Posts Tagged ‘Brother’
Feb
Outside The Box
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Annie is missing. “Not in her room,” Mom said. “Can’t find her outdoor
shoes,” noted Dad. “Maybe she fell into a humongous puddle,” quipped
younger brother. Older brother was silent. Two guinea pigs madly
threaded wheels. Crows lined the backyard fence squawking at the
house. “Bet she’s at a friend’s,” said Dad. “Maybe a monster snatched
her,” younger brother grinned. “That’s enough young man,” asserted
Mom. “We need to think OUTSIDE the box,” Dad stated. “Maybe someone
put her INSIDE a box,” giggled younger brother. “Hush!” yelled Mom.
Older brother emerged: “Annie’s in my bedroom closet with an imaginary
friend.”
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.
Jan
Strange Sounds
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
A year ago it started like a joke. We were laying on our flat mattress together. Innocent. We were children.
Amadi was my brother, I was twelve. It came one night when we watched Mama and Papa do things underneath their sheets while she made strange sounds like she was in pain. When I slept that night, I felt it. Amadi took off my pants and put his thing inside of me. There was a pain like it was a needle, only there was breaking and entering, a salted liquid, and nine months later a child was on my breasts.
From Guest Contributor Oghenemudia Emmanuel
Dec
Last Box
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Meat grinder?” I asked.
Arnold laughed. “Strange guess, sis’.”
“Not at all. Grandma kept her favorite possessions even when she
couldn’t use them anymore.”
Arnold shook the box. Contents moved.
“She grinded roasts for cabbage rolls and meatloaf,” I added.
The overhead light flickered as it swayed. I shivered.
“Let’s carry the box downstairs,” I said. “I hate attics.”
“Why, you’re scared?” Arnold snickered.
I followed my brother into the kitchen. Inside the box we found
parcels wrapped in Christmas print. Each labelled with tags spelling
out names of the family.
Grandma didn’t have a chance to give them out.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.
Dec
Thrill
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Not healthy,” Jan whispered to her surviving brother, peering into the darkened parlour where her mother sat, eyes fixed on the flickering screen of Brian’s cracked Smartphone.
Tom lifted and dropped his shoulders helplessly and returned to the closed-coffin wake in the other room.
Jan herself had only been able to watch the footage once: the glee of Brian hanging from a spar changing to terror as his grip had slipped.
The phone had been lucky enough to fall back onto the bridge.
Jan stared as her mother hit replay again. She’d even stopped sobbing.
“Friggin’ selfie generation,” she muttered.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
Nov
Of Weak Spots
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Summer holidays meant wagon rides and a delicious break from school.
On the run for letting the poultry loose, my brother and I were making a hidden treehouse.
Later, we would have gone to the bank, devoured stolen nuts, nailed floorboards, as punishment. Together, we would have made jokes. Of weak spots on the fence and Granddad!
However, the treehouse being too feeble, our hands slippery from juice, hearts too unwilling, he fell to death.
Standing on the desolate bank, I glance at the familiar walnut blooms at Johnson’s. I wonder how we never discovered the weak spot in life.
From Guest Contributor Swatilekha Roy
Oct
Caramel Sauce
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Sweet,” Dad said, licking his lips.
“Different,” Mom added.
We were seated in the dining room for Thanksgiving dinner. My
sixteen-year-old brother wanted to showcase the skills he had mastered
in a culinary arts course.
“Wait!” he exclaimed.
The rest of us watched him taste the meal before him. An expression of
bewilderment spread across his face. He ran back to the kitchen and
returned.
“I emptied out the wrong pot,” he conceded. ‘The caramel sauce was
meant for apple cake.”
“So what is left for the cake now?” Dad asked while Mom and I
refrained from laughing.
“Turkey gravy.”
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.
Jun
A Fool For Love
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Timothy stepped out into the cold evening air and briskly walked to the flower shop to buy a dozen red roses to propose to his girlfriend Isabelle. He had the ring in his inside coat pocket and his proposal branded in his memory.
Timothy pulled out his wallet. “A dozen red roses, please.”
“Big night, sir,” the cashier asked.
“I’m proposing to my girlfriend,” Timothy answered while fumbling for change.
“Good luck, to you.”
“Thanks.”
When Timothy arrived, stunned from what he saw through the living room window, he dropped the roses. Isabelle and his brother Tony were passionately kissing.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
May
Nothing To Spare
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Yours? Mine? Arguments. Ideologies differ. Attempt to build bridge between us. Links missing. Structure collapses. Earth? Water? No collaboration. Excuses made. Stubbornness. Misunderstandings. Light? Dark? We try meeting at middle ground. Concluding we can’t agree. Not in thought, time or space. Coffee’s gone cold. I mind. He doesn’t. Ketchup smeared on fridge door. I wipe off. Mustard appears. Grass is greener over there, he says. I don’t care. I prefer wildflowers. He repaints the scene with concrete. I’m younger, by two years exact. Can hardly wait for… Brother leaves for college. Forgets his toothbrush. I throw it into his room.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.
Jan
Delhi Rape Case
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Cell 1: Driver. Charged with rape and murder. Known as “mental/alcoholic.”
Escaped punishment by suicide.
Cell 2: Brother of driver. Charged with same. Kept in solitary confinement after assault from inmates.
Hung to death.
Cell 3: Gym instructor. Guilty of kidnapping, robbery, rape, murder.
Death sentence.
Cell 4: Fruit Seller. Guilty of “rarest of rare.” Raped so hard; intestines bled.
Death penalty; followed by cheering by crowd.
Cell 5: Unemployed man; commits atrocities to pass time and have a laugh.
Death penalty.
Cell 6: Minor. Charged with rape and immense body mutilation.
Tried as juvenile. 3-year sentence.
Fuck Justice.
From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni
Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.
Apr
Hospital Song
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
They need to run more tests but Dad pleads, “I want to go home.” This man who built houses can’t stand by himself to pee.
I sit two hours with him daily, passing my sisters or brother in the hall on either end of the visit. We touch hands, squeeze.
A curled little old man under layers of cabinet-warmed blankets, he’s shaking, all ice-blue eyes and Viking-white beard under sunken cheeks.
Television is election chaos. No help there. I realize what’s on my iPad, close his door, crank its volume: Dad and Bob Dylan, gravel-throated friends, a hospital bed duet.
From Guest Contributor Tjorven