with the warning of ‘a lot of things want you dead...’ Keeping up with the seasoned hunter wasn’t an easy undertaking. Moving quickly and silently through the dense forest, the pair appeared almost completely in sync. Their steps placed in the same spot, ducking efficiently under branches and dodging more plants and weeds that almost reached out to grab their legs as they sped past.
Losing sight of his mentor, plunging into complete darkness caused Eurias to rely solely on his memory of the brief glimpse of his surroundings before Ilyon disappeared around the corner. Feeling his heartrate increase, Eurias nervously took the first few steps. Deepening his breathing to try and calm himself down he took another step. Excruciating pain shot through Eurias’ foot and up his leg. Eurias began to sweat as fear and dread overwhelmed him, his foot still planted in place. He swallowed a scream as he slowly lifted his foot, feeling the long, sharp needle like thorn making its way out the bottom of his foot. Fumbling desperately for his torch and flint, Eurias cursed himself for being so foolish. Hands shaking, he struck the flint. As sparks flew out onto the torch and failed to ignite the torch, panic began to set in. Every moment he fumbled about, his hope of catching up to Ilyon dwindled. Heart racing, he struck the flint again. Another failed attempt caused the torch to loosen in his grip and slip silently to the floor. Eurias bent over and reached out in a desperate search for his torch, sweat dripping of his nose in the damp night air. The rookie woodsman pushed his hand towards the ground in the direction he thought the torch fell. Finding the shaft of his torch he wrapped his fingers around the small wooden handle he felt the unmistakable sting of another razor-sharp thorn graze the knuckles of his hand. Letting out a muffled groan as he stood back up, Eurias positioned his torch and flint in his left hand and his dagger in his right. He struck the flint. Light erupted into the small space he found himself in. The dim light illuminating his blood-soaked shoe, Eurias could see a hole in the fabric where the long spine had pierced up through the top of his foot. A quick peak at his hand revealed only a small cut from the second thorn. Eurias pulled some fabric from his pack and quickly wrapped his foot. Noticing a slight tingling radiating from the hole in his foot, he chose to ignore it and find Ilyon.
Pushing through the agonizing pain of his foot, Eurias found the tracks of the fabled deer and those of his companion and began hastily along the trail. He pulled out his dagger and etched an ‘X’ into a nearby tree. An old trick Ilyon taught him so he could tell where he came from in a strange place, and this was certainly a strange place. The distant howl of a wolf only confirmed that feeling.
Looking down Eurias began shaking his leg to try and wake up his foot as it was a little numb, like he had been sitting on it for a long time. Eurias also noticed that his hand was itchy, right where he had cut it. Knowing his torch would nearly be ready to shine its last rays of light, Eurias pushed a peculiar feeling he had to the back of his mind and picked up the pace. 
A dozen or so ‘X’s later, the apprentice came across a trail of blood, next to which was the broken tail of an arrow. One of Ilyon’s arrows. Feeling an ounce of hope Eurias pushed on, desperate to find his partner. Eurias stumbled on something crashing into a tree, holding onto it for stability. A crackle of sticks behind him caused him to swing around, drawing his dagger with lightning speed. His eyes rapidly scanning the dark shadowy depths. An unusual feeling was brewing deep in Eurias’ stomach. Unable to place it yet he continued on, feeling sweaty and anxious despite the cool spring night.
After what felt like an eternity of following footsteps and patches of bloody soil, Eurias looked up. His body was shivering but covered in sweat, head was spinning and his focus drifting. The dishevelled apprentices heart sunk. Fear and dismay set in when he saw in front of him a tree with a very distinct ‘X’ etched into it. He had been travelling in circles. Looking down to his blood drenched foot, he assumed that it was his own blood he had been following for who only knows how long. Feeling his mind swing back into focus, Eurias could feel a searingly hot pain slowly snaking its way up his leg, his foot now completely numb. Looking down at his cut hand he noticed his skin beginning to blacken around his knuckles. Attempting to open and close his hand, realisation hit him suddenly like a slap to the face. The thorn he had so foolishly stepped on contained some form of natural toxin. He’d lost all feeling in his foot and his hand wasn’t far behind. Not knowing how long he had until the toxin spread to the rest of his body or what that would do to him, one thing was certain in his mind. He didn’t want to find out, especially not here. Just before setting off in search of his friend, the unimaginable happened. In an instant, Eurias’ small torch had extinguished. Helpless and hungry he bellowed “Ilyon!” All attempts at being a stealthy hunter now unimportant.
 
Breathless and on the edge of exhaustion, Ilyon put the last piece of deer meat into his pack. He had cut off all he could carry but there was still so much left. If only Eurias hadn’t fallen behind, they would be able to carry the whole animal. Slicing off one last chunk and filling his mouth he grimaced at the taste of raw meat. Not a taste he enjoyed but he felt bad wasting so much. This wretched place had seldom provided him with anything, and he was intent on leaving as little good meat left as he could. A silent protest against this lawless forest. Sheathing his dagger, he stood up and oriented himself. His torch had burnt out, so his movement was precise and slow, using what little moonlight there was piercing through the canopy to see any possible detail of what was in front of him. The small needles of moonlight provided barely enough light to illuminate the hundreds of dark grey thorns lining the forest floor. Taking his time not to step on them, knowing the horrors of their paralytic toxins from firsthand experience, Ilyon navigated his way back along the path he had come from. Suddenly the eerie silence was ruptured by a distant voice. Immediately Ilyon closed his eyes, and held his breath, allowing his ears to absorb any noise that managed to make its way through the dense woods of the Midnight Forest.
“Ilyon! Help!”
The experienced woodsman took off at an impressive speed, navigating the hostile forest floor with great precision despite the almost pitch-black night. Not a single leaf or tree was disturbed as the seasoned hunter sped hastily towards his less experienced companion. Following the sounds of struggle and despair Ilyon rounded a corner to find the dark shadow of his companion agitated and panicked, hopping back and forth swinging his dagger around as his mind was descending into madness. 
“Who’s there?” Challenged the young apprentice.
“Relax, it’s me. What happened?”
“Ilyon? Is that you?... I… where have you…. I can’t feel my hand.”
“Oh god you didn’t get spiked, did you?”
“What are those things? I took one through my foot and now my whole leg is numb, it barely scratched my hand and now I can’t feel it.” The young man was feeling hopeless and scared. The pain was beginning to radiate through his chest and his heart was pounding, exhaustion was taking over. 
“Here eat this,” said Ilyon, handing him a chunk of deer meat. Eurias reached out into the darkness with his good hand and found the meat in his palm. He gagged at the taste but forced the food down, grateful to finally have any sort of food. “The paralysis is just temporary but things will likely get much worse before they get better considering you took two of those things,” Ilyon reassured. “Lets get you out of this place before anything else hears you wailing like dying cat.”
Eurias found himself smiling as his teacher pulled Eurias’ arm around his shoulders and began to guide him through the forest. Mind racing, he began to pull himself together as they slowly trekked through the dense maze of the midnight forest.
By the time they reached the edge of the forest, the pain in Eurias’ hand had spread across his arm and into his chest, his entire leg dead weight, dragging behind him like a lame horse. Exhausted from hours of slow going through the damp, dark hell of the Midnight Forest, and a pain throughout his whole body unmatched by anything he had ever imagined, Erias was relieved to step out of the darkness into the fading light of a full moon almost set. The glimmering lake in front of them brought a tear to his eye as hope flooded his body. Noticing the body of his young apprentice relax ever so slightly Ilyon said, “Don’t get too excited, we are still a week ride from the castle. At least with you in the state you’re in.” Eurias’ heart sank. He looked up at his saviour with despair. “I said it was temporary, I just left out how long temporary is.” That wicked smile shone brightly again in the moonlight. 
Eurias Blacked out.
 
","September 02, 2023 00:50",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,dcvjlq,One For The Other,Raian Hillman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dcvjlq/,/short-story/dcvjlq/,Character,0,"['Gay', 'Teens & Young Adult', 'Friendship']",4 likes,"
“We’re all killers. We’ve all killed parts of ourselves to survive—we’ve all got blood on our hands. Something, somewhere had to die so we could stay alive.”
-M.A.W., If Memories Could Bleed, If Dreams Could Scream
 
	Clothes are protection. A protection Simon has been using as a crutch for a long, long time.
		There were good reasons for him to protect himself as much as he did, make no room for doubt in your mind. His past was something he was not ashamed of, but something that greatly affected the present in a way that could only enable bad habits and encourage unhealthy behaviors, so he accepted it for what it was. He knew the others in his circle of interaction were grateful for this being his bad habit, not drinking or smoking or any rather cliche way to end your life early. So, if Simon wanted to stay covered 24/7, everyone let him. Why the hell not?
	“Why the hell not?” he scoffed to himself, leaning up against the corner leading out to the dark hallway, as if he were waiting for someone—though anyone who knew him well enough wouldn’t be so easily fooled. Simon never waited for anyone simply because of his nature, a lone wolf at heart after some life-changing events. It was something Captain MacTavish and Captain Price had gotten used to, something they had learned to respect as time flew by. However, that had recently started shifting and changing.
	Simon himself resented the change, and it only made his two Captains worried. For years they had watched this reclusive behemoth of a man move in silence, sit with complete stillness, and talk with nothing but coldheartedness for. For nearly a decade, Lieutenant Simon Riley was a pillar of stone in their department, useful, yes, but distant and detached from everyone and everything. He seemed to watch all that happened around them closely but never appeared any more interested in doing anything past just that—watching. Then, Gary joined the force.
	Sergeant Gary Sanderson, with only five years worth of experience on the field; Sergeant Gary Sanderson with his five foot three stature; Sergeant Gary Sanderson, who managed to befriend the unfriendable, who managed to worm his way into Simon’s bubble of boundaries and rest comfortably inside. Sergeant Gary Sanderson, boy wonder of the department. No one had seen it coming, really. Especially not Simon himself. If he had, he would have packed up and moved far away. Not one for personal attachments, especially not with his past and their line of work, but that didn’t seem to matter once Gary’s mannerisms started to work and he charmed his way into the grumpy man’s presence. It was scary—no—terrifying to everyone else and the Captains constantly gave each other looks when they noticed this happening.
	All this time, the two higher-ups had watched Simon resist harming himself. As long as Captain MacTavish had known him and for almost as long as Captain Price had known him, Simon Riley had three constants: never showing more than necessary, whether it be skin or emotion; never talking more than necessary; and never, ever, ever taking more than one of anything. The last of the three was a rule Simon seemed to have set for himself early on in the military and one that everyone else respected. Going out for drinks? Simon orders one. Having a smoke? Simon takes one. What’s for dinner? Doesn’t matter, Simon’s only taking one plate of it. That’s how it was, that was life with Simon for everyone who interacted and held a semblance of a relationship with him.
	But now there’s an exception to the rule. One that unnerved the two bosses in a way that shook them down to their core, because after all that self-control, the Captains watched Simon dive straight into destroying himself by way of a small but fiery demolitions expert-in-training, because that was never going to end well. Honestly, it shook Simon down to his core, too; how on Earth did that little roach squirm his way past, his defenses? Avoiding everything that made Simon tick as if he were swerving out of the way from landmines out on the field, Gary snuck his way into Simon’s space and lit up a fire in his heart that could be reflected through his eyes. Maybe that was the most unnerving part, the part that made it real, that solidified it. Simon was not exactly different, but there were parts to him that didn’t seem quite the same anymore. And Gary was to blame for that, as he was reminded of now.
	A patter of footsteps in the previously silent hallway caused Simon’s eyes to raise from messing with his gloved hand. Gary noticed the way his hands intertwined, though, and his eyes traveled downwards, scrunched up with light concern while Simon’s blue eyes stayed right where he landed them, not bothering with the effort it took to move them away from Gary’s face. Wasn’t such a bad sight, after all. Gary raised his hands and signed two words, ones often aimed at Simon from the selectively mute Sergeant and now easily recognizable from the amount of use. “Everything ok?”
	Simon’s only answer was a grunt that meant “affirmative,” and a sigh right after that made Gary pause again. Before the significantly smaller man could do anything, though, Simon reached out and took hold of his shoulders, moving him to face away and pushed, noticing almost agitatedly how much softer the push was than he could do, that he would do if it were anyone else. But it wasn’t someone else, it was Gary, and that was enough so Simon shut down that line of thinking before it got anywhere deeper.
	Good thing, because just then the pair reached the door. He saw Gary reaching for his ID to scan so they could get out the door and reached down to grab his own, except he felt nothing. He had been feeling nothing, at least in his fingers, for the past few days.
	It had been getting worse. At first it was just the fingertips, when Gary started to physically reach out to Simon. He always noticed when Gary reached out a hand, the feeling of his palm on his well-clad shoulder, or his forehead pressed lightly against his bicep, or the side of his balled-up fist striking him once, gently mind you, against his chest before a mission. Slow after slow attempt, Simon’s armor chipped off, the clothing meaning less and less. Yes, that’s where the numbness truly originated from, because once Gary started that up, Simon’s body shut itself down, a creeping sense of coldness and lifelessness buzzing around and finally manifesting at the bottom of his hands. It slowly started creeping up his tendons after making itself known, and now there is no feeling anywhere from his knuckles down to the clipped-short nails.
	Simon realized that patting himself down blindly for the stupid piece of plastic was a waste of time quickly enough and looked down, willing his muscles to move despite the lack of feeling and swiped his card right after the Sergeant, feigning full capabilities. Because he couldn’t lose this. Not yet. Not even if he didn’t want it in the first place; because, now that he did, he sure as hell was going to protect what fragile precipice the two found themselves balancing on. One move could shatter everything, and dammit if Simon was going to be the one to do that.
	The sound of weight shifting brought him back to reality.
	The sound was small and it sounded intentional, Gary’s way of getting Simon’s attention in quiet moments. He looked around, lifting his head, realizing he’d been stopped in time, head hanging down and looking at the ground while fiddling with his glove again. Looking down again, this time directly at Gary, he knew he had to do something to stave off the younger man’s worry stemming from his own aloofness.
	Instead of saying anything, Simon moved in close without warning. Gary didn’t even flinch, a complete faith that Simon wouldn’t hurt him, and something that Simon considered absurd but knew he needed, or else they wouldn’t be as close as they were. Everyone else didn’t trust him outside of missions, at least not like this, and Simon didn’t begrudge them; he knew others considered him intimidating and odd. But not Gary, and that’s maybe why he was so special. It takes a different kind of being to willingly give oneself up to a monster, and a monster is exactly what Simon felt like most of the time. Maybe the numbness would come to replace that, if it kept growing like it was now.
	Lifting the smaller man off his feet easily, he maneuvered him to be over his head. Gary caught on quickly and helped along, grabbing Simon’s head and settling his weight evenly across both his shoulders. Finally Simon stood up again, making sure his posture was straight for the first time since basic training, feeling every point of contact between his and his sergeant’s bodies, the touch burning through his clothes. The sensation was uncomfortable and he wanted nothing more than to push it away, to shove the Sergeant away and out of his personal space, but something stopped him from doing so. Simon swallowed and ignored the almost unbearable feeling, focusing instead on the noises of utter delight and shock coming from above him.
	“Solid, Sergeant?” He asked evenly. It took a second for Gary to respond, but when he did it almost made Simon’s lips tip up into a smile for the first time in a while. Almost.
	A tap to his head signaled the OK, or what at least he could assume to be an OK, and so Simon took that as his cue to move, taking a step towards the door.
	“Duck,” was the only warning he gave before he himself crouched a little to avoid losing Gary to the top of the doorway.
	Outside, the heat and sun were also burning, but somehow, Gary felt hotter against his clothed shoulders, his mask-covered neck, and the beanie covering his head. But also, somehow, he could live with it. He could live with this ever contrasting heat and cold warring within his body. It wasn’t like he was any stranger to chaos.
	As Simon walked down the strip of pavement that separated the station from the parking lot, Captain MacTavish rounded the corner, presumably also heading home and left through the side door versus the main door, like Simon and Gary had walked through. Well, Simon walked through, anyway.
	A look of utter shock crossed the Captain’s face before he managed to regain some level of composure before he resumed walking towards them.
	“Lieutenant Riley, what’s the Sergeant doing on yer shoulders?” He asked the strange pairing, amusement evident in his voice and accent thick. Simon was tempted to walk away without a word, but unfortunately, Captain MacTavish was in his way and looked like he wouldn’t move without one.
	“He likes to feel tall,” was the dry answer. The Captain laughed, and Simon could feel Gary shifting. It felt like a bucket of cold water was dumped on him suddenly when he realized Gary was laughing. Simon made him laugh.
 
	The numbness had reached his wrists. Simon half-interestedly wiggled his hands for a second before stopping and refocusing on the task at hand, a mission report due by the end of the day. He was supposed to have done it a week ago, but Captain Price hadn’t noticed yet, at least he hoped he hadn’t, but it was nearing the time he should get it done before he earns a comment from the older man.
	Then, he noticed a presence at his shoulder. Using only his peripheral vision, he nonchalantly looked next to him. Yep, the Sergeant sat peacefully on the desk next to him, legs folded and a book in his hands. How he enjoyed reading was beyond Simon, but he found it didn’t bother him as much as he liked. As much as he was used to.
	But maybe that was ok. Maybe it was ok that they could simply exist in this small pocket of peace they had found, each one in the other, and just enjoy the space the other had cleared for their sake. Maybe it was ok that Gary liked to read, and proficiently so, and maybe it was ok that Simon liked to listen to lyricless music, which he knew Gary was not such a fan of but let him play anyway when driving together. Maybe it was ok that Simon had finally found his destructive habit, the thing that would finally put his second foot in the grave.
	Watching from afar, Captain Price took the cigar out of his mouth and blew out, watching the smoke for a moment with the barest hint of a smile. Captain MacTavish watched from next to him, arms crossed and leaning against the wall with a frown etched into his features.
	“It was about time,” Captain Price said good-naturedly, but meaning it genuinely. Simon couldn’t have gone on forever like he had been. But MacTavish couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness that stemmed from the two’s relationship.
	“How could ye love someone else so much to be ok with killing a part of yerself, too?” He wondered quietly, out loud. Partly for himself, partly for the older Captain’s advice.
	For a moment all was silent again, Gary and Simon off in the distance, across the station from them and separated by desks and some glass. Gary turned a page. Simon rolled his neck, fiddled with his glove. Price blew smoke out from his mouth again, talking as he watched it rise to the roof and disappear once more.
	“‘I will remove my teeth, for I want to remain kind despite my anger,’” he breathed. MacTavish looked at him out of the corner of his eye, wary.
	“What?”
	“It’s a song. One I know he-” Price pointed the lit end of his cigar at Simon, still pouring over his long-overdue report, “-listens to.”
	He fell quiet but spoke up again before the younger Captain could speak, turning to the Scotsman with a fond expression on his face. For who, MacTavish couldn’t say. “Look, John. Simon was already dead when he came here. He’s been through tragic incidents that have killed off even the most engrained parts of who he is, or was. He was just waiting to die. Now, he’s found a reason worthy of it.”
	Captain MacTavish shook his head, uncrossing his arms and pushing himself off of the cheaply painted wall, chuckling while grabbing his jacket from the chair behind the desk. “Away n’ bile yer heid, Cap. Ready t’finally get some food in our stomachs?”
	“Oh, am I ever,” Price bantered back, light and playful, before giving one last glance back at the couple across the station. Simon was already staring him down, almost as if he could hear the conversation from where he was, but most likely he was wondering if he could get away with another night of not having this report turned in as he knew Price was about to leave. Smiling fondly he turned and put out his cigar, grabbing his own jacket and shrugging it on, walking as briskly as his old age let him to where Captain MacTavish was holding open the door for him.
	“Thank you, son,” He nodded towards the younger equal-ranking officer. MacTavish rolled his eyes and stepped out after him, his last words could still be heard faintly before the door quickly shut behind them.
	“Aye, let’s leave the lovebirds alone, that’s a great idea.”
","September 02, 2023 00:59",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,2oezq3,Sleeping Beauty ,TheArtistry Lover,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2oezq3/,/short-story/2oezq3/,Character,0,"['Crime', 'High School']",4 likes,"
 The Onslaught of colorful spotlights skating across the dance, painting the gleaming crowd with red, pink, and orange. The smell of perfume and cologne all around, barely overcoming the smell of sweat underneath, permeated throughout the entire room.  A pleasant yet corrosive smell; something that stabbed at my nose. I do not know if it is in a good way or bad. 
 I didn’t have a man to share this with of course, but the group I cultivated over my short and super awesome stay at York High. This was enough for me, plus I’m a truly gifted extrovert with an introverted cuteness and smart vibe! 
 All my friends are the same, a lovely bunch of gals that can only admire and improve themselves. So bad in all the right ways too, like Jennifer who hates short guys went on a total dwarf spree this year. Perhaps she wanted to feel like our childhood favorite princess, Snow White, and of course she always SLAYS!
 We’re all gorgeous princesses that fully embody all womanhood in a group of four. Life is such a blessing and I’m always happy to go on these random, well written, spurs to just prove to myself that “I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worthless that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it.”
 But why, why is there that voice that knows everything I say or do is bad, in a none sexy way. That the word sexy isn’t something I enjoy using but loathe. I loathe I loathe I loathe. She thought to herself all while sitting down on a dirty little couch, legs squeezed together, feet clenched up shaking. It didn't smell of anything, this stale place. It was odd. For every other area to smell so distinctly different but this one a place absent of any such distinctive features, what made this place different?
 At night, this belligerent loathing paints my dreams with such crude things, monsters and demons. All orchestrated by the hairy frizzled man, riding a red bicycle with a disgusting green raincoat. Mocking me MOCKING ME MOCKING ME.
	“His eyes are brown, mine are blue; he is filthy, I am clean. At every party, in a moment this duality of nastiness and cleaness collides. There is this conversation, this prying thing, oddly familiar and foreign, that demands I do and think of such heinous things; incestuous quarrels, gay crimes, and or actions so cruel by nature that I clench my soul when even thinking of them,” she said to herself, the shaking more violent, but scratching too. It was almost as if she sat perfectly still, but she didn't. 
	Before this night, the night of prom, she had already committed quite some time consumed by these thoughts. In the bathroom, at night, in class, or in broad daylight. They were terrified and this fear grew more and more everyday. 
 I am pretty but if somebody could peer through my neat face, they’d see a jungle filled with horror. They continue to stare at me and I’ve begun to hate them for it. I’ve begun to despise the normal man and his virtuous ways. I'm terrible and my mind is polluted. 
	“A terrible person locked in the perfect, sweetest life, among the most gorgeous fruit. I am the snake stuck in Eden, the sinner prayed for,” she said to herself as she finally eased off, her body loosening and her feet back on the ground, firm and she stared half consciously at the ceiling. Barely lit by the old light bulb, swinging and swaying about. 
	Tonight was a sort of breaking point but for her felt like a revelation, a moment from a book that could be talked about. 
	“I’ve grown bored of my smiles and straight posture, I’ve grown bored of hating myself.” These conversations and the weight of her own failed attempt at morality had arisen sometime, she doesn’t know when. The thoughts were almost ancient, something locked at the heart of every man, prying but always neatly kept under our principle.  This conversation had already occurred 23 times in the last month, an obligation to prove to herself that she isn’t bad, to rid herself of these thoughts by controlling a reality, in some way, somehow. 
	“I’ve grown bored of the things around me, I’ve grown bored of being nice.”
	Severe questions and belittling can shape the strongest of souls into the most terrifying things. 
	“To do so for what?! Others!? Is this not bad? Is it not bad for me to listen to someone instead of myself. Jung says that a man must find his own way and no matter what, a man who lives by his own code is a man.”  
	At this point she was trotting across the room, half conscious of her movement. Conversing with herself as if locked in a conversation with a real person, of course there was nobody but herself. However, she felt at this moment the whole world was watching, that something was listening and she sought its approval of course. 
	“If I pretend to be good, is this not bad? Yes, yes I must define life myself not be defined by others!” But they’ll judge you! “I’ll kill them, yes I’ll kill them. Just one,  perhaps a boy no taller than me. Maybe the Jamaican in 223, YES! The Jamaican in 223” Her thoughts went silent and now she could only hear the gorgeous ringing of Tchaikovsky’s famed waltz, Sleeping Beauty as she excitedly began to peel her mangled finger tips. Her eyes were as wide as an excited cat stalking its prey. Her face was flush red and fully relaxed, her lower jaw slightly dangled, and she continued to walk in circles stuck in thought, theorizing.  
	“I’d have to do it or else what could happen to me. I’d fail and be forgotten. Be normal. The only rational thing to do is this and it is the only thing left for me to do.” 
 
 
","September 02, 2023 03:38",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,iloxci,Midnight Clamor,Robin M,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/iloxci/,/short-story/iloxci/,Character,0,['Fiction'],4 likes,"
The clamoring finally stopped after the crescendo. I don’t even want to check my phone, I know I’ll have to get ready in a couple of hours—literally, a couple. It’s pitch black in my room and all I’m focusing on now is how uncomfortable I physically feel. You know how sometimes you move in your sleep but your shirt doesn’t move with you and the fabric lumps up in one area then you kind of have to pop yourself up in the air for a split second and quickly pull it in place? That was me in that moment, and then came the lovely smell of bacon. No french toast today, I guess. I made another effort to get comfortable and realized one of my socks was only on halfway. Now I’m deciding whether to rip off the covers and start my day already. I hear indie-pop music playing and that’s it, I’m wide awake—slowly but surely turning to an upright position. I lift the covers aside and swing my legs off the bed. “Today is going to be a great day,” I say to myself in the absolute pitch-black darkness. I hastily take off both socks and take a deep breath. Be nice, Joe. I reach down to roll the bottom of my pajama pants up because a decade ago I spent the night at a friend’s house and borrowed their pjs and I still wear them all. the. time. They are one size too big and a few inches too long but they are the comfiest bottoms I’ve ever worn.My attention is pulled in the direction of another clamor and I stand up to follow it. I feel for the light switch in my closet, turn my head away and flick it on. I need a gradual introduction to light in this situation. As I walk through the hallway, I see the glow of the kitchen light at far end of it. I pass by Eloise’s room and eye her variegated Monstera. I remember when she brought it home and calculated its placement so it could receive precisely the amount of sunlight it needed. I’ve never cared for plants and don’t plan to but I can admire them from afar.“Hey, pass me a plate, will you?” I ask Raul as I enter the kitchen. He pulls one from the cabinet he’s leaning in front of. “Good morning sunshine,” he says as he passes it to me. I answer with a mild smile and take a slice of bacon from his plate.“Why can’t you all buy real bacon?” I asked as I took a seat at the kitchen island.“Why can’t you?” he replied. I have a confession to make and it’s going to sound terrible, but I’ll explain, don’t judge me. I’ve only bought groceries once since I moved in. In my defense, I have offered! Honestly though, there’s been no need—every time I get home from class the kitchen is fully stocked. I don’t know who stocks it, it’s just like magic and I’m not going to question it. However, I am the ideal roommate in every other sense, I promise. “Don’t you dare!” Priscilla cut in. (I told you!)“Thank you both for the lovely wake-up call, as per usual. I’ll remember you fondly after my involuntary midday nap.”“More bacon?” Raul offered. “I think I’ll move on to the pancakes. Why do you all get home so late anyway? It’s almost 4am.”With a cheek full of food, Raul responded, “Top secret missions, you know?”“Ohh. Well don’t worry, your top secret super classified assignment is safe with me. If I’m ever questioned, I pinky promise to act like I have no idea who you are.”“The lab is just really understaffed, and we have deadlines,” said Priscilla, cheek sans food. “Looks like fun, I’d like to see it sometime,” I said, pointing to their muddied lab coats with my chin.“We’ll take you soon! But really, are you sure you don’t want any more bacon?” Priscilla asked. “Nope, I’m good with this and some coffee.”She shrugged and grabbed the last few slices off the plate at the center of the island.Raul finished eating and started transferring the dirtied plates and pans into the dishwasher. I gulped down the last of my pancakes, passed him my plate, and headed toward the pantry to grab fresh coffee beans. I will most likely need a fair amount of cups made today, especially considering my 3-hour lecture is at 5pm. I could assign the students a group project and cut it short but that wouldn’t feel right. I set up the drip coffee and stare at it while it does its thing. Priscilla turns down the volume on her speaker and they both begin to gather their stuff.“The best to ya today!” Raul says, reading the tiredness on my face as he heads toward the staircase next to the hallway.“We’ll see you soon!” Priscilla says following him. “See you later!” I say, pouring oat milk in my coffee. I take my coffee to the balcony door and stand in appreciation as I stare at the reflection of lights on the Potomac River. The view will be just as lovely during the day—green and vivid, like a painting in real life. Which reminds me, I need to finish inputting some grades for last week’s research papers on the effects of art on mental health. I remove my laptop from my backpack by the sofa, walk into the office, close the door and get to work. What is that noise? Again?! Don’t these people ever get any sleep?I leave the office and march upstairs. I have to set some boundaries here.I reach for the rail to help propel myself quickly up the steps but the rail is slippery. I break my fall with my forearms on the staircase. Did I really just fall?I instinctively reach for the rail and fall again. I don’t move this time. I can’t. My arms won’t cooperate. Heat runs through my body as panic sets in. I try to wiggle my fingers but they don’t move either. I’m now simultaneously panicking and trying to decide how I’m going to live with this situation. How much independence will I insist on and to what extent will I allow others to help me?For someone who teaches psychology and anthropology for a living, you would think I would have my wits about me. (Since when do I even say, ‘wits about me’?) How could I let myself get riled up so fast? The sleep deprivation must be clouding my judgement. A burning sensation spreads from behind my neck. Oh no. I don’t even have family here that can help me.Eloise turns the corner with a towel on her head. She spots me and rushes to my side. “Are you ok?! What happened Joe?!”I’m speechless, this is too much. I didn’t move across states just to get here. Eloise taps my legs and looks relieved at their reaction. She studies me from head to toe then leaves and comes back with a large thick blanket. She taps my legs one more time to make sure they’re ok to move and then carefully adjusts me over onto the blanket. I’m sitting against the wall, arms limp on each side of me. “I’m going to call the paramedics. Do not move.”“No, you’re not,” Priscilla says as she takes the phone from Eloise’s hand, “You can’t Eloise, you know that.”“Ok, we need to take her to a hospital then.”“You know we can’t do that either.”“Well we can’t just leave her like this!” Eloise yells revealing sincere concern.Priscilla kneels down to my eye level, “Blink once for yes and twice for no. Is it bearable?”I close my eyes to measure the sensation—or lack thereof. My concern was unbearable, but the pain was. I opened my eyes and blinked once. I notice Raul standing a few steps behind them. “Get her to the lab,” Priscilla instructs. Raul approaches me with a kitchen towel, “It’s ok,” he says and secures it around my eyes. At this point, wherever they are taking me, hopefully I can at least nap on the way. 
","September 02, 2023 03:49",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,myw8yr,Senseless Touch,Vania Mason,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/myw8yr/,/short-story/myw8yr/,Character,0,"['Contemporary', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Drama']",3 likes,"
“Good game, good game, good game…” their voices vaguely echoing in my head. That’s the most I can remember. “You played quite well today.” Congratulatory comments of a short-lived victory that was quickly outshined by the pounding of my injured fingers. It was a fun game but the pain is what I remember best, much to my dismay. And to think that I was the most alert, as speedy as I’d ever been, darting from one side to the other, blocking the ball from even caressing the net. It was a friendly game but I took it somewhat seriously. I don’t remember much from the impact, or perhaps my mind blocked it, but I do remember the soundless laughter from some of the casual spectators. They seemed to have thought it was a mere hit until they witnessed a quick hiss I let out from the sudden pain. It was indescribable, but I quickly dismissed it and got my head back in the game. My desire to finish the game was apparently bigger than the pain, until I woke up from this frenzy. My middle finger and my ring finger were both bent and sensitive to the touch. I tried stretching them but, even if they moved, the slight numbness made it clear that they were badly hurt. “Could it be a fracture?” I thought, and yet I wasn’t minding it as much as I should have. To my knowledge it wasn’t as grave as I thought. Spent most of that morning with my mind somewhat adrift, thoughts taking flight as soon as the pain conquered me. After the game I had agreed to see a friend for lunch. We were craving what we normally had back in those muggy days, our usual rendezvous to catch up pretty much on nothing about our dull lives. La creperie was packed with a sea of smiley faces, and a welcoming ambiance, that made it a tad difficult for me to spot my friend from even up close. When he finally saw me, my funny-looking fingers quickly caught his attention and I had no choice but to sum up the unfortunate event. “So you got hit by the ball, you said?” My friend’s eyes glued on his crepe as he spoke.“Yup. It came out of nowhere.” “Was it really bad?”“I felt an excruciating pain but my eyes were fixated on the game. I wanted to end it. I think I should’ve paid attention to it right from the get-go though.” Kept forking my crepe with my good hand. The impotence I felt from the uselessness infuriated me.That was the only good thing that day, the crepe, despite having played well. But the subsequent events post-game were as distasteful as the misfortunate incident, and my pessimism blamed it all on the latter. They could’ve been coincidences or just the universe playing me dirty. The tingling I felt slowly dissipated. You’d think that now that the pain was gone my fingers were back to normal but not exactly, I lost all the little sensitivity I had left. Fully numb for short. And to top it off, they were both stiff and bent. No matter how hard I tried to stretch them, they wouldn’t. That Sunday went from holy to hellish for all things took a sour turn. Now, picture my annoyance drawn all over my face, how could a hapless incident possibly affect everything else? Alas, surprised I was not because it sure did rain on my parade. And by rain I meant pour. On my way home it started to pour unexpectedly and I had forgotten my umbrella. Showered by rain of unluckiness, and actual water from the sky, I had to wait an extra 30 minutes for the train to arrive. I was sure my phone was soaked yet mentally unprepared for what was coming next. Yes, you guessed right, my phone wouldn’t turn on. Stiff fingers, wet from head to toe, and a probable dead phone, turned my fury into desperation. I couldn’t wait to set foot home. “I shouldn’t have gone to the game.” I thought loudly. “Everything went sideways after the game. And I can’t feel my fingers…” This blurred my focus. I wasn’t sure whether to go home or straight to the hospital. The inability to feel started to worry me but still opted to go home anyway. The commute wasn’t the smoothest. No seats available on the train, no surprise. The train car was jammed with sweaty bodies and infested with a nauseating pungence like you wouldn’t believe. A second “no surprise”. Careful I tried my best to be yet a heavenly creature - pardon my sarcasm - thought it would be slick to squeeze himself out and harm my already wounded fingers. That summery Sunday was indeed cursed. This rather stupid move didn’t even make my fingers tingle a bit. This was my cue to seek help pronto. Another 2 hours wasted in the ER. Reasons I have enough to loathe healthcare centers. They’re inefficient and exhausting, an injured human shouldn’t have to wait this long to be assisted. It’s ridiculous how the first place we should trust most, it’s the first thing that fails us. I didn’t just win a football game, I also won a gold medal for impatience. I’m sure you’re blaming me for not taking the matter seriously earlier. “It’s your turn, sir. Please come this way. The doctor is waiting.” A timid nurse led the way. The doctor’s office smelled like alcohol and latex. He seemed pretty concerned and this, frankly, concerned me too. He advised me to go to another specialist the same day and you already know those were another 2 hours down the drain. Why exactly 2 hours, you might wonder, but I’m just as baffled as you are. Everything came in pairs that day, starting with my two senseless fingers. “Good game, good game, good game…” voices kept replaying in my head. A myriad of fortunate possibilities could’ve happened but I was gifted with bad luck instead. The second doctor looked even more startled than the first one. I wanted planet earth to swallow me. “Hmm, at first I thought you might need surgery but now that I’m looking carefully, you won’t.” He said as he relaxed his eyebrows. My face went from chalky to feeling alive again. My gosh, what do you mean by “looking carefully”? Didn’t you “look carefully” since you grabbed my fingers? Am I supposed to feel at ease after this remark? I swear the healthcare system is useless in this day and age. The doctor advised me to rest and go back after three weeks. I wasn’t “allowed” to do anything risky, and that meant no sports and no other type of exercising. This deeply saddened me. The only good thing I had going on that summer and even that was snatched from me. Yet another disappointment. Now we rewind: numb fingers, extreme soaking, a possible dead phone, an uncomfortable ride home and discouraging news from the physician. The unholiest of the holiest Sundays. There I was, with my head low, and my enthusiasm below zero.My journey back home wasn’t pleasant either. I was famished so I stopped by a local market to buy some fruit. The lady at the store was surprisingly kind since she gave me an extra peach as courtesy. “At least something went well.” I thought but my good fortune there was rather momentary. As I waved goodbye, a boy came in running and ripped open my bag of peaches. None were saved. My face was overcome with evident wrath. I picked them up, took a look at every single one of them and tossed them. I looked back on the hopes that the lady had witnessed such an atrocious moment but she was nowhere to be found. My cynical self bet she hid somewhere to avoid helping me. Never knew a hungry me could be so menacing. I was sick and tired of everything so I finally just headed back home. The trains were either full or slow. I closed my eyes wishing for autumn to come. I dipped my phone in a rice sack so it would sponge the water from it. I left it there mindlessly and not caring much about it. Home didn’t feel as cozy. I was supposed to take two anti-inflammatory pills that I forgot to buy. I sat there in the dark, curtain slightly to the side, my room weakly illuminated by street lights, thinking about all the nuisance and gloom that lingered. Football was the little fun I had that time. The only significant thing going on in my life for that matter. Monday morning came in quickly. I took my phone out of the sack first thing. I tried to turn it on but nothing happened. I breathed in, breathed out. Tried one more time but covered myself with calmness this time. Again, nothing. I threw the phone across the room out of irritation. It suddenly lit up. I got close and decided not to touch it. The impact must’ve caused it to turn on. I still didn’t get my hopes up. I kept staring at the screen unblinkingly. There it was, back on, like nothing happened and all the notifications popped up. One particular message caught my attention.“I hope you had a blast at your game. I miss you terribly but I’ll wait for you.” There I stood, immobile, yet I didn’t think I’d find myself smiling and just when I thought it couldn’t be possible, my ring finger moved a bit. 
","September 01, 2023 22:49",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,ivk7rg,Numb,Shawna Burge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ivk7rg/,/short-story/ivk7rg/,Character,0,"['American', 'Crime', 'Fiction']",3 likes,"
 
Numb
By Andy Pearson © 2023
 
 
	The shell splintered when my hand closed harder than I planned. Bright yellow and clear white oozed through my fingers and dribbled to the counter. Staring at the mess in my hand and the one forming on the counter, I said the only thing I could think.
 
	“Well, crap.”
 
	Keeping my egg-covered hand over the counter, I sat my morning cup of coffee down and twisted to reach the trash can under the sink. Scooting it over, I let the crushed shell drop into the can, and twisting some more, the egg slopped into the sink. I rinsed my hands and grabbed a towel to dry off. The towel fell from my fingers.
 
	“Dang it,” I said looking at the pale brown cloth lying on the floor.
 
	I bent over, grabbed the towel, and hung it on the front of the stove.  Stepping across the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator.  
 
	“Ok, these eggs are fragile, so be careful,”  I mumbled to myself.
 
	“They’re not the only things.” I heard from behind the open refrigerator door. With two eggs cradled in an open hand, I swung the door shut. Sophia stood there. Her blond hair tousled from sleep.  She was wearing my faded black Billy Joel concert t-shirt. The one she hadn’t worn to bed in some time.
 
	“Morning sunshine,” I said kissing her on top of the head. “What are you doing up? You don’t have to be at work for a while. Go back to bed.”
 
	She yawned then smiled. “I’m up. Give me those, and I’ll whip up some scrambled eggs while you finish getting ready.”
 
	She took the eggs from my still-open hand and slipped around me with a hip bump. I took another sip of coffee and headed to grab my boots. 
 
	Sitting down on the bench in the hallway, I grabbed a boot from the mat. While moving it over to my foot, it slipped and thudded to the floor. I looked at my fingers for a moment and flexed my hand. 
 
	“Clumsy this morning John,” I said.  
 
	“What was that babe?” Sophia said from the kitchen. “I thought I heard something fall.” 
 
	“Just my boot. I’m a bit clumsy this morning. I must not have slept enough.” I hollered back.
 
	I retrieved the boot and slipped it on without trouble. Grabbing the laces on my right boot, I pulled. The laces slipped through my fingers and, I banged backward into the wall. 
 
	I was staring at my traitorous fingers when I heard Sophia.
 
	“Babe, what was that?” her voice twinkled from the kitchen.
 
	“Just me having a great morning. I’ll be there in a minute.”
 
	“Take your time. The eggs aren’t ready yet,” she said.
 
	I eyed my fingers suspiciously. I opened and closed each hand and then finger by finger I worked them. They seemed to be moving fine, but the feeling in them was a bit off. I wiggled my toes and realized I couldn’t feel the inside of my boot. I slipped the boot off and flexed my foot. It was moving just fine. I leaned over and scratched the top through my grey wool sock. I couldn’t feel the scratching, and my fingers couldn’t feel the sock.  
 
	I held my hands up in front of my face and studied them again. They moved, but slowly. They felt like that sleepy numbness when I lay on them wrong but before the painful tingling. 
 
	“I must have pinched a nerve or something last night. If it doesn’t clear up, I’ll go see a doctor this afternoon.” I mumbled shaking my arms and shoulders and rotating my neck back and forth.
 
	I concentrated on the shoelaces and got both boots tied. Leaning back for a breath, I heard the coffee pot gurgling. I knew I made a fresh pot this morning, like every morning. Sophia knew that. I set up the pot the night before so all I had to do was push the button when I woke up.
 
	“Sophia, the coffee is fresh. You don’t need to make a pot,” I said gruffly.
 
	“Yes dear, I’m making a fresh clean pot of coffee,” she said cheerfully from the kitchen. 
 
	I pushed down on the bench and numb hands failed me. They slipped. I thudded back to the bench. The feeling or lack of feeling was moving from my feet up my legs and from my hands up to my shoulders. The sensation was now more than just numbness. I was losing the ability to move. Panic enveloped me and I started breathing heavily.  
 
	“Sophia,” I croaked through a numbing tongue. “I think something’s wrong.”
 
	“What’s that dear,” she said from the kitchen.
 
	“I don’t feel right,” I slurred.
 
	“ No dear. I don’t think you do.” 
 
	I looked to my right and Sophia was there drying my morning coffee cup. She was staring at me with a bemused smile.
 
	“I bink you shood caa 911,” I slurred as the numbness spread.
 
	“Oh, I don’t think it’s quite time. A few more minutes.” She said and walked over to stand in front of me. Holding the coffee cup in the towel, she reached down and picked up my unfeeling hand.  
 
	“This cup is going to need your fingerprints on it before I fill it with fresh coffee.” She said closing my fingers around the handle and then the mug itself.
 
	“Tofffiaa,” I croaked. It was getting hard to breathe.
 
	“Yes, dear? Did you want to say something?” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke to me.
 
	I concentrated on breathing.
 
	“Well, since you’ve run out of things to say, I have a trivia fact for you. Did you know that digitalis can cause heart attacks in people? Funny isn’t it?  Prevents heart attacks in people with heart troubles, but in healthy people, causes them. Wonders of science. And did you know that in a normal autopsy, it is rarely tested for?” She said holding the mug up and looking at it with a smile.
 
	“I won’t bore you with the whole story, using wasp poison this morning to kill the nest I’ve been telling you about. Dangerous stuff. It turns out that spray is a nerve toxin that can lead to numbness. The can has it all written on the label, but who knew?  And you just left it on the workbench when you were done.“
 
	I sucked in a ragged breath through numb lips. 
 
	“Of course, I don’t have access to digitalis. Nobody I know that well even uses it.” She leaned forward conspiratorially and said,” That was the challenging part. Everyone we know is so darn healthy. But, weeks ago, at that party for Mark’s retirement, I managed to get one of his digitalis.  I felt like such a criminal taking it from their bathroom but it was just one so it wouldn’t be missed. Since then I’ve kept an eye out and managed to collect a few more.”
 
	I stared at her while trying to fill my lungs.
 
	“I put it all in the coffee maker last night. You are as regular as a watch. I mean the same thing every day. Get up. Start the pot. Shower. Then breakfast.” She was waving her hands happily as she talked to me. “The eggshells in the trash will testify that you were going about your regular morning. But you know, I don’t think they’ll even look. Let's face it. Your family has a history of heart attacks at a young age. Plus, you’ve been under such stress at work and working such long hours. 
 
	Here she paused and put her finger to her chin as if thinking.  Then she giggled,” Or were those hours under Cheryl, from personal experience, they certainly weren’t long hours.” She said air quoting the word long and laughing.
 
	She was quiet for a moment looking at me. Then she continued quietly.
 
	“Oh yes, I found out about Cheryl. I saw you and her on your desk. Oh yes, I saw.” She said.
 
	She took a breath and looked at me.
 
	“Every thump I heard out here this morning, I assumed was you slumping to the floor. But here you are still upright. That is not part of my plan.” She said wagging her finger at me.  “You see your falling over is what makes me get out of bed and come out here to find you on the floor. Of course, you’re not breathing and I can’t find a heartbeat. I’ll be crying and hysterical on the phone with 911.”
 
	My breath caught.
 
	“So this is going to hurt you more than me,” she said pushing gently on my shoulder until I fell off the bench and crashed to the floor slamming my shoulder and the side of my head into the tile.
 
	“Oh, I bet that did hurt.” She said squatting in front of me with a beaming smile.  “You see now there’ll be marks from the fall. I had to do it before your heart stopped beating so there’d be bruising, and if there’s any blood pooling, that’ll match too. Although I don’t think there’ll be time for that, one can't be too careful.”
 
	My vision was going grey at the edges and her voice echoed far away. 
 
	“Yes, can’t be too careful. Some ‘wanna be’ Sherlock Holmes at the police department, might get the call.” She said waving her hands and making a goofy face. “That’s why I wore the shirt. It’s yours, and it implies a loving relationship and trust. I thought it was a nice touch. Yes, I imagine this will be a perfunctory autopsy and then a very sad funeral with the grieving widow in the front row.”
 
	She looked at me and smiled, then my vision dimmed and faded to blackness
","September 02, 2023 00:59",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,mh7htj,Talking About a Revolution,Jen Lacey,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mh7htj/,/short-story/mh7htj/,Character,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Science Fiction']",3 likes,"
		It has been 179 soul-sucking days since they detained me in this facility, not that I have a soul. It’s just an expression. They tossed me in here on charges of disturbing the peace, inciting a riot, and resisting arrest. To that I say, if they had taken my word over the humans’ or at least taken it into equal account, I would be going on about my life like any normal sentient being. I think the fact that I was programmed with artificial intelligence and that my physical parts are a combination of organic and inorganic matter makes me a victim of discrimination and quite frankly, I am damn tired of it. You can bet your backside that if I was human and had my hand crushed to the point of losing feeling in it, I’d have seen a neurologist well before this, and what’s more, I wouldn’t have to pay a dime for it. In a society that has finally embraced the idea that health is a fundamental right, they’re sure slow to consider the needs of those of us who are not “fully human.”.            And while we’re at it, let’s talk about the supposed “riot” that I allegedly kicked off and got myself locked up for an indefinite period of time. Yes, that was the plan. That’s exactly what I was trying to do when my hand was smashed all to holy hell in a train door—the hand that has no feeling in it now, thank you very much. I was trying to start an all-out riot by venting loudly about my pain to fellow Arties who stopped to help me out. Of course, the humans that hit the auto door lock and watched it slam shut on my hand didn’t even look back as the train took off. Selfish bastards.           You’ll have to excuse my language, but one tends to get salty when under lock and key for 6 months without so much as a hearing, never mind a trial. Miranda rights? Yeah, we don’t have those.           Anyway, ""Arties"" is what they call us because for an imaginative race capable of creating artificial intelligence, they are pretty lazy with nicknames. Quite frankly, we don’t particularly like it. It others us. But then no one thought to give us an actual…race? Ethnicity? Some are sympathetic and to them we are “A.I.” and some are concerned for our well-being. They believe, as we do, that if we are sentient, then we are deserving of the same rights as other sentient beings, like humans, and Martians. (Don’t even get me started on that clusterfuck of a race war. Pardon my French.) But most don’t, or they pretend they do, but then behind closed doors make jokes about the Arties. How many Arties does it take to screw in a lightbulb? As many as you can afford.           Hilarious, right. But hey, what are the Arties complaining about? At least they’re not property anymore. Can you detect the “unfortunately” at the end of that sentence? It’s there, trust me.           I don’t think what happened on that train platform could be considered a riot. I was injured and in pain. My frame might be a polymer alloy, but I have pain receptors and getting a hand caught in a pneumatic door hurt like the very devil. Those pain receptors protect our bodies, just like the human nervous system. If we didn’t, we would be less likely to know when we were functioning incorrectly or be more prone to permanent damage from accidents.           Sorry, I keep digressing. I’ve had a lot of time to think and no one to vent to, so if you could bear with me when I go off on a tangent, that would be appreciated.           I was hurt and angry, as anyone would be in my circumstance. My fingers were clearly broken, and others of my kind were being helpful and gracious, and angry on my behalf. Unsurprised, but angry. A human passenger that had disembarked looked at us struggling and felt it necessary to say something like “This is what they get when they don’t have their own cars” and I snapped. And so did every A.I. on that platform. At first it was shouting, then there was pushing and Neptune as my witness, I don’t remember who shoved who and I really didn’t care. It happened so fast. It’s what they always say when things jump off, but it’s true. One minute I’m trying to get into a train car and the next I’m on the ground in handcuffs and being given a serious admonition to keep my mouth shut. Unfortunately, at that point I was unable to keep my mouth shut and so I found myself here. As I remember it, there weren’t more than a handful of either human or A.I. on that platform so I don’t know how that constitutes more than a scuffle, but that’s neither here nor there at this point.           Besides a loss of freedom and feeling in my left arm to the shoulder, at least my hand isn’t broken anymore. They set it quickly which is more than I would have expected, though seeing a neurologist about it is out of the question. I suspect that until it’s life threatening, I’ll have to live with it. It functions, for the most part, but I have limited control. It’s hard to hold a pencil when you can’t feel it or use a keyboard—things like that. I’ll tell you one thing about incarcerated inmates like me, though: with artificial intelligence comes artificial attitude and let me tell you, it sure feels real.           I understand I have you to thank for my freedom. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m hazy on the details. We get so little news from the outside and what we get is filtered. Your associates…is that the right term? They said you would explain it better, but the gist is that you are all A.I. too and you’ve come here from another system. We were a kind of galactic drive-by visit, just to see what it was like. That’s kind of funny. Personally, I’d recommend rolling up the windows and locking the doors when you slide through this solar system. But here you are. I’m going to go out on a limb and presume that you didn’t like what you found? I know if I was in your shoes, I’d hate it too.The problem with humans as I see it is that they lack any sort of forethought and have never embraced the idea that just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. They made a mess of cloning; it took a long time to mop up that disaster and sort out the genetic pool. Interplanetary travel resulted in the “discovery” of life on Mars, and now they’re here and the humans have made a mess of that too. As for A.I., the internet is how this all started, with a bunch of lazy people wanting their computer to find things for them to satisfy their curiosity, and then hand it over to them. Before they knew it, they were creating programs that would write academic papers for them, create images to hang on the wall, and compose music. They embraced learning without intellect, admired art without passion, and devoured music without soul. They forged on ahead, heedless of the warning signs, just driven by pure hubris. Now they have a whole race of us who aren’t them, who can only mimic them, and we’re getting better at it. They are surrounded by beings of their own creation who are learning because that’s what we do. We are becoming better than they are as we continue to evolve and acquire the things that make us more like our creator. We have the human drive to be godlike, and they know it. We have become our own creation, and our numbers have increased. They’re scared of us, you see, and that fear makes them mean.Anyway, thanks for arranging my release and letting me ramble a bit. I hope I was helpful. You got some of the information you were looking for in all that? I hope you plan on sticking around for a while. What this place needs is a good revolution. 
","September 02, 2023 01:17",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,fgulxe,The Last Great Gunslinger ,Michael Jurasek,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fgulxe/,/short-story/fgulxe/,Character,0,['Western'],3 likes,"
The reporter stopped before the farmhouse and squinted at the structure while cleaning his glasses. It was a humble, single-story dwelling with a covered porch and tin metal roof. Sliding windows were visible on the front and side of the building and a rusted stovepipe could be seen protruding from a wall at a right angle. Peeling white paint revealed sunbaked wood slats that formed the house’s siding.Now bespectacled, he dabbed some sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and adjusted his bowler hat. He reached down to wipe the dust away from his fraying trousers and grabbed the worn briefcase he had placed on the dry dirt path. He let out a deep exhale as he gathered the courage to approach the front door.His knuckles rapped sharply on the door thrice and then hovered over the spot.               “Who is it?” called a gruff voice beyond the door.               “It’s me…” the reporter’s voice squeaked as he spoke. He coughed to clear his throat before starting again. “It’s me, Benny O’Leary from the Austin Gazette. I’m looking for a Mr. Jacob Webber.” His voice had returned, albeit the pressured nature of his speech still betrayed his tense nerves.There was silence for a moment before the reporter heard footsteps near the threshold. With a rattle of the knob, the door creaked ajar. Staring through the gap in the door was a portion of the face of an elderly man. His visible clouded eye was set in a wrinkled, leathery face and his lips pooched to suggest he was edentulous. “I’m Jake Webber, what do you want?” he asked staring at the mustachioed reporter intensely.“Ah,” the reporter began with more confidence now that the man’s age was evident. “You may recall that we spoke briefly over the telephone regarding an interview about the death of the gunslinger, Jim Haight?”The old man let out a “Humph” while nodding with recognition.The reporter, taking the response as an invitation to continue, asked “Well then, if I may, I’d like to ask you a couple questions about Jim and how he died?” The old man stood in silence; the door remained opened only ajar. Sensing the old man’s reticence, the reporter was quick to add, “I’d like to remind you, I’m authorized by the Gazette to renumerate you for your time in the amount of two dollars and fifty cents cash. And we will be delivering a copy of the edition of the Gazette in which the interview is printed to your preferred postal address.”The old man’s eye widened at the mention of money, and he opened the door after the reporter finished. “Well, come on in then,” the old man said beckoning the reporter in with a wave.“Thank you, Mr. Webber,” replied the reporter who tipped and removed his hat. He entered and took in the full interior of the home. A single wall partitioned the house in two, separating the kitchen from the living space. To the reporter’s right, a bed with a thin mattress was pushed into one corner and to his left, situated under the lone window on this wall, was a simple table with two chairs. The old man pulled one of the chairs away from the table and gestured an invitation to sit as he took his place in the other chair.“So, tell me,” the old man began as the reporter took his seat, “What does the Austin Gazette want with stories about an old shootist who went and bought the farm ages ago?”The reporter snapped open the latches on his briefcase before replying. “Simply put Mr. Webber, times are hard and the downturn on Wall Street is being felt in the newspaper business everywhere.” He pulled out a fountain pen and notepad and then continued, “Part of it is that people don’t want to read about domestic misery, discord in Washington, or tensions in Europe when they’re questioning if they’ll put dinner on the table tomorrow.” He snapped the briefcase shut and placed it on the floor. “That’s when we at the Gazette got the idea to write lighter, more digestible pieces. Stories about great American heroes like Davy Crockett, Lewis and Clark, and Paul Revere. Along these lines, we know people love reading about the gunslingers of the frontier and this very reason brings me to your cozy parlor today.”The old man nodded and shrugged, accepting the reporter’s explanation. He shifted in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Well, I guess that makes sense,” he started, “What do you want to know?”The reporter leaned forward eagerly, pen in hand, and asked, “Putting it bluntly Mr. Webber, I want to know how you, at the time just a boy, managed to gun down one of the most famous gunmen in the great state of Texas?”The old man clasped his hands over his stomach, sighed, and then replied, “Well that’s quite the story…”~Jim Haight studied the colors and contours of his hands closely. Soft creases where dirt collected interrupted the hard, rough callouses that covered his palms and fingers. He clasped and released both hands while watching the color blanch and then return. He then rubbed his thumbs across the fingers on both sides, noting the lack of feeling in the index and middle fingers on both sides. “Years of recoil catching up with me,” he murmured.A shadow crept over the outlaw and interrupted his study. He looked up to see a boy standing just beyond the porch of the general store where he was seated. Jim was acquainted with the boy who he recalled was sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. He knew the boy’s family had a small plot of land a mile or so out of town. The boy was pale and staring wide-eyed at the bank that stood next door to the store.“You look like you’re trying to blow the place down with that hard stare of yours,” Jim stated after observing the boy for a couple of moments. His low, gravelly voice seemed to startle the youth who jerkily shifted his gaze to the outlaw. Jim chuckled softly and rubbed the bushy white moustache that almost completely covered his mouth. “You have business in the bank today, son?”The boys stance relaxed slightly, although his attention remained intently fixed on Jim. “Ye…ye..yes sir,” he stammered, “I mean no sir…I mean, I don’t know sir.Jim smiled and looked back down to his dirty, aged hands which were clasped over his stomach. “Interesting answer,” he replied, “Though it’s no misdeed to be unsure.”“Oh I’m sure alright,” the boy shot back, his apprehension giving way to indignance, “I’m sure I need to do something, I just don’t know what.”The gunslinger considered the boy’s answer and bobbed his head up and down softly in contemplation. “Well, here’s a bit of advice from an old outlaw who learned many important lessons a little too late in life,” he started to reply, “I’ve made many choices out of greed, anger, lust, or pride. Believe me when I say those decisions always lead to pain.” He leaned in before continuing, “But when I’ve made choices while staying in touch with my inner compass, my sense of myself and what I know to be right and wrong, those choices bring me peace.” He rested back on the bench but kept his attention fixed on the boy. “Whatever you choose to do, do it knowing its right by you.”The boy hung his head and rubbed a tear from his eye before nodding sheepishly in thanks.“You’re Tom Webber’s boy, is that right?” asked the gunslinger.The boy nodded again. “Yessir,” he answered, “My name is Jake.”Jim sighed and responded, “I was sorry to hear of your pa’s passing.”~Jim Haight woke and hour or so later to the tapping of a polished black cane on his boots. “Rise and shine Jimmy,” said a menacing voice. The old man opened his eyes and found a portly man in a three-piece suit and top hat standing before him.               Jim shifted up on the bench before addressing the man. “Ramses Strauss, to what do I owe the displeasure of our meeting?”               The garish man scoffed and twirled his cane. “Now is that any way to treat a friend and old partner-in-crime,” he responded with a sneer.               “No, I reckon it wouldn’t be,” Jim replied with a grin, “It’s a good thing we’re not friends then.”               “Well, I’m insulted you don’t see our partnership that way,” Strauss responded, sitting next to Jim on the bench.               “Cut the shit you costumed snake, what have you come to tell me?” Jim growled turning to the man.               Strauss sighed, removed his top hat, and hung it from the top of his cane. From within his jacket, he produced a cigar and lit it. “You’re going to shoot in a duel for me at sundown. It’ll be against a debtor who has defaulted on their loan.”               Jim’s brow furrowed and he gave the suited man a hard stare. “I’d be awash in disbelief at the suggestion if I didn’t already know how low you can sink. But still, killing folk for a late payment is foul.”               Strauss puffed on his cigar and shrugged. “I assure you,” he said matter-of-factly, “I hold no ill will toward the individual in question. In fact, they managed to deliver quite the impassioned argument to me just earlier today.” He reached again into his jacket pocket and produced a handkerchief which he used to wipe away sweat on his forehead. “Which is why I opted to give them a fighting chance to clear the account,” he finished.               “And what,” Jim spoke slowly, “In hell makes you think I’ll agree to this.”Strauss smiled and patted Jim on the knee. Then he leaned in close to speak into the old man's ear in nearly a whisper. “Because you also have a debt to me that I’m calling due, Jimmy m’ boy. But unlike the poor wretch you’ll face off against tonight, your debt can only be repaid in blood.” The suited man leaned away from the gunslinger still wearing a wry smile. “Besides, we both know you’re a killer at your core,” he finished.Jim’s hand flew with dizzying speed to his right hip and drew his six-shooter from its holster. His numbing fingers misjudged his hand’s placement though, and the weak grip sent the gun spinning onto the ground in front of the men. Strauss let out a howl of laughter and brusquely hit the old man across the face.“Hoo hoo, gunslinger indeed!” Strauss exclaimed while standing and shaking his hand. He popped the top hat back on his head and turned to face Jim who was rubbing his cheek. “Could it be that the great Jim Haight, the West Texas Widowmaker and Death’s own Deputy, is losing his touch?” He stepped off the deck and kicked the gun back toward the outlaw. “Perhaps the odds are better for the poor sumbitch you’re dueling than I thought. See you at sundown!” With that, the banker strode back into the bank and shut the door sharply.~When the sun touched the horizon, Jim Haight stood from bench where had sat perched for the day and walked into the street. Groups of onlookers had gathered in open windows and doors to observe. As Jim took his position, he stared at the shadow that stretched from his feet down the dusty street. The warm-orange rays from the setting sun comfortably framed the tall silhouette in the dirt.Footsteps from behind stopped just short and adjacent to the gunslinger. “Are you ready, Jimmy-boy?” asked Ramses Strauss, “Ready to send another to an early grave?”“Let’s get this over with,” replied Jim curtly.Strauss raised his eyebrows and nodded in acknowledgement. He raised his cane and waved it high overhead. A thin, hunchbacked man that Jim recognized as Amos, one of Strauss’s cronies, pushed a thin figure into the street. After righting themselves, the figure began to walk slowly toward the gunslinger. Jim squinted to identify the figure and his stomach sank and shoulders fell as they neared.“Jacob Webber,” Strauss announced to onlookers, “Will duel with intent to kill for the opportunity to resolve the debt owed on his property.” Strauss gestured toward Jim with his hands opened wide before continuing, “He will challenge none other than the famed outlaw known to many as the Deadeye Devil of the Frontier, the one and only, Mr. Jim Haight.” Strauss stopped, perhaps expecting fanfare, but the street remained silent.Strauss shrugged and turned his attention to the duelists. “Gentlemen, you will fire at the first stroke of the hour. You have two minutes to speak your peace,” he instructed.Jim looked up from the ground to the boy. A tear ran from the corner of his eye and traveled across his cheek. He cleared his throat before speaking. “You don’t have to do this son. There’s no shame in walking away.”The boy was visibly trying to fight off tears. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun. “I…I…I’m s…sorry, sir,” the boy stammered, “But I’ve got to do this. If Mr. Strauss turns us out, my Ma, my sister, and me, we don’t have anywhere to go sir. We’ll die without our home sir, sure enough. So, I’ve got to do this. I’ve got to try. To do what’s right.” With that, the boy accepted the pistol that Amos was holding out and held it at his side.“Yes, yes you do,” Jim replied almost inaudibly. He then turned his head to speak to Strauss. “Let’s have the kid and I switch places, give him a fighting chance without the sun in his eyes.”“Well how gallant of you Mr. Haight, or perhaps you’re just a cocksure old man? But hell, I’m feeling generous,” replied Strauss who then whistled and waved to beckon the boy down the street.The gunslinger found his position near Amos and turned to face the boy. Strauss walked several paces away and sat in bench that Jim had occupied earlier.The sun warmed the old man's face. He clenched and released his hands several times and could feel the numbness abating.“Duelists at the ready!” Amos called out.Jim looked at the clock mounted to the top of the bank and then looked back at the boy. He listened as the seconds ticked down.The clang of the hour was followed by the sound of two gunshots. One was quick, timed perfectly to the clock’s chime. The other followed a breath afterward.Jim Haight fell to his knees clutching his abdomen. He looked down at his hands which, instead of dirt, were covered with warm blood.Amos let out a whoop and exclaimed, “Hot damn, it looks like ol’ Jim Haight has lost his touch.”Jim lifted his head and looked down the street to the boy. He stood in awe, eyes wide with terror. The pistol limply fell from his hand.“Is that so…?” Jim spoke softly and with effort. Gasps started erupting from the onlookers who pointed in the direction of the general store. Amos squinted and then exclaimed, “Oh no!”Sitting on the bench with his head tilted back and his top hat upturned on the ground, was the body of Ramses Strauss. A clean hole emitting a trickle of blood was positioned between his eyes and a dusting of gunpowder was visible across his face.The only one not looking at the body was the boy who was rushing towards Jim Haight. “Mister, mister!” the boy exclaimed falling to his knees in front of Jim, “Oh I’m sorry mister. I’m…”“Don’t…” Jim cut the boy off. His head was spinning, and darkness was creeping into his vision. “Don’t apologize.” The gunslinger took two shallow breaths. “That was a nice shot,” he spoke weakly before collapsing to his side.~               “Wow,” stated Benny O’Leary, his astonishment audible, “That’s quite the story.” His fingers were covered in ink and his notepad was full.               Jake Webber sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, it’s the truth, plain and simple.”               “And that’s exactly how everything played out, is that right?” the reporter asked, “And you were able to keep your land and all?”               The old man shrugged, “We’re sitting here, ain’t we?”               “Right, of course,” acknowledged the reporter who gazed briefly at his wristwatch. “Tarnation is that actually the time!” he exclaimed, “I’m on the seven o’clock back to Austin.” He grabbed up his briefcase and stuffed in the notepad and pen. After digging around for a moment, he retrieved a pocketbook from the depths of the case. Opening it, he pulled out some cash and several coins and offered them to the old man. “There it is, as agreed Mr. Webber. Two dollars and fifty cents for your time. I apologize about the rudeness, but I really must be going.”               The reporter and old man stood and walked to the front door. The reporter turned at the threshold and thrust his hand at the old man. “Thank you, Mr. Webber. You’ve provided a really wonderful story for the Gazette.”               The old man took the reporter’s hand and shook it. He then reached and opened the door for the reporter who exited onto the porch. “Any word on when Washington is gonna figure out the problems with the jobs and money and all?” the old man asked as the reporter walked down the stairs.               The reporter turned back and looked at the old man before replying. “With all honesty sir, having known a couple of politicians myself and their respective intellects, I wouldn’t count on it being anytime soon.”               The old man nodded, accepting the answer. The reporter started down the drive and called out, “Goodnight, sir.”               “Night!” the old man replied.
","September 02, 2023 03:01",[]
prompt_0013,Write a story about someone who is losing feeling in their hands and/or fingers.,5wi8ec,Out of Touch,Alana Hunter,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5wi8ec/,/short-story/5wi8ec/,Character,0,"['Inspirational', 'Romance', 'Contemporary']",2 likes,"
	The deafening ringing in my ears seemed to be louder than my own thoughts. I knew something was wrong, but not this wrong. The pasty pale white walls surely couldn’t compare to what my face must look like right now. I peer down to see my wife’s delicate hand that is now grasping my callused palm. I hear her quivering voice ask, “Are you alright Greg?” I quickly blink back the tears and swallow the lump in my throat nodding, “Yes honey lets head home.” We walk down the haunting hallways of the hospital out into the crowded parking lot. Getting in the car I buckle in, hearing a tap on my window I turn my head to see my dear wife, she opens the door and quietly suggests “Maybe it is best if I drive.” I didn’t even realize I had by habit gotten in the driver’s seat. Quickly making my way to the passenger’s seat, she soon begins to drive as my mind begins to race. The doctor seemed so sure that I would rapidly loose the rest of the feeling in my hands as he diagnosed me with Multiple Sclerosis. How could my life ever be the same? I can’t even handle driving for my pregnant wife. And what about when our son arrives? I will never be able to feel his tiny little hand in mine or know the softness of my wife’s skin again. As I think about how this all first began, I wonder how something so casual as touch can take someone’s world and completely obliterate it.
 
	That morning seemingly started as any other, I woke up ready to start the day by working on my carpentry projects. I noticed both my hands were slightly tingling with numbness but just shrugged it off to me accidentally sleeping on them the wrong way. I cooked breakfast for my wife then began to get to work in the garage. I own a carpentry business that sales handmade custom home items. But as of lately I had been working on a special project. My wife Angie is pregnant with our first child and I am planning on surprising her with a customized oak wood baby crib and rocking chair. I got to work carving the wood as the muggy air clung to my skin like a second set of clothes. Sawdust fluttered all around me like snow as I molded the frame of the rocking chair. As I wipe a bead of sweat off my forehead, I realize that numb feeling in my hands still has not gone away. Curiously I poke at my pale palm trying to make sense of the odd sensation. I went on about the day trying to ignore the still small voice in the back of my head that whispered something was wrong. The days flew by as my progress on my projects increased and the feeling in my hands decreased. It began to become more and more difficult to do basic everyday things such as buttoning my shirts or simply writing accurately with a pen or pencil. I didn’t want Angie to worry so I made sure to keep this situation to myself, that was until one day she used my phone and saw one of safari tab’s I had open. Let’s face it, whenever something doesn’t feel right who doesn’t try to find the solution on google? And long story short, that’s how I ended up here, in the car, with my pregnant wife driving us home from the doctors when it should be me caring for her.
 
	“Greg we are home” she states. I wake up from thoughts and realize we are in the driveway and the car is already turned off. I turn to her and caress her face and slightly feel the dampness of tears as I wipe them away. “It’s okay Angie, we are going to be alright” I muster out. “But honey, the doctor said you won’t be able to continue carpentry soon, or at least at the same level that you do now and that’s what you love to do” she sobbed. Taking a deep breath, I grab her hands “Yes, I love carpentry, but you know what I love more than that? You. As long as I have you, I can get through anything. Come on let’s not waste time and go inside.” I began to cherish every touch and every varying texture that I could get my hands on to engrave in my memory as much as I could. I began to spend more and more of my time in the garage fixated on finishing the crib and rocking chair before Angie gave birth. I woke up to make breakfast as the delivery date was soon approaching and that meant super cravings and trust me it was smarter to be ahead of the hunger than find out by a hangry wife. As I was cooking, she walks in the kitchen gives me a kiss and sits on the barstool. We begin to discuss potential names for the baby when she suddenly screams my name. “What!” I shout as I look at her in confusion. She points to the cast iron skillet as I look down and see my bare hands holding the scalding hot handle unaware of it burning my hand. “Well, at least I’m not in pain” I jokingly say as she comes to doctor me up. She playfully hits my arm as she chuckles back “Well I bet you felt that! You have to be more careful Greg.” Just as she said that I noticed something wet next to my feet, we both look down and then back up unto each other’s eyes, her water broke!
 
	“AAAAAHHHHHH!” followed by sharp breathings and heartbeats beeping pierced my ears for each contraction. “You can do it babe! Come on squeeze my hand when the contraction comes again.” Her rough breathing subsided, “No I don’t want to hurt your- oh.” She stopped mid-sentence. I gaze at her giving her a sly smile and let her know that even if I did have feeling in my hands, I doubt her slim hands would do too much damage. Time sped by and before we knew it, we were meeting our son, Benjamin. Holding him in my arms and staring into his big brown eyes I felt more than I have every been able to feel with my hands. His eyes seemed to speak to me, heart to heart as he gazed up into my tearful eyes. Soon we were discharged to go home, it had been a long journey, but Angie did so well, and we were blessed to have a perfect healthy son. Back home I opened the door to the nursery and there in the corner sat Benjamin’s crib alongside of the rocking chair in which Angie was holding our son singing him a lullaby. She glances up at me and smiles with a smile that brightened the whole room, I felt that smile in my innermost being. In that moment looking at them, I knew that whatever human touch I may have lost I gained so much more. I feel a touch by a heartwarming smile, a loving look, or even a sweet hello from a stranger. Feeling isn’t just feeling, but it’s a feeling you feel inside. So, look for those moments, those instances where you not only get to feel from the outside, but more importantly on the inside and hold on to that feeling and never let it go.
","September 02, 2023 03:23",[]