The Metaworker Literary Magazine
Where great stories are forged.
“When the desk guard told him to report to medical, Cobb was dressed to go, his flimsy khaki shirt tucked neatly into his khaki pants, his sneakers—the good white ones he ordered from an inmate catalogue—laced, his prisoner ID card already in hand.”
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The doctor’s fingertips have turned to gelatin. He is certain that with each hour they are wearing down, leaving watery smears on the skins of …
Every morning I look in the mirror and hope for a different reflection. The problem with makeup is that it doesn’t cover every scar. And …
The doctor’s handsome and that makes it worse… more bad news from the lips of handsome men. We need more tests, he says. Well no …
