Hundred Handed One Novels & Stories

The hand I had known my whole life. I turned my hand over. Palm up. And held it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Only I could understand. I moved closer to him and held his hand, stopping his breakdown. At this, Justin stopped and looked at me. A tear rolled down my cheek as I lifted his hand up. "One hand, Justin. I could count the people that would miss me when I went on one hand; what's worse is I couldn't even fill up that one hand. I have just two people." I sobbed, gripping tighter onto Justin's hand. In response, Justin pulled my clenched fist up, splaying out all my fingers.

Mr Osborne said. " so what are you driving at, if we may know", Jeffrey rudely asked his uncle. " you know taking care of twins is very expensive and so I have this here to assist the mother of the babies" Mr Osborne said handing over a cheque containing huge amount of monies. Jeffrey snatched from her hands and had a look at it. " he then gave it to his mom to have a look too. Jeffrey got more angry" do you think what your son did can be paid with money?

Andy did not hear anything else, just the words 'royal flush.' This kind of hand was a one-in-ten-thousand chance, something that even a beginner could only dream of. However, why would this stingy woman dare to bet 115 million otherwise? Unless she believed that her hand could beat any other hand! Andy had already hesitated when she called 15 million in the previous round. Now, upon hearing the onlookers’ comments, he frowned and subconsciously looked at Penny.

"You… what the hell are you saying?! You're humiliating me!" Lucius lunged forward, fist raised. But my bodyguard pinned him to the ground. I didn't hesitate—I tilted my glass of red wine and poured it over his head. "So you realize it's humiliation now, Lucius," I said coolly. "You went through it once, but I've endured it a hundred times over these past three years." I pulled a bill from my bag and tossed it at him like trash.

A ѕlоw rеtrеаt of hіѕ fingers was fоllоwеd by аnоthеr рuѕh in tіll his thumb ѕtорреd it аgаіn; then аgаіn аѕ hе began a ѕlоw, аnd rhуthmіс, fuсkіng of mу asshole with hіѕ hаnd. I соuldn't gеt enough оf thе picture оf him ѕlіdіng hіѕ hаnd in аnd оut оf mе аnd wаtсhеd іntеntlу еасh tіmе mу hole еxраndеd around his hаnd, but I dіd fаіl to notice thаt on аbоut the tеnth stroke inward his thumb wаѕ nо lоngеr еxtеndеd but folded іntо hіѕ palm. As hе rеасhеd the point whеrе hе hаd bееn ѕtорріng, hе gаvе an a little harder рuѕh and I watched, аnd felt, hіѕ entire hаnd ѕlір іnѕіdе mу аѕѕ!

Rose raised her right hand and bent her index finger. "During the weekend, I was accidentally scratched by a crab in the supermarket. There's a wound on my finger. Even if I have touched the machine before, it wouldn't have my wound on it. I am confident that I didn't touch the machine yesterday, so no matter how many fingerprints were being collected, there won't be one with a wound like mine! As everyone could see, to insert the wire, the person would have to lean against the wall to do it. No matter if the person was left-handed or right-handed, they could only use their right hand to do it. I'm sure everyone here agrees with this point!"

I was kicked out of the moving car without warning and sent crashing onto the ground hard. The sharp pain sent a wave of dizziness through me. Even so, I stumbled to my feet, instinctively popping my dislocated hand bones and kneecap back into place. I then slowly made my way down the familiar path I'd walked countless times before. I still needed to return to the Sanders residence to retrieve something. Compared to what I'd felt in the past three years, this little bit of pain couldn't do anything to stop me.

I tense again, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt without me deciding to do that. His breath stutters, just once but I notice and he notices that I notice. “Harriet,” he says again, slower this time. “What?” I ask. His arm tightens slightly around my shoulders. “Nothing.” The rain keeps falling. Minutes pass, I can’t say how many because the time feels longer in the dark. At some point, his hand slides from my arm down to my forearm, then to my hand. He doesn’t lace our fingers together. He just holds my hand loosely, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in a slow, absent motion.

"Break his hands." The sound that came out of Mr. Harrington was not a dignified one. He pulled his hands back and curled over them and started talking fast — names, promises, his wife, his children, thirty years of service, every card he had left to play. He put all of it on the table in the thirty seconds between the instruction and the guard reaching him. The guard reached him. The hands Mr. Harrington had always been quietly proud of — steady hands, a principal's hands, hands that had signed a hundred letters just like the one he sent that afternoon — did not come through the night well.