by John R Platt

I woke one morning, the alarm ringing in my ears. I swung my arm to hit the snooze. And missed. My hands were gone. Frantic moments later, I found the left one, wrapped in the covers. I tried to reattach it, but I couldn't pick it up. I sat back on the bed and stared at my hand, lying there, pink and warm, and alone. Suddenly, the mattress bounced beside me, and my dog joined me at my side. He opened his mouth to bark, and my right hand fell into my lap. He bounded away, and I sat there, hands by my side, tears in my eyes, and no way to wipe them.

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