“Get some rest,” the doctor suggested, upon glancing at my chart for a millisecond. “The fever will break soon.”
It sounded dismissive and rehearsed.
I fought the urge to launch into a diatribe about attention to detail. Realistically, it didn’t matter anymore: he was unaware he’d been treating Patient Zero.
Eldar recently finished reading a novel about a devastating pandemic. Go figure.
She’d always hated her hair. Mousy. Flat. Utterly uncooperative.
But lately, ever since she got the news, well suddenly it wasn’t so bad after all. It was lustrous. It was thick. It was beautiful.
How could she have taken it for granted?
It would grow back. If she was lucky.
Kristen is an aspiring writer currently residing in Orange County, California. She enjoys writing fiction and non fiction-based fiction and reading others’ creative works.
On Monday, she looked at the Tarot cards on her bed.
On Tuesday, she fondled the Blarney Stone.
On Wednesday, she rolled a pine cone in her hand.
On Thursday, she kissed the cat goodbye.
On Friday, she wrote thank-you letters.
On Saturday, she slept.
On Sunday, dead of cancer.
Ruth Z Deming has been published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Literary Yard and River Poets Journal. A psychotherapist, she runs New Directions Support Group for people and families affected by depression and bipolar disorder. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is ruthzdeming.blogspot.com.
It was a ghastly picture of a girl who seemed my age, but pale-skinned her head shaved. “Whose picture is it, in my drawer, Ms. Bevins?” I asked the doctor.
A few minutes later I overheard Ms. Bevins instructing the nurse to take the mirror off of my drawer.
Divya is a story-teller, sorehead, whiner, occasionally a Pollyanna. (To sum it up – a personal/ lifestyle blogger!) She works for an IT company by day and blogs by night. Divya lives in India.
In a remote African village I watched in wonder as thousands of fruit bats blotted out the moon as they crossed the river to settle in the mango trees to feed and sleep.
Soon I learned that the villagers ate the bats.
Later I learned that the bats transmit Ebola.
Michael Coolen is a writer, poet, composer, pianist, actor, and performance artist who lives in Corvallis, Oregon.
A bandit polished the bronze lamp he stole from the caravan. A genie materialized in a puff of smoke.
“For releasing me, I will grant you one wish,” she said.
“I wish for the power to lay waste to my enemies.”
So she turned him into a highly contagious bacteria.
This is the second in a series of stories from King Kool, who has previously contributed multiple other series.
He just can’t leave, thank God. He loves me too much, knows how much I need him. The vet said he’d be long gone by now. Months ago, in fact. There was no hope. What better way to prove them wrong than to simply thrive, living on love and devotion?
M. Elaine Moore is a North Carolina-based fiction writer and poet. Her work can be found in print in The Island Breeze, and Outer Banks publication, and online at Foliate Oak Literary Journal, Four and Twenty, and The Camel Saloon.