Posts Tagged ‘Air’
Oct
New York Strong
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I climb the subway steps into the abundant sunshine. The weather is warm and it’s just another September day. Or so I think…
Paper is floating in the air; the sky darkens and desks tremble. Nearby buildings disappear in clouds of smoke. I watch wide eyed from the fourteenth-floor window across from the World Trade Center. Screams are unbearable and angels fall with a thunderous thump to the ground. My heart pounds and I can’t breathe. I don’t comprehend the horror; the fire, blackness, death.
The towers collapse, but eighteen years later we’re strong for the victims and their families.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Oct
Boss
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The dog was known as Boss by the Belfast housing estate kids. They heard harsh scratching as he desperately tried to crawl away from his tormentor, his muzzle leaving a dark trail of blood from where the first round had hit him in the face. His life trickled away from him through the short grey hairs on his jaw; an occasional desperate snarl ripping apart the cold morning air before he began whimpering again like a child.
Lining up the rifle sight, his tormentor watched the heaving chest, pressed the trigger and the pavement was awash with blood and fur.
From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey
Jun
When The Heart Aches
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The anguish of losing a loved one aches the heart. Henry knew this too well as he walked the cemetery grounds to his wife’s grave, carrying a dozen red roses, her favorite flower.
The scent of spring was in the air. The nearby sparrows chirped without a care, and the squirrels climbed the trees. Henry, too busy making sure the roses were placed perfectly leaning against the stone, didn’t notice.
Henry kissed her name on the stone. “I’ll be back next week, my lovely Serena,” he said and walked away.
A gentle breeze blew a rose petal in the air.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Apr
Birthright
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Brandon surveyed the sea of grass standing before him. The wind, which shook the trees and rained leaves down from above, was swallowed up in the green swathe so that the air at ground level was nearly silent.
When he left home, this had been an empty plain of course dirt and stone. Summer storms eroded the land, winter froze what remained, and travel across was rough but manageable.
Now the surface was alive and Brandon was scared. But he was also determined to return to his birthright.
He took only a few steps before he drowned in the vegetation.
Feb
Sabre Tiger
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Abandoned… Alone!
Sabre Tiger the children named him. The apartment manager said, No!”
Dad said, “Ask Grandma,” Grandma said, “Ask Grandpa.” Grandpa was reluctant. The children loved him, the boy said, “Take him home,” the girl said, “Please!” Grandpa relented.
The vet said, “He’s healthy, but overweight at 13 pounds,” Sabre swished his tail severely, “Might not get along with your cat.”
At home, Sabre was content; on his back, trusting, paws in the air, asleep.
Now, at 19 pounds plus, he’s Sabre Tiger; struts, ruler of the household. Grandpa reminds him daily. “You’re a cat, remember, you’re a CAT!
From Guest Contributor Ted Duke
Nov
Sweet Memory
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The girls play hopscotch, the one sister’s hair bounces in rhythm to her skips. She giggles and bends to pick up the rock, balancing her leg in the air. She wins, and they play again and again, until the sky opens, drenching them. Hand in hand they run home with their mouths open tasting rain drops. Entering the house, their mother yells for them to take off their wet sneakers and leave them by the door.
They kick off their sneakers and socks.
In the kitchen there’s the sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies.
Eighty-five-year-old Cindy smiles at the memory.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Nov
A Wandering Soap Opera
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I feel like a gull getting sucked into a jet engine. Furniture salesmen, spies, serial killers, etc., take turns following me through town. I recognize them by their nondescript appearance. Private lives are now being lived in public. We’re a wandering soap opera. That’s the problem with putting Velveeta on enchiladas. And nobody has to ask what the Kremlin thinks about all of this. Traces are visible from the air. I just want some semblance of normality back in my life, some sort of quiet, and my heart to stop furiously pedaling as if there were actually somewhere to go.
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie co-edits the journals UnLost and Unbroken with Dale Wisely.
Oct
Dandelions
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Passersby might have been forgiven for thinking the playground was host to a psychedelic staging of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, but it was just Cassie and Bobby, who’d rubbed dandelions on their skin until their faces were streaked with yellow. They wanted to camouflage themselves like the soldiers on TV, but all they had was mud and flowers and imagination.
When the real life soldiers came, Cassie and Bobby hid in the drainage tunnel as they’d been taught. The gunshots echoed like firecrackers in the air around them while they waited in vain for their parents to find them.
Aug
Afternoon Tea Party
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Eat this, Mom,” she said, handing me a plastic donut.
“Mmm,” I said, pretending it was delicious. I put it down and asked for more tea. Giggling, she poured air into a pink cup.
Someone pounded on the door.
The pot dropped to the table. I slid our pre-packed bag out from under the bed. She clung to me, like a baby monkey to its mother, and reached for her doll.
The door was giving in. Soon, it’d be off the hinges. I hoped we had enough time. I opened the window and my heart clenched.
The FBI waited below.
From Guest Contributor Bethany Cardwell
Jul
Conversation RIP (Killer)
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
There was furious silence in the booth from the women, mixed with a gauged suspension of opinion from the men.
Ginny, being invested, had expressed her dissatisfaction with the quality of man available to the unwed mother.
Kurt had provided a brutally frank answer. It hung in the air above the table like a phantasm.
To me, he’d drawled, a man willing to bring up another’s child born of selfish gratification – or conversely accept someone who’d aborted – wouldn’t think much of himself. Where’s the quality in that?
I wished the now red-faced Frank had given a brutally curt answer instead.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid