The opened book lured him with its golden glow.

He relaunched into the present, moving onwards to the museum’s next exhibit.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

The best way to describe the sensation was like a super vivid acid trip where all his thoughts were crystal clear and jumbled together at the same time. He’d never actually tried acid, being too afraid of losing his mind, but he imagined it was like this.

If that made him crazy, so be it.

Steven was playing from behind from the start. Every time he made a play to get within striking distance, the deficit grew to the point it seemed out of reach. It didn’t matter how aggressively he attacked or how ferociously he defended, the cards were always stacked against him.

Steven never even heard his opponent call game.

Ray slipped at the top of his building’s stoop and flew face first at the cement below. Time elongated as a supercut of his entire life played out like a scene on a museum urn.

That was really the only memory that came to mind. Ray was only four years old.

Think of it as a substitute pump,” the surgeons encourage him. “Latest technology, stringent testing. Equally life-enhancing as the heart God gave you.”

Oblivious, his new heart pumps steadily.

From Guest Contributor Gary Thomson

It is a little known fact that Herbert Hoover was never really interested in becoming president. He actually started his career working as a mining engineer, traveling the world developing mines for various precious metals. At this time, politics was the furthest thing from his mind. His simple ambition, if you can call it simple, was to have a dam named after him, preferably the most famous dam in the Western Hemisphere. Becoming the President of the United States was just, in engineering language, the straightest line between two points.

Too bad Hoover’s mostly remembered for causing the Great Depression.

Sherman breathed deeply, concentrating on emptying his mind of all thoughts. The contradiction of thinking about not thinking about anything gave him a headache. His spiritual advisor instructed him to repeat his mantra at times like this.

His advisor didn’t understand. “Why do you sound like a bumblebee?”

My favorite song died recently. I can still hear the tune in my head, or at least the echoes of it when I’m not concentrating too hard. I fool myself it’s still alive in the world somewhere. The melody slips into my mind, like it’s drifting off my tongue or from out of my throat or maybe from inside my stomach, like heartburn.

I hope that’s not true.

Hank stared at his bloodied hands. Visions of a more peaceful time flashed through his mind, reminders of a life less troubled.

“I guess you’re not vegan anymore.”

As I listen to him lecture in the big hall surrounded by white boards full of equations, I know I can only swallow small sips from the fire hose of knowledge that flows from his mind and mouth, flooding the audience with his insight until it streams from their eyes, light filling the room and bouncing off the windows; and I must turn my mind from his most recent threat to divorce me to how it all started: a campus lawn, a daisy, the Quantum Uncertainty of petals on the subject of love─ he loves me, he loves me not.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell