These callused hands are my pride and joy, they tell the tales of my time in nature, of the work I've done help others. They are the hands of one who works for joy in every season. I wish for nothing more than this gift of living and to see the wrinkles come as my wisdom does, as I mature into a person others look to for help.


Sweat mingled with his eyes as he struggled to see. The work was hard, very hard. His hands were thick with calluses: the hands of a farmer. They were ugly to look at but did the job without pain.

By thomasg, August 10, 2014.

The young chamber-maid positioned her trolley against the wall in the corridor, found the right key, and let herself into Room 21.
She was stripping the last of the bedding, when she noticed them, all neatly lined up on top of the bedside cabinet.
She picked up one of the yellowing wafer-thin shapes, curled at the edges, and realising what it was, uttered a profanity, and immediately dropped it.
“How disgusting is that?” she cried.
The travelling salesman had removed his socks, and peeled away the top layer of his calluses before vacating his room that morning

By albee, July 26, 2014.