I said to the doctor, “I’m dying.” He said, “How’s that my fault?” I had been shedding parts for at least a week. The doctor said it was my body attacking itself. “It’ll scald you,” he said in the same confidential manner, “peel the skin and muscle right off your bones.” The exam room then filled with people I didn’t know, one a crying toddler, her face all red and sweaty and scrunched up. Apparently, serious preparations for horizontal descent were underway. There was nothing else I could think of that would explain why this murdering old world trembled so.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

“STATES DEPRESSION IS STABLE. NO THOUGHTS OF SELF-HARM. DOING PRETTY WELL ON [redacted]. NO SIDE EFFECTS. REALLY NOT THAT MUCH EFFICACY, HOWEVER.” That’s my medical chart, caps lock and all.

So, my hands are tied. Bound until bleeding.

From Guest Contributor Connor Orrico

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

Dr. Jeremiah Jackson touted himself as the most learned man in the Northwest Territory. He offered cures, extremely cheap cures, for everything from consumption to the plague, and he guaranteed their efficacy. As far as he knew, in fact, he was the only man of medicine to offer guarantees of any sort, which should have been testimony enough as to his trustworthiness.

A man of such esteemed intellect deserved respect and accolades everywhere he traveled. So it was with great consternation that he found himself sentenced to death and hanging from a rope just a day’s ride from Fort Detroit.

From Guest Contributor Oliver Park

My name was Dr. Jillian Fisk. My specialty was genetically engineered marine invertebrates.

All the world will know the scent of salt, the sting of soft skin.

From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan

Sam sat, crossed his hands over his chest, and sighed.

His mother gasped at the sight.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I pulled up my shirt to show the doctor the painful rash that had appeared like stigmata on my front and back. He looked at it, then shrugged. “What do you think it is?” he asked. I decided at that moment to stop carrying my phone everywhere. Somehow disturbing news still managed to reach me. I was out of step with the times. My days were endless. I walked on the beach, took naps, tried to teach myself the guitar. There was a blue iris sitting in a bottle on my table. It would have made a lovely Hallmark card.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

If it was up to me, I would be anywhere else but this waiting room.

The news is not good. It’s twins and my husband has been in prison for two years.

From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey

Lucie hears the police officer’s voice so clearly in her memory. We’re sorry, your husband has been hit by a drunk driver and he’s unresponsive. Come to the hospital immediately.

The sky darkens.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

You don’t believe me, Doctor!

He looked it up… “googled” they used to say… left alone for days, many pets died.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

Charles Delany stepped off the horse and buggy. In front of him a white
shingled wood house with a porch, surrounded by an abundance of trees,
overlooked the ocean. He removed his hat and walked slowly up the
pathway to the porch. He sat on the wooden bench and took it all in,
listening to the waves slapping against the fishing dock.

“Okay, son, this’ll be your home for the summer. The doctor said the
fresh air and trees are good for your condition.”

Charles nodded and when his father walked away, he coughed clumps of red
into his handkerchief.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher