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!

The Sickness Unto Death

I pulled up my shirt to show the doctor the painful rash that had appeared like stigmata on my front and back. He looked at it, then shrugged. “What do you think it is?” he asked. I decided at that moment to stop carrying my phone everywhere. Somehow disturbing news still managed to reach me. I was out of step with the times. My days were endless. I walked on the beach, took naps, tried to teach myself the guitar. There was a blue iris sitting in a bottle on my table. It would have made a lovely Hallmark card.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.