December, 2022 Archives
Dec
Sofa Of Cycles
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The sagging couch cushions are a trophy–evidence attesting to her self-discipline to stay situated.
She’s a chameleon in her contradictory custom office. An extension cord slithers around wooden legs, dressed with a black and blocky laptop vitalizer. The coffee table has been repurposed into a feet-book-pen desk, crowded with sacred guides to creation and the honing of creative crafts. No clocks tick, as time gives no counsel. Silence rears its head to the ears of the beholder, mouth perpetually packed by scribbles and click-clacks.
She forges life and death. A prolific puppet master.
Stay at home God of worlds.
From Guest Contributor Madeline van Batum
Madeline lives in Colorado with her cat and hopes that one day she can go back to her home country of the Netherlands to finally meet the Flying Dutchman.
Dec
Every Mickle
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The local Farmers’ Bank went belly up.
It was a cooperative concern, like many in the region. The Secretary of the Bank had taken a loan in her late husband’s name on forged documents. Almost all the staffers either embezzled or connived with the defalcators.
Investors, most of them traders and peasants, were shell-shocked. Some blamed themselves for their imprudence while others huddled indecisively.
Kali, the old woman who sold candles, also had a deposit in the bank.
As the bank’s director exited from his car, she confronted him.
“Where’s my money?” Kali yelled, catching the man by his collar.
From Guest Contributor Sathyajith Panachikal
Sathyajith. P.S has reconciled himself to the reality that it is impossible to be reborn in an ancient past with a smartphone and internet connection. Currently, he is trying in real earnest to regain the originality he had when he first chanced upon this planet.
Dec
Sexy Beast
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The sky that bleeds at dawn burns at dusk. I steep in the blood and flames as a kind of penance, but not for doing a recognizable wrong – for doing nothing. The honey bees are diseased and dying. The birds on the wire shake as though likewise afflicted. From somewhere nearby comes a shockingly loud bang. “Was that a gunshot?” I ask the first person I see stumble out, a diminutive woman of indeterminate age with unnaturally bright red hair. She squeezes my arm and begs for help. But I also would rather do the tying than be tied up.
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie’s latest poetry books are The Horse Were Beautiful, available from Grey Book Press, and Swimming in Oblivion: New and Selected Poems from Redhawk Publications.
Dec
Camaraderie
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Quibble believes the Paterson boy is getting a little close to his daughter. He has seen how tethered they sit when allowed to linger together on the porch. Three school dances in a row they have been each other’s primary partner. Quibble’s wife has taken to complimenting for no reason, with fanfare, the boy’s taste in clothing. The conspiracy grows. Quibble is sure, if he had a mind to intercede, he could find the couple parked in the graveyard, innocently – so far – bobbing for lumber. He likes the boy well enough. He has to find a way to warn him.
From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner
Dec
The Secret To Staying Human
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Mom digs her feet under the wet sand of the Atlantic. I stand next to her, wondering if the ocean will remember her and melt her legs back together.
Each wave climbs higher up our pale legs. Our feet sink deeper and deeper. The surge threatens to topple me, to suck me out to sea. Tears stream down my cheeks.
Mom grabs me. “This was a mistake.”
I cling to her as she rushes toward our towels.
She dries her feet. Inspects each toe. Sighs in relief.
My toes tingle, translucent skin spread between them. The ocean’s song calls me.
From Guest Contributor Sally Simon
Sally (ze/hir) lives in NY. When not writing, ze’s travels and stabs people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.
Dec
Thanksgiving
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Thanksgiving, a time to spend with family. The turkey is in the oven filled with my famous bread stuffing, the pumpkin pie is cooling, and the vegetables are ready to go.
I sip wine and watch the parade waiting for my company. It’s half past 4 o’clock. I told everyone to be here over an hour ago for anti-pasta.
My cell phone rings.
“Hey, Myra, sorry, but we all came down with the stomach flu. We’re not going to make it this year. Hopefully, we’ll see you at Christmas.”
I pack up my dinner and take it to a shelter.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Dec
All The Time In The World
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Paul, Emily here.” Pleasant and composed as always. “I need a power of attorney for my mom, Agnes.”
“Sure. Why the POA?”
“Mom has terminal cancer. Not yet but very soon she’ll need heavy morphine. I’ll handle her affairs.”
We meet at Hospice. Agnes is sitting up, hair brushed, gracious, as pleasant and composed as Emily. She signs the POA, we find witnesses. We chat, then: “Thanks, Paul, so very much. Goodbye!” All without any misgivings, remorse, self-pity. As I leave, mother and daughter carry on, chatting amiably. They make the most of it.
All the time in the world.
From Guest Contributor Tony Covatta
Dec
The Island
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Emmett had one wish, a quiet place to call his own.
He found his island floating above the planes of a fractured, blackened Earth. A small, dark place, untouched by the sun as it hovers with a dizzying presence. This place does not feel like it belongs to the world that Emmett knows, but it has been here since time began and will continue even when the sun collapses, when all life on Earth ends.
It contains nothing except itself (nothing but pure consciousness), for this is space without form or substance, and it is a terrible sight to behold.
From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster
Dec
Sightseeing In The Subway
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
There are names scratched onto the walls of New York City subway cars. Monday it was Mark. Tuesday, Dylan. Wednesday, Fatima. Thursday, Kat, and Friday, Lucy. The poorly carved letters, engraved with care, resemble the jagged handwriting of a preschooler; It’s something inexplicably human. Though the scratches will fade, and the steel of the cars will corrode, I like to think otherwise; the remnants of these people will linger long after time forgets who they are. Every name I spot, a wave of tranquility washes over me as I stand in a mess of busy people in a busy city.
From Guest Contributor Eshal Yazdani