Sand Hands

I once dated a human cannon-ball. Not just some circus performer--her only mode of transportation was being shot out of a cannon. We'd meet in a bar or a coffee-shop. I'd arrive early. She would arrive by being shot through the glass window of the store-front. Embarrassing. But, dude: She was fast.

I sit alone now, thinking of the good times. Of broken glass and gunpowder. Of how she dumped me because I didn't have any superpowers.

Then, for the first of many times to come, I come down with a case of the Sand Hands. Palms down on the tabletop, my hands start to slowly sink. Otherwise solid objects can pass right through each other if you get the molecular vibrations just right. And I guess I'm having one of those days. After they make it all the way through I hesitate, hands quivering under the table just inches above my thighs. When curiosity overwhelms fear I hold my hands up to my face. My palms and fingers are covered with what appear to be just about every dirty piece of chewing gum ever stuck to the underside of that table.


(c) 2004 Pete Mandik