For Issue V, we want to be brought into your fever dream. We encourage you to interpret that however you see fit. The deadline to submit is August 31, 2017. Here’s something to get you started.
Breathe. It takes some muscle this time, when the air is thick with uncomfortable hands rummaging at the back of your throat for nothing but the next empty to fill. However freely a glance flung across the sky soars, where you are things seem closer. Your eyes lidded with something more than the daily tread, a hand to the forehead and suddenly pulled back confirms it.
Sweat. You burn wetly, sputter and spume. Humors disobey their normal course, leach into unaccustomed tissue. Colors inflect to denote a blight: a ruddiness turns furious, whites curdle yellow and clot green, whatever was clear somehow obstructs light even less so that its fragility could be mistaken for glass. You are a realm between eras, a nation wracked by insurrection, a landscape groaning and miasmatic.
Strip. Clothes, but also skin and muscle and blood, are too much. They harass you with life’s impertinent thickness, the endless eatingruttingrasping round. They must perforce be removed in search of some decent measure of quiet, even if the only lines clean enough belong to bones. Because it is offensive, to be naked and yet fleshed, a loathsome carnality whose only reference to sex is a shrivelling that follows passion, sheaves of dim limbs splayed in puddles.
There is a fever shaking all that feels in an eon’s journey from mud to meat and back. The symptoms vary, indicating a formidable talent for adaptation. We start with a heat greater than it should be. All the rest, from diagnosis on, we leave to you.
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