He never uttered the word curse, but Dante had no doubt his life was marked for tragedy.

Most of those who knew poor Dante blamed his lack of willpower. But they might have thought differently had they realized every misfortune occurred at exactly 3:13 PM. The same time he’d broken his grandfather’s lucky watch.

Debra sat beside her husband’s hospital bed, the click of the monitor a regular tune in her head. Barry laid there, his breathing calm and steady. Seeing him hooked up to tubes and unconscious was an unbearable sight. Still, she read to him daily and hoped he heard, but his eyes never opened. It had been one year since his car accident. Trauma to the brain was what the doctor called it.

As the doctor unplugged the monitor, Debra watched Barry’s chest stop moving.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

After six months of recovery in the hospital from my car accident, I’m finally going home.

I guess I won’t be enjoying my own bed tonight.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

People come and go, they fuss and say they love me while doing everything that I cannot. They touch my arm, but I don’t feel it. They talk to me, but I cannot reply. Their mobile lives allow them freedom to gaze upon beauty or hide from the disgusting whenever they please, but I will forever remain seated in my chair, staring at the projections that appear on my television screen. My fault or not, a single moment brought me to this place; a car accident I barely remember. This is my life now, but at least I’m alive, right?

From Guest Contributor Michael Atherton

He lost her, but not as he thought: not to the cancer, or a car accident, or to some art student.

He fell right through her.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

After graduating with a BA in English from Vassar College, Brook landed her first paid writing job as a reporter for a small-town Colorado newspaper. She left it to travel to India, where she fell in love, got married and canceled her ticket home. She and her husband Gaurav write freelance articles for dozens of publications, including Outpost, Ecoworld and Little India. In 2013, they launched www.BluePlanetJournal.com, which she edits and writes for. She also teaches writing at a community college, is earning her MFA in Writing at Lindenwood University, and is writing a novel.

The margin between her final breath and eternity was shorter than she’d been led to believe, barely enough time to comprehend what was happening. She felt herself suffocated by regret and panic and an overwhelming sense of injustice..

Before she could say goodbye it was over.

One day, as he was looking through old photographs, Dave noticed a little boy in many of the photos who looked a lot like him, only a couple years younger. He was even in the family portraits.

It seemed strange an imaginary friend could show up in photos like that.

She waited in the closet while tightly clutching the letter opener to her chest. She’d never killed anyone–never come close really, unless you count the car accident and she’d been drunk so she never did. But she was going to kill Stan, or at least hurt him really bad. She knew she had to do it quickly, as soon as the door opened, because if she saw his face she’d lose her nerve. Not that he didn’t deserve to die, but she’d be too scared.

She heard footsteps, so she stood next to the door, her whole body tense.

Part Twelve

As a bike messenger, getting hit by a car was a badge of honor. Mike would brag about his accidents to his peers and use them as anecdotes, along with his scars, to pick up women.

Still, getting ambushed and losing both of his legs in combat made for an impressive story, as did winning the Congressional Medal of Honor.