Prose
Hands
The blue veins criss-crossed the backs of his hands like roadways on a topographic map, showing where his life had taken him. The opposite sides, calloused and strong like a vice, rivaled a grizzly bear’s. At least that’s what I imagined when I was young, looking at those hands, wondering if mine might ever look so scarred and weathered. Those were the hands of a hard man, a hard life. Mine rarely do anything more strenuous than striking the letters on a keyboard. His were gentle only when resting on my shoulder or giving my hair a tousle.
By Randy Baker2 years ago in Poets
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In the realm of human emotions, few experiences rival the intensity and unpredictability of falling in love. It's a phenomenon often celebrated as divine, yet lurking beneath its surface lies a dangerous madness—a madness that can wreak havoc on the stability of marriages if left unchecked.
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