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

My mother went in the hospital for heart surgery and never came out. What would make someone leave all this? It’s a question I often ask myself when I get up in the morning or when I lay down at night. Take cleaning your sheets seriously; there’s sweat and drool and worse on them. (By the way, meat tenderizer and saliva remove bloodstains.) The old bluesmen had voices caked with blood and as scuffed and battered as their guitar cases. No one will believe you live the blues if you wear a suit – unless, like me, you’ve slept in it.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is on the pavement, thinking about the government.

Chuck entered the car in a hurry and drove off, tires screeching. His wife, Hallie, was in surgery and he promised to be there when she awakened. He sipped his Starbucks coffee and wondered when the traffic would let up, cursing and punching the steering wheel.

Chuck would be at the hospital, but not for Hallie.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The crash jolted them awake, as they careened into the seats in front of them. Later, the doctors would say that the fact they’d been asleep upon impact is what saved them. 27 dead, only two survivors.

For Megan, it was the perfect escape. For Matthew, he’d forever regret not having died that night.

Speeding through town, the traffic light signals me to stop. I sit. Idle. Stone faced. I’ve been stuck here many times. On my way to the wedding. On my way to the police station. On my way to the hospital. To the hospital again. Even in the ambulance, I assume. On my way to court. Now, here, I’m stopped again. Alone. My right foot yearning to push the gas. I always obey the traffic light. Red light. Red blood. My blood he committed to spilling one soul-crushing punch at a time. Stupid traffic light. Suddenly, I get the green light.

From Guest Contributor Nancy Geibe Wasson

“I need to take another X-ray,” the doctor said.

“Who?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, flash fiction and short stories. She’s published in Canada, United States and Europe in journals, anthologies and online including Boston Literary Magazine and Friday Flash Fiction. She won several poetry contests, was shortlisted in a short story competition and is a member of two writers’ groups where she resides.

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

Rob drove down the back road at excessive amounts of speed. After losing his job, his fiancée, Felicia, broke off their engagement. He swerved into the next lane and an oncoming car approached.

Could Rob’s life get any worse?

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher