Gross Malpractice

No one had ever seen so many lawyers in one place before. It seemed their number was approaching infinity, but only because the sight was truly incomprehensible.

"I'm afraid we have some bad news. Our move to dismiss was rejected."

"You assured me the case had no legal basis."

"Yes, but that was before the issue of dogs was introduced. People seem pretty upset they don't live at least as long as people."

"The term gross malpractice is beginning to be bandied about."

God shook his head regretfully. Maybe the whole creation thing should have been more carefully thought out.

Person To Notify

"Have I reached Frieda Grompkin?"

"Yes." Frieda did not recognize the voice nor number on her phone.

"I'm calling from the hospital. It's about Ed."

"Ed?" She hadn't seen her ex-husband in 6 years. "What?"

"You're listed as the person to notify. He needs emergency surgery after the accident."

There was some mistake in the record. Why was she listed?

"Tell him he's overdue on his last three alimony payments." It was best not to say, "Tell that bum…"

"He may not make it."

No more payments? But, no more Ed?

"Oh. In that case, thank you for the call."

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Temperature Rising

Rudder lay on the trainer’s table writhing in agony. His throwing arm was swollen to bulbous proportions. A nasty, blistering rash spread from his wrist to his shoulder. His body convulsed with chills, a fever of 105°.

“Have you been self-treating again?” the team doctor asked.

“Just some analgesic balm. The big game’s on Sunday and my arm’s killing me. I need to be ready.”

“How much balm?”

“Four tubes.”

“What! The body can’t absorb that much!”

“Will I be okay by kickoff?”

“There’s no way you’re playing!” the doctor said. “You’ve got a severe case of Ben Gay Fever!”

From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt

Lee is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour who lives in Oregon. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own and It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!

Musician

Annika Dagmar, skilled with a violin, had dreamed of playing on stage with other musicians entrancing the audience. That would’ve been possible had there been no war.

Priceless paintings and other expensive belongings were sold to have food on the table, except Annika’s violin and case. Her father didn’t have the heart to sell them.

The war had ruined Annika’s family and many other Jewish Germans throughout the country.

“It’s not safe to live here. We must leave everything and go tomorrow before things get much worse,” said Mr. Dagmar.

The violin would never be touched by Annika’s fingers again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Visit To Kafka’s Castle

Not just anyone could stay at the castle that claimed in its promotional literature to be Kafka’s birthplace. A person needed a proven reason to be there – in our case, your egg and my semen. I didn't want to rush you, but my Viagra was starting to wear off. You were seeing something no one else had ever seen when the police burst in, waving their nightsticks and demanding, “Who’s the bad man? What does he look like?” This makes everything sound worse than it was, especially as a whale in the harbor was spouting purple music the whole time.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is on the pavement, thinking about the government.

In Which We Get Multiple Points Of View

"I was provoked!"

Dennis plead his case with the self-assurance of someone who refused to consider another point of view. Amy pitied him.

"It doesn't matter what he said to you. You can't just punch someone."

Amy's pacifism, for all its naiveté, no longer had even a slight element of cuteness. Dennis knew firsthand how ugly the world could actually be.

The couple continued their argument, their voices drifting across the park. Emily shook her head. It was obvious they were terrible for each other.

Dixon watched the lonely woman, her contempt written plain. "Judge not lest ye be judged."

A Singular Engagement

William cradled his seven billion secret.

So many sparkles, surfaces splintering sunlight.

He couldn’t name a single confidant. The gravity and the gossamer belonged to him alone.

He snapped the case shut. The light remained. Would it fit? He believed so. He hoped so.

Then again, it didn’t matter. If it fit, they’d tell a fairy book tale. If it didn’t, they’d laugh, they’d reconsider, and they’d refit, impervious to the punches.

All of which they would come to know together. In the meantime, he’d know all alone, confident yet precarious in the center of his chest.

Witnesses could wait.

From Guest Contributor Frankie Sturm