This week’s story is something I think we’ve all been through, no? I remember losing my hands in the dumb-waiter chute of an upmarket establishment in the nineteen-forties after one too many secretive schnapps when Mister Chesterton was following us. Needles to say there was much pianissimo and very little mezzoforte until a fortunate dog unearthed them while sicking up a nerf ball. And the rest, as they say, is history.
The Day My Hands Fell Off
T.J. McIntyre
Because they were unused, because they had remained idle beyond the allotted time, because my chubby fingers had long since grown useless, my hands fell off. The Department of Utility came along behind me and swept them up in a street-sweeper. (more…)
