March, 2016 Archives



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

I peered suspiciously beyond the chipped lacquer of the oaken balcony. I had seen this before. The wind was coming.

Somehow, this place had now become my opus. I mean to say of course that it had supplanted my imagination. The verdurous landscape below appeared at times surreal; dioramic. And yet, at almost the same moment, conscious; alive to the rhythmic pulsations of the earth. Living in the trees was an idyllic stillness; in the air, an inscrutable entropy.

Soon, without warning, the wind would be be upon us, and a pervasive cold would grip the house for many days.

From Guest Contributor L.S. Worthy



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Things had been bad: misfortune compounding until he just couldn’t face going home. He’d stopped the car near a wooded area; pulled a handgun out of the glove compartment; and started walking, not even bothering to lock up.

Struggling through ground cover, not worrying about the poison ivy, Billy eventually happened upon a path. He followed it, wanting to ensure he was out of earshot, lest he somehow fluff it and be saved.

The revelation of his resolution brought him to a halt and heightened his senses. The colours of the foliage throbbed like an LSD trip, contrarily grounding him.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid


Go Lightly

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Between classes, Hollie and I liked to sneak over to the coffee shop across the road. The trouble was, it was a busy intersection with no crossing points; what a relic! So imagine how frightened I was when she just took off into the busy traffic. Between the perils of angry horns and fast-paced steel she somehow made it to the other side.

Being more sensible, I waited until it was quieter. Then I sprinted over eyes shut and caught up to her.

“It’s ok,” she said as I caught my breath, “they are not allowed to run you over.”

From Guest Contributor George Aitch


Staking A Claim

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

It started with his touch and before that the way he looked at me; clear blue eyes that knew how to take me in, how to see through my quiet, my fear. We explored city streets that summer, always attached, love-linked. A goodnight kiss turned couch tumble—hungry hands searching, lips and teeth crashing, his weight pinning me down. And then that surprise on the back of my neck: sweat, tears so sweet. Surrender, yes, maybe even love; but later, and better, trust and understanding, an intimacy that allowed regrets to be shared, my darkness to escape, a homestead staked.

From Guest Contributor Holiday Goldfarb

Holiday is currently enrolled in the MFA Program in Writing at Lindenwood University, Saint Louis, MO. If all goes as planned, she will graduate in December 2016.


Feeling Blue

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Blue is a breeze blowing wisps of hair across my cheek. Red is juice running down my chin as I bite a sun-ripened strawberry. Green, the scent of freshly cut grass, blades rippling and tickling the soles of my feet. Purple is the fading warmth of a summer’s evening. White, a smooth window pane on an icy winter morning.

I feel these things because I was born deaf, and my vision melted away soon after. I sometimes imagine fleeting specks of color from my first glimpses of life, but those memories exist only in the moments between sleep and waking.

From Guest Contributor Megan Cassidy

Megan is an author and English professor currently teaching at Schenectady County Community College. Her first young adult novel, Always, Jessie will be published by Saguaro Books this spring. Megan’s other work has been featured in Pilcrow & Dagger, Wordhaus, and Gilded Serpent Magazine. For free excerpts and deleted scenes of Megan’s work, check out her website or follow her on Twitter


Bringing Back The Dead

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

She gasped as he removed the scarf from his face.

“Don’t be afraid my love, I’m here,” he whimpered, choking back tears, “see me, see me for all that I am.”

Silence. Gut-wrenching silence.

Anguished, she bowed her head. With one deep breath she finally let him go. “The man I loved is not in this room, I do not see him before me.”

“You wear his face but he is not you, you are not he.” She turned to the door, her lip quivered, her voice shook as she softly uttered their final exchange, “Goodbye darling, you’re free now.”

From Guest Contributor Jodi S. Ivers


Anechoic, Deprived

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

I once thought I heard my father listening to Santana on our back patio. He never listened to music. The only soundtrack to his workaday life was the eight cylinders rumbling at his foot’s command. A kick drum reverberating in his chest that echoed his life. A violent explosion shrouded by modernity, reduced to a drone. I eased through the sliding glass door and found him staring at the beyond the lower pasture in silence. “Be still,” he said. His words hung thick in the mid-summer air. I still don’t know if I wanted the music for him or myself.

From Guest Contributor J. Andrew Goss


Treasures Of Small Town Women

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

When they jitterbugged with lithesome feet and flirted, Daniel gave Elizabeth a string of pearls. She wore them on Saturdays with plunging necklines and on Sundays with flowery dresses and nonsensical hats. After the divorce, she stored the pearls in a cotton drawstring bag for safekeeping. When her hair turned gray and she fell ill, Elizabeth presented the pearls to her daughter, holding them out with her reedy arm, hesitant to surrender them, even then. Her daughter preserved them in the cotton pouch, and took them out now and again, grateful her mother never knew the finish had chipped away.

From Guest Contributor Dana Shepherd Morrow



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The man who brought hope amongst the riots: whom bitter losers rushed to associate with terrorism; rather than defence of very frightened people who were let down by establishment they had long trusted. Scum associated him with terrorism, when all he strove to protect family and neighbours.

He adored Martin Luther King. Poisonous painted him with the hate they retained because he shamed them.

All the family were burying was a father who wanted peace and took steps to achieve and promote that.

I was there at the burial of a man who loved people, no matter who they hated.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid


There Are Moments, Like These

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

where I see this beautiful creature’s frayed leash, the far end trapped under a great stone. So great I assume she cannot lift it. She tells me how time is consumptive, and while consuming us, so it must erode the stone. But the longer she or I stare, the slower it seems to weather. Is it any wonder her running throat is yanked taught? The urge to break the circle is the legacy of choice. Look at her and promise, “I cannot lift that stone. But I can sit here and wait until you do. Your wings, they’re pinned beneath.”

From Guest Contributor Nick Scott Christian

Nick’s poetry has appeared in Poetry Quarterly. He lives in St. Louis and currently studies at the University of Missouri-St. Louis.