You Are a….

This is a challenge in point of view and perception.  In this challenge you are a clenched fist.  You are not the whole person; you can only tell the story from the point of view and perceptions of that clenched fist.  Feel free to give that fist full consciousness.  Onward!

35 responses to “You Are a….

  1. What does it take for a fist to get a little appreciation around here? That’s what I’d like to know. I mean, I’m the one that does all the work. That mirror image of me on the other side, old Lefty, ain’t good for nothing but holding stuff while I do all the fine work.

    I’m the one that gets to use the Grab Stick to pick up litter while Lefty is left holding the bag. Ha ha! Get it? “ Left holding the bag?”

    Listen. Who holds the fork that supplies energy to this machine? Not Lefty, for sure. This machine would be wearing it if Lefty had to do it. I hold the fork and the spoon and the knife. Not all at once, though, you understand.

    And old Lefty can’t type mirrow (mirror) to save itself. See what I mean? Plus, I’m the one entrusted with all the important stuff like punctuation and such. You know, the old Eats, Shoots, and Leaves? Lefty is left (pardon the pun) with the exclamation point. As if. And the ‘z’ and the ‘x’ so you can see which is the preferred hand.

    I can hold a pencil better, too. And a sewing needles, though my machine says she “gets cross just looking a needle in the eye.” Hah! That’s another one of those…. Oh, never mind.

    You never see Lefty buttoning buttons or zipping zippers. That’s a job for the fine muscle control that I have. I might not be a fist when I employ those fine muscles, but I can relax on occasions.

    Yeah, there is that little thing about the ring finger that won’t bend all the way. Some of those things come with age and overwork. Keep that in mind. I know it’s hard to make a fist when that finger won’t close, and I drop stuff occasionally. Just be glad it isn’t the middle finger. This whole machine would be a social outcast it if were. Like porcupines. Porcupines are social outcasts. Prickly little things.

  2. Barbara Burris

    Someone is feeling a bit testy, today. Feeling mighty right again?

    Sigh.

    If it weren’t for Righty’s self-righteous attitude, poor face up there wouldn’t have so many black eyes. And caps! Last time Righty felt like stirring things up, we ended up at the DENTIST! And it hurt – a lot! I got clenched too during that event, you bully! I ached for weeks.

    And whoever told you that I couldn’t hold that fork if I wanted to? In fact, when Junior was going through his Anglophile phase, I held it quite often and did extremely well at it, thank you very much.

    By the way, no one uses pencils anymore. They use keyboards or iPads, you old fuddy duddy. Sewing’s also a thing of the past and boy am I ever glad. You stuck me with that damned needle more times that I can count, you clumsy oaf!

    Now as for that beautiful ring everyone loves to admire, I’m proud to wear it. No doubt you’ve also heard people say how handsome I look when they do, too, so I know all this buffoonery is just thinly masked jealousy. You really should learn not to brag quite so much. I nearly died laughing when you boasted of your typing skills. If it weren’t for me, exactly where would the ABC’s be? You couldn’t reach this far if you had to. And speaking of reaching, which side is the toilet paper on, anyway? In my estimation, holding the poop scooper is a heck of a lot sweeter deal.

    • Eat, survive, reproduce! Your little fist is way beyond that, but then again, it sometimes comes down to poop.

  3. I was never meant to be a fist.
    I was meant to be free from any human involvement.
    Drifting through life, going where I pleased, doing what I wanted.
    Feeling dappled sunlight on my back, glinting off my scales.
    But instead, just because that Ann Linquist hit the wrong key, and then Spell Check didn’t pick up anything wrong with what she’d typed, I’m stuck with being not only a typo, but a dumb fist.
    No wonder I sometimes feel like punching someone.

  4. If I were a fist what would I be?
    A good fist or a bad fist?
    A duke or a mitt?
    Would I be creative ?
    Would I be critical?
    What would I be?
    I could sock some fool in the eye watching it blacken.
    I could paint a face on me making children giggle.
    What would I be?
    What would I be?
    Oh Please tell me what I should be.

  5. I’m the Recto fist, the one on the right side. I’m getting along in years now and because I’ve had a varied life, I have a multitude of memories. I’d like to tell you about a few of them, so you’ll know what it’s like to be a fist.

    Before I do that, however, I’d like to mention Verso fist, the reverse image of me on the other side of My Person. Without verso, my life would be so different, I cannot imagine it. So, my regards to Verso.

    Some of my earliest memories are of things I held: My mother’s light brown hair, my father’s nose, my bottle (which certainly required Verso and I working as a team), my little black lamb, the railing of my crib that I helped My Person climb over. A few years later, I grasped the wide brim of my father’s hat when he came home from a place called The War.

    I learned to hold Crayons and then a pencil. I punched a boy in the nose at recess once and gave him a bloody nose, even though we were wearing boxing gloves. It frightened My Person and I never wore a boxing glove again. I’ve wrapped around tree branches to climb higher and the handles of shovels to dig snow caves.

    I’ve taken copious notes in solemn courtrooms where disintegrated lives were revealed and retribution was on the agenda. I’ve offered up countless tissues when My Person was sad or when she had a cold. I’ve opened myself and rubbed sore muscles, scratched mosquito bites, and applied aloe lotion to sunburn.

    I’ve seen angry fists: black fists of athletes as the National Anthem played in an Olympic venue, white fists barely holding back barking, snarling dogs as marchers passed, fists of every color holding signs that read, “We Shall Overcome.”

    I’ve seen fists push a pole that raised a flag in a devastated place called Iwo Jima, fists of soldiers kneeling in front of a bayonet-tipped rifle piercing the earth, with a helmet on top and boots beside.

    I’ve seen fists raised in exultation by men wearing pocket protectors as they watched images of a man set foot on the moon.

    I’ve held ski poles, the curved oak handlebar of a dog sled, the throttle of a snow machine. I’ve held cameras while one of my fingers pushed the shutter. I’ve held tools to build beautiful creations, and some not so beautiful. I’ve held utensils to create tantalizing meals.

    I’ve stroked gentle animals and been bitten by a grouchy parrot.

    I’ve held a cold beer on a hot day, a cup of hot chocolate on a cold day. Verso and I have been so cold My Person held us near the exhaust pipe of her truck to warm us.

    I’ve held the reins of mules and horses, the harnesses of sled dogs, the handles of fishing poles.

    I’ve held revolvers and rifles, and put five bullets out of six in the kill zone of a charging brown bear, one dead center between the eyes, though others would tell you it was a cardboard target being pulled towards us.

    And then.

    The disparate parts that complete me one night lay against the cheek of a dark-eyed man as my thumb softly caressed his lips. He was the only who could take away the breath of My Person, and it was up to me to communicate what she could not. I hope, oh how I hope, I committed myself well.

    That last is my most cherished memory, the softer side of being a fist.

  6. “How long do I have to stay clenched?”
    “Three hours”
    “This is stupid, I’m going to get a cramp.”
    “You volunteered.”
    “I’m just a fist, you took advantage of me.”
    “Don’t be so dramatic, you fists are all alike.”
    “Look Mr. Mars, this may be important to you, but I don’t really care if this thing melts in my hand.”
    “It’s not supposed to melt in your hand, It’s supposed to melt in your mouth.”
    “I’m a fist, I don’t even have a mouth. If this thing does melt, who’s going to lick it off?”

  7. Oh Dear, What happened to my Waldo cover?

  8. I am naked without my pseudonym, running around looking for a men’s room holding a newspaper in back and a postage stamp in front. Oh what ignominious circumstance has befallen me. Is there a way I can post as Waldo? My real name is wanted in 4 states.

  9. For all writers:

    I hope this works.

  10. It’s an ugly thing being a fist
    On the end of society’s wrist,
    The world would be good
    If only I could
    Raise two fingers and just co-exist.

  11. and be a paci-fist

  12. Seems like everyone’s got their own twist.

  13. Was there something I missed?

  14. Sounds like FigMince is pissed.

  15. What’s fun? I’ll tell you what’s fun. Reading Gullible’s posts is fun. I had to visit her blog just to say HI.

  16. I am anger.
    I am strength.
    Relaxed,
    I don’t exist.
    I am power.
    I am victory.
    The fist.

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