Housekeeping: Talk to the hand

Story Short or Short Story?

Little did he know that she was watching him type away furiously while totally oblivious to her furrowed brows. There was something that just had to be said and it couldn’t wait.


The hands flew and the ideas flowed. She sat quietly watching, waiting, wondering. Then, as time flew by, she left to go to sleep. He never noticed. He was in the zone. This story was going to be epic. This was the article that would put him on the map.

However motivated he was, there was something tugging at the edge of his consciousness. A signal of sorts, as if some entity was trying to distract his progress.

  • Focus
  • Focus…

Just a few more lines, and it will be perfect.

When it was all said and done, the masterpiece had emerged. The cost was worth it, so he thought. Then, after a bit of sleep, it would all be over and the news would be in the inbox that life had changed for the better. Options were going to be sweet. A book deal. A movie. Another book deal. A move. Yes, perfect

As he slipped into bed for a few moments of rest, the sensation of hot and cold just confused his mind and made sleep hard to find. The bed felt frosty, the wife distant, yet the hands uncharacteristically hot. Must be all that speed typing, no big deal.

Many cups of coffee later, fully zombified at work, the email finally came. The answer was not what was expected. The deflation was buoyed by the discomfort his hands felt. The sacrifices were serious, but now the work felt burdened.

What had happened would take a few days to sink in, but this was the nature of the beast. It could have been simple, it could have been fast. But now, reality was that work was just getting started. This first rejection probably would be one of many to be experience. The masterpiece might need some tweaking, might need some assistance in editing. Either way, that would have to wait.

That night at home, he looked at his bride. She had supported the dream. She had quietly offered ideas and encouragement. She knew how much the dream meant. The investment was mutual. A happier life doing what each loved. But for now, she had to pamper and slow her man down, less his furious typing all hunched over an old rickety table on an aged laptop would lead to health consequences.

He saw the concern in her eyes. She saw his. It was time to take a break. Time to recover. Time to regroup.

His typing hands were hurt. The signs of carpal tunnel was real. The man had pushed and given all he had. She now was going to hold him tight, massage his wrists, kiss them, make them feel better. She’d distract him with her passion elixir. Take his mind off the worry of making it. Let him know that he had already made it.

Click..clack…tap… tap no more. It was time to recover.


When reality is just too real

Some of you have given the author of this blog a lot of love. Thank you ever so much!

While the goal is to write consistent stories for you to enjoy, like the story above, reality bites at times. I’ve overstressed my hands typing on various machines for various reasons. I’m not a self professed writer. Just someone who discovered the joys of sharing stories in the written tradition via the tools of modern inventions on the web.

My little hiatus is to allow my hands to recover before things get too serious and my short lived writing career comes to an abrupt end. Once I’m back in full swing, the long form stories many have asked to continue will resume. Thank you for the encouragements and kind support.

Like always, my work of fiction is not always based on true events. They’re mostly figments of my imagination. Today’s story was lifted from my current life with many many details changed to protect the innocent(me). When I feel better and also have carved out more time to write, I will be back in full form.

Until then, have a great awesome rest of your day and see you again real soon in my author’s voice

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