Yesterday I received a copy of the new
Ars Medica, the medical humanities journal that was gracious enough to print one of my short stories. It's a nice volume, with one of those "perfect-bound" covers with an attractive collage of historical medically-related artwork. I suppose I should derive some special feeling from holding an actual printed volume in my hands and seeing my work inside it, but really it just feels okay, and strangely not surprising.
I have this weekend off, and I'm devoting it to doing a little writing and transitioning myself back to working during the day and sleeping at night (just finished five weeks of "night float"). Here's an excerpt from the story I'm writing:
Declan patted Shelby’s head gently, feeling the oiliness of the dog’s fur begin to coat his fingers. Just three weeks ago the dog had still looked artful, his sleek muscles rippling with every graceful movement. Declan had acquired him two years ago from a company that rescued greyhounds, saving them from euthanasia once their racing careers had concluded. Shelby had been a champion, having at one time won thirteen straight races; now the genetics that had made him light and lean, a machine designed for singular speed and efficiency, rendered him particularly ill-suited for starvation conditions. What negligible fat had existed on his frame had long since been utilized, and his body had set to work burning its own muscle to maintain basic functions. It was all Shelby could do now to walk several feet away to defecate; he urinated right where he lay, at the foot of the stairs. Every time he petted him, Declan cried.
It's another light-hearted one, as you can tell.
