Hey guys! Do you ever get that feeling where your fingernails feel like they've been rubbed up against a chalkboard for the past hour creating a jarring sound of doom and now your ear drums want to give up on life because what they've been hearing is sending painful, ticklish pulses all the way down your spine?

Really?

Because I haven't.

Well, since that is out of our way...

So I recently wrote 2 postcard stories (which are intended to be no more than a page and a half) for my creative writing class, got them back, and was puzzled by the comments I received. I was wondering if I could hear back from a few of you with some suggestions and/or comments. One of the biggest questions I have is regarding the title... my comments deemed it 'too obvious'. Let me know what you think.

Heart Attack
Under. Around. Loop. Pull.
Under. Around. Loop. Pull.
            Her calloused fingers keep the steady rhythm she’s been practicing for over forty years. Her fingernails were always kept short for this crafty purpose, but now they’re just brittle, which keeps them short without the work. Her wrists twist and twirl and twist and twirl, copying the motion of the yarn.
            Under. Around. Loop. Pull.
            That’s how she taught our granddaughter. Sure, her fingers were much shorter, and fingernails much too long, but still she managed to get the hang of it eventually. My wife’s always been the best teacher, except I’m the one who mastered the lasagna recipe. I never attempted the knitting though, too tedious and complicated, not to mention, too womanly.
            Under. Around. Loop. Pull.
            This hobby, her craft, keeps her young, younger than me. I promise, she hasn’t aged since our wedding day, and she’s never been sick, either. I was the one who was sick. Always have been. She listens to the rhythm of my heart, records it in the log, and then continues on her latest afghan like clockwork. I love her routines. If only my heart would keep the same regimen. 
            Under. Around. Loop. Pull.
            I watch as her wrists and nimble fingers do what they’ve done a thousand times before. Twisting and twirling. I feel my heart do the same thing: twist and twirl. It doesn’t feel right, but I sit, watching her in my favourite chair. It does it again, but I ignore it, mesmerized by the yellow yarn weaving in an out, between the needles. Again, twist and twirl.
            Under. Around. Loop. Pull.
            Her rhythm mimics the monitor beside me, keeping track of my heart. I wake up from my nap, and she still sits beside me, knitting. Everyday she comes to visit me; catches the bus and winds up beside my hospital bed in my favourite chair. Everyday, it’s always the best part. Like I’ve never been sick.
            Under. Around. Loop. Pull.