Jon Pearce
A seven minute composition written at The Sun writer's workshops
October 27, 2013
Esalen, Califoirnia
What happened was that I found a severed hand on the trail leading into the forest. I picked it up and put it into the plastic bag I was going to use for my laundry. When I arrived at the auditorium I caught the attention of the moderator before she was about to take the stage.
"Is this important?" she sternly asked. I nodded my head meekly, trying to conceal my uncertainty. Wordlessly, I opened the bag. She peered inside, then sighed; not a sigh of horror, but a sigh of exasperation. This was definitely going to delay today's program.
She took the stage and asked the audience members if anyone was missing a hand. Silence.
She looked in the bag again, then announced, "This is a right hand." Silence.
Again she checked the contents of the bag, "It appears to have a pinkie ring with a fake sapphire and a gold band."
A man in the back of the room cleared his throat and stood up. His right arm ended in a wrap of blood-stained bandages. He sheepishly shuffled to the front of the silent auditorium. All eyes were on him. When he arrived at the stage the moderator unceremoniously thrust the bag into his left hand. "Here," she hissed. "Be more careful."