On a sweltering July afternoon, the hospital door whistles shut behind Sarah as she watches a little girl, carried by her father, lick a rainbow sprinkle off her chin, her cheeks rosy and full like Sarah’s own used to be before she started counting everything. This time will be different.
Lauren Vogel is a writer and artist whose work is featured in Nowhere Girl Collective and on her Substack, OwlPerson.
The gastroenterologist says flare, hands me a prescription. I say betrayal, a body consuming itself. That afternoon in the pharmacy line, a woman complains about her toddler. “He’s so picky,” she sighs. The line advances, but I’m stuck remembering the last time I had the joy of choosing my meal.
Preeti Talwai writes from California, where she is also a research leader in tech. Her writing appears or is forthcoming in: The New York Times, 100-Word Story, HAD, Prime Number, Cleaver and more. See more at preetitalwai.com.
Diet #304: day one. I emerge at dawn hoping no one will see me jiggling and wobbling in my tracksuit. Overhead a kookaburra begins his song, laughter echoing years of torment. I pause. Go back and feed my pain with buttery toast? No, this time I’ll have the last laugh.
Sandra James writes from a rural property in Central Victoria, Australia. Her first collection of short fiction, My Muse Wears a Purple Collar, is available on Kindle.
They called me today to say she has lost six pounds since last week. Mom has been refusing to eat for a while now. I visited her on Sunday. She looked radiant in her blue sweater, and long pearl necklace, wrapped in a wool blanket. Outside, it was 102 degrees.
Azarin Sadegh is an Iranian-American writer. Her work has appeared in Place Art Magazine, Scoundrel Time, LA Review of Books, and various anthologies.
The slow rot of infrastructure always seems sudden upon its revelation. This decay behind skin, tissue, and bone opens space for regret to enter, coupled with the unanswerable – what’s next? – as you wonder whether scaffolding erected for repair is on time or too late, while the foundation continues to tremble.
Thad DeVassie is a writer and artist/painter who creates from the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. You can find his written and painted works at thaddevassie.com.
The old man, gulping the evening air, pedals stiffly through the lanes of his project on the streamlined, gearless bicycle from his youth, his bald, thin legs on display and a whistle between his teeth as a horn—having decided to be un-embarrassable before the prospect of a longer life.
Lynn Kozlowski’s writing has appeared in such places as 50-Word Stories, The Quarterly, The Malahat Review, Poetry Breakfast, and failbetter.com. He has a volume of short pieces, Historical Markers.
The black ballpoint pen almost slips out of my hands. They’re slick with sweat. It’s an ordinary check-up; the paperwork is simple, but my breath catches in my chest. The blank emergency contact line stares back up at me. Your phone number was the only one I knew by heart.
Addison Hammond is a college student who always keeps a journal on her bedside table.
“You may begin… now,” the teacher said.
My mind focuses on blood types not elements. O+. B-. Incompatible. Kidneys had to match. The doctor said we’d have to act quickly if a donor emerged. I hoped it’d be an old one.
“Time’s up! Pencils down.”
I hadn’t even begun yet.
Aisha Yansane is 9th grade student from Philadelphia. This is the beginning of her creative writing journey. Find her on Instagram at @amourraisha.
Before my nephew was born, as we waited for him to arrive in the Arizona heat, my left breast swelled to painful proportions.
Later, I crept outside of the hospital and phoned the doctor in Massachusetts. The sun was high in the sky, the parking lot bright like blanched bones.
Faune Albert is a writer and artist from the Ozark Mountains who teaches writing at Hampshire College.
They severed your umbilical cord, rushing you from me, both holding our breaths until they intubated you. Days until I heard your feeble cry, weeks before I felt your gentle suckling, months before your artificial cords detached and I took you home. A whole year before I could finally exhale.
Nina Miller is an Indian-American physician, fencer, and creative. Her work can be found in Cutbow Quarterly, Bright Flash Literary Review, Five South, Roi Fainéant, Five Minutes and more. Find Nina on Twitter at @NinaMD1 or www.ninamillerwrites.com.