Story #8: Nonstory Story

Kelly Hanken

“The Hands of a Criminal Mastermind”

The hands of a criminal mastermind are calloused and scarred. They have yellowed nails that are splintering from teeth gnawing on them, chemical burns creating pockmarks and turning smooth skin to dry, chipping paint. The left hand’s knuckles have been broken over and over again, from car doors and baseball bats and rough policemen. They move when he talks, like gestures made by a lunatic in an asylum.

The hands of a criminal mastermind guide food to his mouth so he can talk with his mouth full. They juggle explosive compounds as he builds bombs and they hold the phone he uses to call people who will plant the bomb just right. They dial the number for pizza delivery and they hand the cash over to the delivery boy who can barely stand to look at him.

The hands of a criminal mastermind hold pen and paper as he writes his manifesto. They wave a gun as he shouts out orders to grunts and hostages who can’t leave, not now and not ever. They grab the edge of the desk that gets pushed over to barricade the doors when the police come. They aren’t quick enough on the trigger as the police storm his stronghold made out of a bank and a few faulty wires. They go limp when pulled behind his back as he’s handcuffed.

The hands of a criminal mastermind have long since learned how to dislocate their thumbs.

story#8

The Wedding

It was a perfect day for a wedding. The sun was high up in the sky, only a couple clouds lingered above. Everything was in order; the ceremony was set up with beautiful white lily bouquets lining the center aisle and ribbons and clusters of gardenia draped around the room. Guests had confirmed their attendance, not all of them, but most of the important ones had. My dress is gorgeous; it has a beaded bodice laced in such a way that emphasizes my chest rather than the bulge growing in my stomach. My groom is of course as breathtaking as he has always been and what makes this so much more perfect is that he loves me as much as I love him and in less than five months we’ll have our own little family.

I fuss with my hair even though my stylist told me not to only minutes ago. Facing the vanity mirror in my dressing room I turn my head to the right then the left, evaluating my makeup. The girl looking back at me is pretty, young but not childish; she has a look of determination in her eyes and almost relief as if the battle she’s been fighting is nearly over.

Satisfied that my hair, makeup and jewelry are in place, I start pacing around the room waiting for my turn to walk down the aisle. Things that my parents and friends had said to me kept flashing through my head. I pushed them to the side, it wasn’t important to me anymore; I’ve already proved that it’s different for us.

An attendant knocked on my door signaling that I had two minutes before it was “go” time. Deep breaths. Slowly. With a final deep breath, I exhaled gently and caressed my baby bulge. My heels clicked on the wooden flooring as I walked out to the open double doors waiting for me. I walked. Faces turned to look at me as I passed, I could feel the smiles as well as the disapproving or sorrowful glances, but I ignored the latter. It didn’t matter; I kept my eyes glued to his. Sooner than I realized, I was standing before him on the altar.

The priest, my father, finished going through the vows with my soon to be husband and turned to me. He gave me this look that made my heart race. I narrow my eyes at him and shake my head. Please don’t… Not now…

“Do you, Courtney Marshall, take your cousin, Derek Marshall, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”