‘100 Words’ Category Archives


The (Mis)Fortune Of Having Been There

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The shadows that lurk in the background carry the suggestion of prison stripes. Cary Grant picks a flake of cigarette tobacco off his tongue. This whole time the Ferris wheel has been spinning in the traveling carnival of his mind. He doesn’t try to reason with the gods but mocks their Greek robes. Then, as night burns to the ground, he discovers the perfect partner in Rosalind Russell, who spits words the way a machine gun spits bullets. She knows without having to be told that movies are just life enlarged. There’s no one to feed, nothing to feed anyone.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than two dozen poetry collections, including most recently The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press), The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro Press), and Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).


Year Of Atonement

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The Grim Reaper took things slower, started to travel by tricycle during the week and by donkey on the weekends. At night we kept warm around matchsticks and dumpster fires. For entertainment we compared peanut butter and jelly recipes. Snooze buttons recorded high anxiety days. Snooze alarms provided the year’s soundtrack. Almost everyone drank alcohol to mournful excess. Even coffee was served wrapped in brown paper bags. Coincidentally, that was the last year for the Miss America pageant. The final talent show, with an extra-large flame thrower, was really something. For months afterwards people sold charred auditorium remains as souvenirs.

From Guest Contributor Mike James


A Warning

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The three dice feel like cold teeth in Kate’s hand. She rolls each one separately, as Dorothea instructed. Mumbling, the old fortune teller stares at their placement inside the chalk circle.

Candles flicker on the stone mantle. Kate shifts, sweat dampening her armpits.

“Interesting,” Dorothea mutters.

Suddenly, a sound like beating wings erupts from the fireplace. The candles extinguish and darkness swallows the room.

“Kate!” a familiar voice exclaims. Her mother, murdered exactly three years ago, channels through the fortune teller’s throat.

Kate starts to cry. Somewhere down the hall, a window breaks.

“Run!” her mother screams. “They’ve found you!”

From Guest Contributor Heather Santo


Three Hands

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

I was born with three hands, all roughly the same size. People often mention how lucky I am. To be able to wave hello, or goodbye, to three people at once. Or how nice it must be to applaud more than everyone else. But what they don’t understand is I only have two arms, two wrists. There is nothing for my third hand to connect to, so I carry it around everywhere I go. One hand is always busy holding my third hand, which leaves me with just my other hand, my poor other hand, doing everything on its own.

From Guest Contributor Jason Heroux


Mending Hearts

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Olivia’s heart is broken since her husband Stan’s death. His cancer so brutal, she’d weep alone in the bathroom. Her spirits lift slightly when her son, his wife, and their daughter visit, but when they leave it’s difficult to be alone. One morning Olivia is awakened by stomping on the stairs. She regrets giving her son the spare key. The bedroom door bursts open and her granddaughter Molly is holding a white and brown spotted purring kitten. “Grandma, this is your new husband,” little Molly says. “Can you name him Stan like grandpa,” she asks. Some hearts can be mended.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The healing came slow. A damaged psyche doesn’t show like a bruise. Her little boy needs her; she is everything to him and he is the world to her. But she needs to be whole for him.

More than a month of repair to start the recovery. Participation in daily activities was the first sign. A faint light at the end of the tunnel, but a light nonetheless. Her posture showed confidence. Then her gait picked up a bit. A twinkle returned to her eyes. Her journey would be long and arduous, but she was on her way to recovery.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

“We’re detectives,” said the teenager in Greta’s doorway. “Like Nancy Drew. But guys.”

“And brothers!” the other boy added.

Greta studied them. “So…more like…the Hardy Boys?”

“Who?” the Hardly-there Boys asked together.

Greta smirked. “Never mind.”

“We’re tracking a thief,” explained the first boy. “He’s targeting Culpepper Lane!”

Greta gasped.

“Vases, television, artwork.” The second boy ticked off his fingers. “Even Mrs. Giovanni’s tiara! We’re questioning everyone. May we come inside?”

“Certainly,” Greta said. “I was just setting up my new TV.” She ushered them into her immaculate foyer, a sea of diamonds sparkling unnoticed atop her head.

From Guest Contributor John Adams

John (he/him/his) lives near Kansas City, where he produces comedy shows and writes about teenage detectives, robo-butlers, and cursed cowboys. Twitter: @JohnAmusesNoOne.


The Second Death

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

You stare into the void but all you can see are ashes of human softness. The stars have succumbed to the flames and fires of an unnatural world you tried to hide from. Hell smells like spices, smoke, and sweetness. It welcomes you. Like the stars you stand at the edge, riveted by the darkness, knowing it is now time for you to join them. Heaven is but an illusory dream, and you know its false promises no longer hold grandeur. There will be no time to wish for a way out. You too will succumb. You too will fall.

From Guest Contributor Elizabeth Grace


She Would Be Worried

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Sometimes, words were just not enough. She took

snapshots daily— her plated meals of living alone.

No explanation of how these fresh organic tastes

styled homespun comfort, like an old friend who

knew how to sit across from her and not say any-

thing, and waited until the meal’s dialog was lost in

a twitchy laugh; always with an index finger raised

to red lips to snuff out the danger of being intimate.

She liked the idea of having company; but didn’t

want to show anyone where she truly lived. Pst—

pst, pst— this secret joke exploded in her head.

From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa

M.J. Iuppa’s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 32 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

I have chips and salsa ready for when the family arrives for Super Bowl Sunday.

The last time I hosted, I ran out of snacks and had to drive to the convenience store to stock up. I missed the most important play of the game and it’s not the same watching it on DVR.

They’re coming up the driveway.

I go to get the beer and my refrigerator sticks. I have to yank it and all the beer bottles fall, break, and spill on the floor.

Looks like I’ll be heading to the store and watching the game on DVR.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher