Posts Tagged ‘Children’


Two Birds

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Tom and Ruth had been married forty years. The heart monitor was beeping with every breath Ruth took.

“I’m going to miss you,” Tom said. His weathered hands were one with Ruth’s. Two streams of tears ran from his eyes.

“I’ve lead a good life. I’ll be okay,” Ruth said.

“I don’t know how I’ll…” Tom asked.

“We’ll be together soon enough, love. The children need you. You have to be strong for them.”

She closed her eyes quietly. A bird took off and flew high into the clouds towards the sun. Its counterpart sat pensively, wondering where to go.

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

Steve was born in 1986 and during undergrad he developed schizoaffective disorder. Over the years he has worked hard to overcome the disorder and help others while doing so. Steve has published thirteen essays with Oxford Medical Journals, he has written freelance for Mclean Hospital since 2011, he writes a column with The Good Men’s Project titled “Steve Colori Talks Mental Health,” and he has a memoir available on Amazon, “Experiencing and Overcoming Schizoaffective Disorder.” A quote he has come to live by is “To Improve is to Change; To be Perfect is to Change Often.” (Winston Churchill)


The House On The Hill

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

As the floodwaters receded, Thompson entered what used to be his home. The structure had once stood proud at the top of the hill. Now it was in shambles, the storm having carried it off its foundations and depositing it several hundred yards away.

With stooped shoulders, Thompson shifted through the remains. His friends would say he should count himself lucky that anything survived at all. At least he was alive. But it was hard to think that way with Jessie’s waterlogged doll in his hands. He was not one of those parents who looked at their children as disposable.


Sunday Morning

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Polystyrene-on-glass calls pause. Unknown bird waits. Magpie’s hoarse rattle bobs upon chill breeze, followed by one clipped caw. Wind and distant slumber.

Dog yelp, muffled by intervening streets, punctuates keyboard-click.



Wheeze of diesel engine and hiss of pneumatic tyres upon Tarmac cue pair of voices in garbled conversation, growing as they near.

The dog dips paw into arena of proper barking before relenting, wounded by unanimous indifference.

Then…timeless chorus of seagulls.

All cede to a hesitant wind under sombre sky.


Children’s voices shatter tableau, announcing subdued urgency of Sunday morning.

Bleakness prevails, yet wind chimes sound.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Landslide. Highway closed. Closest motel, five miles back.

The adjoining restaurant was packed. I sat at a table with a couple
and their three high-spirited children. Rain fogged our window.
Someone outdoors fleeted past us.

“Creek flooded road to my cabin,” an elderly gent spoke as we both
exited. “Why are you here?”

I wiped my eyeglasses pretending not to hear. “Can you please walk me
to my room.”

He laughed. “Why, you scared?”

“I saw a prowler earlier.”

He obliged.

Next day’s news revealed that a bear had to be tranquilized on the
grounds, taken back into the woods.

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.


Summer Days

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Joseph peered out his bedroom window, the summer sun beating on his old tired face. At ninety-five, he didn’t care. He enjoyed watching the children play hopscotch, giggling and waiting for the bells of the ice cream truck. Every time, the girls would drop their chalk and run to the sound. In the background birds flew from tree to tree. Joseph remembered those summer days as if it were yesterday.

“Time for your medication, Joseph,” said the home care nurse.

Joseph turned in his wheelchair and took his medication. He knew any day he’d never see those children play again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher


Once They Cross The Brambly Bridge Far Too Far From Town

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The man in the black coat turns around, long ears dangling, striped vest pink-and-white, smiling. The children have followed him into the woods against their parents’ warnings, but just for a minute, not very far they say, as he pulls the golden ivory box from inside his pocket’s silk lining, lifts the top and their eyes grow wide for they are each inside, two inches tall, ceramic dolls he’s carved on a carousel winding round-and-round the emerald mound on tiny white ponies they’re riding, cymbals in their hair, penny whistles singing, ‘til they no longer hear the dinner bells ringing.

From Guest Contributor Kathy Miller

Kathy is a writer of poems, stories, songs, and screenplays. She lives in Michigan and has a B.F.A and an M.F.A. in Writing. Her publications include HarperCollins’ It Books, Universal Music Publishing Group, and The Aviator.


The Holiday Season

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

It’s my favorite time of year, holiday season on the coast. The weather is nice, the days are long, and everyone is happy. The tourists are everywhere. Children, grandchildren, dogs; they’re all waiting in lines at the jewelry shops, the coffee shops, and the gift shops. Especially standing in lines at the ice cream shop where I work every day. Flashing their cash around once and a while, but mostly credit cards. So carefree and careless. And so clueless. They’re all ripe for the picking. Skimming credit card information is how I can live comfortably the rest of the year.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin


Arm In Arm

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Her spindly hand with purple veins protruding forms a tight grasp around the rigid arm. She had a history with this arm, often leaning against it to maintain her balance. It had been a steady companion over the last several years, which was more than she could say about her children. They never approved of their mother’s new company. A cigarette always hung from her overly wrinkled lips when the two were together, and the last thing she needed was another vice. It’s their loss, she shrugged and gave a tug on that trusty metal arm, waiting for three sevens.

From Guest Contributor Nicholas Froumis

Nicholas practices optometry in the Bay Area. His writing has appeared in Gravel, Right Hand Pointing, Dime Show Review, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing, Ground Fresh Thursday, Balloons Lit Journal, and Short Tale 100. He lives in San Jose, CA with his wife, novelist Stacy Froumis, and their daughter.


Wavestar Bang

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

He lost her, but not as he thought: not to the cancer, or a car accident, or to some art student.

She was dancing alone to Wavestar in the dark, only the nightlight of the stove touching her naked toes, her knees, her swishing hips. She spun, hair whipping, neck caning, hands flying like children playing through the twilight air of the highway with the windows down, wrists like autumn leaves whose time had come.

She became transparent, translucent, spinning faster and faster, and glitter evaporated from the feet up, a tornado of silver steam.

He fell right through her.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

After graduating with a BA in English from Vassar College, Brook landed her first paid writing job as a reporter for a small-town Colorado newspaper. She left it to travel to India, where she fell in love, got married and canceled her ticket home. She and her husband Gaurav write freelance articles for dozens of publications, including Outpost, Ecoworld and Little India. In 2013, they launched, which she edits and writes for. She also teaches writing at a community college, is earning her MFA in Writing at Lindenwood University, and is writing a novel.



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The men stand quietly, exchanging cigarettes and glances. There is nothing to say.

A klaxon sounds. More than one man sighs with relief: the mine-cage rises from below. Two men open the cage doors, collect the dripping bones of the man who lost the draw.

“Sacrifice accepted,” the mine owner announces, as though the men can’t see the evidence themselves.

The bones are buried. The widow and children will receive a fat check from the owner, and much pity for the “unpreventable accident.”

“Okay, boys,” the foreman slaps his hat on. “Go ahead and collect. Coal ain’t gonna fetch itself.”

From Guest Contributor Laura Lovic-Lindsay