Dancing Hands

She talked with her hands. It was comical.

The more animated she became, the more her hands flapped and fluttered through the air.

We teased her, had her sit on her hands, which practically made her mute.

She’d laugh then and poke our ribs, call us stinkers, and her hands danced as she did.

I didn't make it back in time. I would have if I didn't stop.

The bill wasn’t even due.

I was stalling, but stalling what?

My return to her bedside? Her last breath, or both?

When I got there, her hands were at her sides, spent.

From Guest Contributor Linda Chandanais

An Invitation

As Tom flipped through his mail, he hesitated when he came to a thick parchment envelope, intricately addressed with gold trim. This was certainly not a bill.

Breaking open the wax seal, Tom pulled forth a hand-inked letter in an elegant cursive, with the type of curls that indicated a tremendous sense of self-worth.

"Dear Thomas Pendergraph," the letter began, "Your presence is requested in the royal palace on the fifth of December..."

Tom scanned to the bottom of the correspondence. It was signed by the Emperor.

He tossed the letter into the trash bin with the other junk mail.