Feb
Life Misspelled
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Intelligent machines probe not only my words, but also the silent spaces between words, searching for hidden doors to secret rooms. As a kid, I won a goldfish at the county fair by tossing a ping-pong ball into the fish’s bowl. My mom flushed Goldie down the toilet while I was at school. I think of it sometimes when I see Nazis invading Poland on the History Channel. “Last name?” the woman behind the counter asks, eyes on the computer screen, hands poised on the keyboard. “Good,” I say. “How do you spell that?” “Like God, but with two o’s.”
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.
Feb
I Bring Her Diamonds. My Hands Are Full Of Them
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I bring her diamonds. My hands are full of them.
“Please,” she sobs heavily, “stop coming back.”
I had no money for diamonds, once.
When my car crashed, the exploding windshield sent diamonds rushing deep into me – my eyes, throat, hands – all shining in the moonlight. The pain was overwhelming. And then it stopped. And all I could think was I finally had something to give her.
Every full moon I come to her porch at midnight, to show her how they shine in my open hands. But every time she only holds her head and softly cries.
From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan
Feb
Numbers
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Josh always watched the lottery alone, his door locked to keep out his roommates. He’d been playing the same number for ten years, and after writing down Saturday’s numbers, he checked his ticket against them ten times. He had thought if the moment ever came he’d scream, maybe dance. Now he sat holding his winning ticket, terrified.
$825,000,000.
What on earth would he do with that? And what about when his family and friends came for him? Could he trust anyone any more?
He quickly endorsed the back of the ticket and quietly checked the Internet for tickets to Australia.
From Guest Contributor Ran Walker
Ran is the author of 18 books. He teaches creative writing at Hampton University in Virginia. He can be reached via his website, www.ranwalker.com.
Feb
Musician
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Annika Dagmar, skilled with a violin, had dreamed of playing on stage with other musicians entrancing the audience. That would’ve been possible had there been no war.
Priceless paintings and other expensive belongings were sold to have food on the table, except Annika’s violin and case. Her father didn’t have the heart to sell them.
The war had ruined Annika’s family and many other Jewish Germans throughout the country.
“It’s not safe to live here. We must leave everything and go tomorrow before things get much worse,” said Mr. Dagmar.
The violin would never be touched by Annika’s fingers again.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Feb
Freedom Of Expression
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Their art combined gibberish with colour. Exterior walls and street recycling receptacles became graphic spectacles.
“Let’s see you join us,” they demanded.
“It’s wrong to deface public property,” I replied.
When a recycling truck rolled in, frustration of the driver as to not being able to do his pickup job landed them at the school office. The self-appointed artists got suspended from class and were ordered to remove their creations.
“Did you take part in that graffiti?” Dad asked.
“No, I only watched,” I answered, careful to not disclose that they asked me for my artistic advice and I obliged.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She
resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals and
many friends.
Feb
Dead Dreams
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
If it wasn’t for lack of encouragement growing up, I might have been an avant-garde artist, a Duchamp or a Warhol, famous for a star-like crack in a windshield, stick figures drawn on toilet paper, floors overflowing with blood. I carry a lot of photos in my phone. The only words anyone ever truly needs have all been cannibalized for parts. Still, when I announce, “I’m going to kill myself,” I don’t care what the police say, you better take it seriously. Saucer-eyed girls have been walking for a while now very close to a volcano with a beautiful name.
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.
Feb
Obsession
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Are you addicted to chocolate? Creamy on the tongue. Eat it all you want, whenever you want it. Secretly in your room, for you and nobody else. Life’s hard. Chocolate melting in your mouth makes you whole. Briefly.
They’ll call you an addict. They’ll tell you to get help.
Are you addicted to a person? Soft in your ear. Ring her, mail her, message her all you want, whenever you want her. Secretly in her arms, you and nobody else. Life’s hard. Melting into her softness makes you whole.
They’ll call you in love. They’ll tell you you’re lucky.
Briefly.
From Guest Contributor Amita Basu
Amita is a graduate student of cognitive science. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Right-Eyed Deer, Gasher, St. Katherine Review, Star 82 Review, Proem, Muse India, and Dove Tales. Her nonfiction has appeared in Countercurrents and Deccan Herald. She has finished a collection of literary short stories, and is working on a mystery novel about art. She lives in Bangalore, India.
Feb
Survivors
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
They live presently. Now they tear the soft meat from the bone, now they hear the twang of resistant tendons. The vibration of it. A chorus of crows. Scudding wings of moths that search for the darkness just beyond. In the pit is hunger. We exist, hands pasted to rifle stocks, glimmering gunmetal eyes, rattle-boned. They know family born of teeth, defined by the low moans of their communes. Their tongues hang together. Our hands hang separately, our nails scratching our own stomachs, our thighs, our faces. But we are all hungry. We will all ooze the same black ichor.
From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook
Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.
Feb
Bottles Of Love
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Nick is aroused by the clinking of bottles in the fridge. Mother’s having another drink.
That old clink, so familiar. It’s a constant sound since Dad took off, piercing Nick’s twelve-year old ears.
Cue Mother’s laughter, cackling. Cracked.
He can’t tell Mother what it means to see tenderness replaced by laughter. Rage. Bills go unpaid, furniture disappears. But night after night, bottles take over. Wine, vodka. Beer.
One night, Nick sneaks downstairs, removes each bottle with methodical coldness. Hurls each one at the floor.
He shatters again and again, surveys the ruins.
Tomorrow, more will appear. He’ll do it again.
From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri
Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His story, “Soon,” was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s stories are forthcoming or have been published in Café Lit, Mad Swirl, 50 Word Stories, and Ariel Chart, among others.
Feb
The Toxins in All My Pores
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
My name was Dr. Jillian Fisk. My specialty was genetically engineered marine invertebrates.
When Dr. Gardner stole my research grant, I was reduced to testing myself as a subject. I couldn’t know the altered hemocytes — the experimental “jelly cells” — would multiply everywhere within me.
I find Dr. Gardner and embrace him, smoothly, wordlessly, wetly. His face scalds in my translucent hands. The toxins in all my pores scorch his skin there. My gelatinous tongue fills his throat, ruptures his stomach.
I rise, bioluminescent. DR.JELLYFISH.
All the world will know the scent of salt, the sting of soft skin.
From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan