Tell A Tale in 500 Words

Handled poorly By Izzy Waters

There are hands. There are hands. There are hands everywhere, leaving fingerprints on every surface- from the earth’s ravaged innards up to its ruptured atmosphere. There are hands clinging onto the bottom of the ocean, shaking and striking with vicious intensity, like a sea creature trying to shake off an immovable piece of rubbish. These hands stir up waves, and bestow upon those waves momentum; they join and catch, link together, one busy crowd the sea is building a wall, one that will come crashing down on a distant city.

There are hands lying in the bottom of vast chimneys; running toxic matter through their fingers before sending it off to be born. At the top, there are hands to catch the ascending clouds, black and fatty, they are cuddled and tossed into the sky where there are hands to spread the product out. Hands pass to hands pass to hands, until a thick blanket is formed; it is equal in its reckoning, it snubs out all the lights, it casts its darkness excitedly.

There are hands cupped around ice caps. The hands begin to link together as what they are trapping withers away; its body peeling, liquefying, and becoming one with the oceans beneath. Let it shrink like an old man, the once stately ice cap is now compelled to sit, lonely, atop one fingertip. All the things that relied upon it are left stranded, without a solid space.

There are hands which build great tankards, these enormous steel leeches crawl across the oceans, wobbly and rickety, too full of oil. Hands can be careless in construction, just a slash, a puncture and their creations will bleed. The black mayhem which protrudes suffocates its surroundings. The animal victims do not like the feel of their new coats, they look to the sky for other hands to pick them up and clean but no shape breaks the clear above them. They are alone.

Are these hands a permanent feature? These Ginormous hands, the knuckle joints like engines, busy but unquestioning. The fingers restless and keen, they move through the years like seasons. The whole package so fuelled by some unmatchable incentive for profit which can never be quelled or questioned. Or could these hands be mortal, can they be moved, disbanded. Can hands be raised not in agreement but in protest? The palms stretched like the top of a drum, opened wide. Remove the hands locked in the sea. Eliminate the hands in the chimneys and therefore put of work the hands in the sky. Reject the hands that build the tankards. Discard the hands that cage the ice caps. Let the world be untouched.

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