Linda

When I opened my eyes, the room spun, and the immense pressure in my head caused my stomach to churn. I surveyed the room and realized I was in a hospital, laying in a bed, my arm hooked into intravenous. I heard footsteps and then a nurse walked in.

“Hi, Linda, I just need to take your blood pressure. How are you feeling today?”

“I don’t know. How did I get here?”

“You had a terrible car accident. You’re very fortunate. I’ll be back later to check on you.”

She called me Linda, but I didn’t remember who I was.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Present

“Are you okay, Ed?”

To relieve the pressure, Ed tugged on his undershirt collar. He and Mel were at the counter of AL'S DINER.

“My Aunt...”

“What?”

His words came haltingly.

“Aunt Edna...”

Each holiday, she gave the constricting presents.

Before Ed, they went to Uncle Fred. The poor man suffered from the waist down. After the holidays, he always had trouble with his privates.

Always Edna's too-tight underwear.

“Your throat, Ed? Can you swallow the oatmeal?”

His jugulars stood out.

He twisted awkwardly on the swivel seat.

His throat?

His undershirt?

“It's not the throat I'm worried about, Mel.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Prose Vs Poetry

I watched a sentence emerge the other day at the end of a series of ambivalent decisions. The pressure of decision-making, the tense inner conversation writers conduct when writing, may be more felt than conscious, but it is nonetheless real. Even as I am writing these very words I am debating with myself whether these are the very words I should be writing. Decisions don’t make themselves. Do I use a dash here – or nothing? And what about an adjective for color or to add nuance? One misplaced brick can bring the whole thing down. Poetry flourishes on the ruins.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is a professor emeritus at SUNY New Paltz whose newest poetry book, The Dark, is available from Sacred Parasite, a Berlin-based publisher.

Ralph, Frodo, And The Photons

Under tremendous pressure at the Sun's core, protons are fused together, and photons produced. Nothing can exceed the speed of photons.

It may take a photon 100,000 years to get from the Sun's core to its surface. Then, another eight minutes to Earth.

That Sunday morning, innumerable photons showered the park where Ralph threw a stick to his dog, Frodo. The dog retrieved it. Ralph pried open Frodo's jaws and threw it again. Frodo retrieved it. Ralph tossed the saliva-covered stick again. And again…

It had been 100,000 years and eight more minutes. But was the trip really worth it?

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

A Routine

The morning light was still dim, but the streetlamp sufficiently illuminated the permanent marker slipping down the glass door of my cafe like eels: STOP EATING DOGS.

I felt my fingers dig into my palm, pressure building between my clenched teeth. I looked around—no cameras, as usual. I kept reminding myself to get one but I never did.

A heavy sigh fogged the glass as I unlocked the door and tramped to where the cleaning supplies were kept. “The fact that I’m Asian doesn’t make me a dog-eater,” I muttered, but once again, there was no one to hear me.

From Guest Contributor Rina Olsen

Rina is a Korean-American teen writer living on Guam. Her work has either appeared in or is forthcoming in Jellyfish Review, Dreams and Nightmares, 101 Words, Nano Fiction, Friday Flash Fiction, and Mobius: A Journal of Social Change, among other places.

Venus Valve

Mars and beyond seem to be the focus of unmanned space exploration. Venus on the other hand has been largely ignored. Of course the conditions on Venus are much different. The surface pressure's an effective deterrent to probe the orb.

Prior unmanned vehicles that have landed on Venus: all crushed by the pressure.

As far as the aliens are concerned, this is a positive. The cold-blooded creatures did not want earthlings around and made prior adjustments.

Another alien spaceship treks the familiar voyage to Venus. Once near the surface they release the pressure valve, then go skiing on Maxwell Montes.

From Guest Contributor Denny E. Marshall