The lights in the white house were still out when he came back. The driveway was still empty and there wasn’t a single sound coming from inside.
He went up the path to the front door, a black duffel bag hanging from his shoulder. The door was stained oak and it had a small decorative stained glass window at the top, but it used a simple pin and tumble lock. He slid the tension wrench in and when he twisted it to the left there was a little give. He slid the pick in and raked it slowly along the pins. He worked each one carefully until they were all in place and when he turned the tension wrench all the way the door came open.
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Great-Grandma’s Hands was my first published work of fiction. It can be viewed at Every Day Fiction here:
For Jacob, the greatest mystery about visiting Great-Grandma was her hands. In her face Great-Grandma portrayed the illusion of a tired, feeble old woman, but her hands betrayed her terrible power. They were tense blue claws riddled with hard bumps; just a thin layer of flesh barely repressing the skeleton coiled in thick blue veins underneath. Her throat bulged out like a frog’s, her hair jutted out in fierce patches of white tufts checkered upon her head. Her skin seemed stretched and dropped, like it had once been worn by a much larger thing, since discarded. But above all, it was the hands, the hard blue claws at her side, that gave her away.
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