Read Online One-Hundred-Knuckled Fist by Dustin M. Hoffman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dustin M. Hoffman
Ads: Link
appeared, wide eyes, a mussed towhead, mouth gaping. Then more, a dozen children silhouetted by the shadows, all staring down at Bertha, at me. My fist inside Bertha’s skin convulsed. Whatever way I moved Bertha felt phony. I didn’t understand a snake’s movement, and the children looked bored, their mouths closing, eyes flitting away to see the genuine life the Realm of the Reptiles had to offer. I was losing them.
Drew appeared before the tunneled vision of my peephole. Rizzo’s snakes draped his arms, his neck, crawling and arching their heads, flicking their tongues. The children turned toward him, faces glowing with excitement again. They danced around him, and I thought of St. Patrick driving the snakes into the sea, tricking the last old serpent. Drew neared my cage, the young teacher gripping his shoulder, the children shepherded by him and his snakes. They peered into my tank again, examined the intricacies of my scaled body, my cloudy eyes now aimed at Drew, waiting.
He clicked the latch at the top of the tank. The metal vibrated through the glass, into Bertha, into me. He was coming to make us alive and real. He lowered one hand into the tank, and I stared at it, hungry for inspiration. His palms were smooth and glowing under the lights. I could almost feel their warmth, the desire to crawl into them, slide up his arm, wrap around the leather elbow patches. He waved his hand, and I followed. I used my own eyes at first, but as I began to sway, I felt Bertha, sensed those tiny black beads. He swirled his hand, and I followed again, twisting, circles,dizzying. My cramped, overweight body below disappeared. No arms, no legs. I became sleek and strong.
Then Drew made a fist. I froze. Our eyes trained on each other, locked, bonded. The fist poofed into wiggling fingers, and I felt myself again, my neck cramping, my back aching, my hand sweating inside Bertha’s hot guts.
The children clapped, cheered. The teacher pecked Drew secretly on the cheek. He looked satisfied, his lips curling slightly at the edges. Not saved, not relieved, but satisfied. He was not a child to save or devour. Here were children, eyes big and white and empty. A python like Bertha could birth one hundred children in one pop. This crowd would mean nothing to her. But they meant everything to me, this audience witnessing my hand becoming serpent.
And he was not the professor in his blazer and tie. Here was a teacher, at his side, just as charmed by him as the children were. Drew was something else, something I’d never known, something that had hypnotized me to swirl and swoop and turn into a human pretzel.
So what was I?
I had touched the snake, violated Rizzo’s sacred commandment. But it wasn’t that simple. I had been Bertha, and I was, as she had been, one of Drew’s reptilian passengers, his cold-blooded followers looking for warmth, for the light.
The children and the teacher scattered away from the cage. Drew remained, his face illuminated in a backdrop of darkness. I tried to wriggle free from Bertha’s skin grown tight around my wrist. I shook her dead weight. Drew backed away, into the shroud of shadows. Alone, I struggled, finally shed her. I shoved Bertha’s slumped body aside and gazed through the peephole at my own hand, coated in coagulated snake blood, but, yes, my hand. I raised it higher, flailed inside the glass, hoping someone would see my bright hand, the possessor of knowledge, tricked and trapped in this tiny box, but no one saw.
The Fire Chasers
At home Randall could quietly celebrate his promotion to head safety supervisor at the refinery. He pulled a cigar and book of matches from his pocket, lifted his knuckles to his nose, and smelled the oil soaked into his fingers. The match head scraped across the strike strip and fizzled white. He waved his fingers through the tiny flame, and the oil in his skin did not ignite, would not burn and turn to ash, as his job would not burn, despite the refinery
Drew appeared before the tunneled vision of my peephole. Rizzo’s snakes draped his arms, his neck, crawling and arching their heads, flicking their tongues. The children turned toward him, faces glowing with excitement again. They danced around him, and I thought of St. Patrick driving the snakes into the sea, tricking the last old serpent. Drew neared my cage, the young teacher gripping his shoulder, the children shepherded by him and his snakes. They peered into my tank again, examined the intricacies of my scaled body, my cloudy eyes now aimed at Drew, waiting.
He clicked the latch at the top of the tank. The metal vibrated through the glass, into Bertha, into me. He was coming to make us alive and real. He lowered one hand into the tank, and I stared at it, hungry for inspiration. His palms were smooth and glowing under the lights. I could almost feel their warmth, the desire to crawl into them, slide up his arm, wrap around the leather elbow patches. He waved his hand, and I followed. I used my own eyes at first, but as I began to sway, I felt Bertha, sensed those tiny black beads. He swirled his hand, and I followed again, twisting, circles,dizzying. My cramped, overweight body below disappeared. No arms, no legs. I became sleek and strong.
Then Drew made a fist. I froze. Our eyes trained on each other, locked, bonded. The fist poofed into wiggling fingers, and I felt myself again, my neck cramping, my back aching, my hand sweating inside Bertha’s hot guts.
The children clapped, cheered. The teacher pecked Drew secretly on the cheek. He looked satisfied, his lips curling slightly at the edges. Not saved, not relieved, but satisfied. He was not a child to save or devour. Here were children, eyes big and white and empty. A python like Bertha could birth one hundred children in one pop. This crowd would mean nothing to her. But they meant everything to me, this audience witnessing my hand becoming serpent.
And he was not the professor in his blazer and tie. Here was a teacher, at his side, just as charmed by him as the children were. Drew was something else, something I’d never known, something that had hypnotized me to swirl and swoop and turn into a human pretzel.
So what was I?
I had touched the snake, violated Rizzo’s sacred commandment. But it wasn’t that simple. I had been Bertha, and I was, as she had been, one of Drew’s reptilian passengers, his cold-blooded followers looking for warmth, for the light.
The children and the teacher scattered away from the cage. Drew remained, his face illuminated in a backdrop of darkness. I tried to wriggle free from Bertha’s skin grown tight around my wrist. I shook her dead weight. Drew backed away, into the shroud of shadows. Alone, I struggled, finally shed her. I shoved Bertha’s slumped body aside and gazed through the peephole at my own hand, coated in coagulated snake blood, but, yes, my hand. I raised it higher, flailed inside the glass, hoping someone would see my bright hand, the possessor of knowledge, tricked and trapped in this tiny box, but no one saw.
The Fire Chasers
At home Randall could quietly celebrate his promotion to head safety supervisor at the refinery. He pulled a cigar and book of matches from his pocket, lifted his knuckles to his nose, and smelled the oil soaked into his fingers. The match head scraped across the strike strip and fizzled white. He waved his fingers through the tiny flame, and the oil in his skin did not ignite, would not burn and turn to ash, as his job would not burn, despite the refinery
Similar Books
