Phantom Limb

Sometimes I still try to write with my right hand. The one I lost in the accident. I feel the pen between my fingers and the story flowing though me onto the paper. Ink pumping like blood through veins, or ideas through minds.

The mind tricks you in so many ways. I am, of course, aware that I have no right hand, the arm ends in a stump just above the elbow, but sometimes I have the need to write with it. I feel the stories pouring out, even though there is no arm, no pen, no paper. The stories I write are good, I’m sure, they just can’t be read, not in this world, only with eyes that aren’t there, which does make it difficult to get published.

Today the pen is in my hand again, only this time I use it to sign a compact with God. I acknowledge his existence and renounce my sin. In return, I ask only for 3 simple things:

1) My arm back, all of it, hand, fingers, nails and all

2) My stories to be returned complete, in legible and publishable form

3) My mind to be fixed also, the scars covered up and healed.

But the compact remains unwritten, unsigned, unseen. I have done a non-existent deal with a non-existent God. Again!