Headache

I’m having trouble concentrating and so I close my novel with a thump. Then I curse, having had a headache for several days that I can’t get rid of. On the coffee table there are piles of bills that I haven’t paid in months. Hence the headache.

My dog Charlie cuddles beside me and rolls over for a stomach rub. Sadly, he’s my only true friend.

“Hey, boy, thanks for always being around.”

I get up to take two aspirins when the phone rings. What I hear on the other end worsens the migraine.

I’ve been evicted from my apartment.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Office Visit

In his office at the university, Professor Kudrow pounds on the computer keyboard. His research paper needs a rewrite, his ex-wife wants more child support and he feels a migraine coming on. He wants to go home and get drunk.

His grad student, James, appears in the doorway with an older gentleman.

After introductions, James' father confronts the professor.

"My son paid you for a better grade, didn't he? Don't lie to me. I have documents."

The professor froze.

"Your silence is proof enough."

He turns to his son, "My son, a thief and cheat! I'm reporting both of you."

From Guest Contributor Deborah Shrimplin

Flash Bang Boom

With the encouragement of family and friends, I adopted a retired bomb-sniffing dog. I called him “Flash” – after the flashing lights of a migraine, I would joke to anyone who asked. One day he discovered under the couch a severed doll’s head I didn’t even know I had. Next the piano stopped producing sounds when I sat down to play it. Then the tree outside my window appeared suspended like an astronaut in space. Now I often catch the dog lying on the couch studying me with cold, squinty eyes as if calculating exactly how much a person can bear.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Voodoo Graffiti

The night the lake turned purple, I was on the phone for three hours, fighting with my brother. He was dissing Grandpa's old white Ambassador which I'd inherited. Afterwards, I switched off my phone and shut myself up in my room. That's how I missed our town's first miracle.

Three days, one strangled rooster, a lungful of incense and a migraine later, I had succeeded in turning his BMW bright yellow. His scream of fury echoed across town. I sniggered and came out for coffee.

By then, the whole world had turned purple. Including Grandpa's car.

Still, better than yellow.

From Guest Contributor Aparna Nandakumar

Aparna lives in Calicut, India, and writes poems and short stories. Her work is forthcoming in The Atticus Review and Cafe Dissensus.