WRITING OBSTACLE
Tell the reader something important about a character by describing only their hands.
Fingers
My vision was blurred. I looked down and brought my hands closer to my face. They were a representation of the life I’ve lived. The harsh light from this sandy wasteland beamed onto them, allowing me to examine every part: the scars, the wrinkles, the random markings. Each one of these small details, or imperfections told a different story: the time that I cut my finger while cutting food, the unnoticeable birthmark that I had always wondered about, even the very time that had passed during my existence on this planet were shown in the wrinkles on my hands, small valleys and folds in my skin that told the tale of time itself. My body collapsed from exhaustion, and I felt my skin make contact with the burning sand, the sun’s heat relentlessly beating down on face, almost baking me alive. My arm reached out beside me and I grasped my water canteen. I unscrewed the cap and felt the last drop of water land softly on my patient tongue. I savoured it until it had entirely melted away. I sat up again, and my entire body ached to complete even this minuscule task. I refocused my vision back onto my outstretched hands, fingers flexing as if they were grasping for something that wasn’t there. This was it. Nothing was there to comfort me, to reassure me. Even in this melancholy moment of utter sadness, I felt great gratitude for my hands, as I gazed upon them. I tried to muster a smile. I don’t think one ever came. I fell back onto the baking sand, and felt my life drain away by the second. I was utterly alone. Finally, death could come to greet me and give me the gift of eternal rest. My hands
stiffened. My eyes shut. Darkness came.