Posts Tagged ‘Crying’

11
May

He’s Not Coming Back

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

“He’s not coming back, honey.”

“Don’t say that Daddy.”

“Baby, maybe it’s for the best.”

With that, Charlotte wailed and ran out of the living room crying. “You always hated him, didn’t you?”

Robert followed his only daughter into the kitchen. “I hated how he treated you. But he’s your husband.”

“He’s always come back.”

“You mean after he puts you in the ER?

“Not helpful.”

“Perhaps you’re right, he’ll come back. I need to go for a drive and give you some space.” Robert thought it best he get rid of the shovel from the back of his truck.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

11
Apr

Moonflowers & Untold Truths

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Mother waters her garden at midnight, with tears of the moon, she says. I can sometimes hear her crying, but I don’t tell her. Her garden is beautiful, with pale petals on willowy stems and dew clinging onto their souls, she says. I asked her once to see her budding seeds, but she insists that she must tend to them alone, fragile blooms. I nod because I know she is right, and because I am scared that if I don’t, she will find out, and my heart is too fragile.

Mother’s garden has no flowers, and I am still wilting.

From Guest Contributor Zeyneb Kaya

15
Jan

She’s Done Crying

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

She wasn’t crying today. First day in years. All dolled up with makeup and wearing her fanciest dress, she was going somewhere. And she looked good, so good, that even her children smiled a little. Friends had been expecting this, and some stopped to see her. Daniel wasn’t there. He never was. His love for her was long gone. After being gone for fifteen years, even the kids didn’t care about him anymore.

It was time. A loud thump signaled the end. The latches sealed and locked the casket closed. The finality of it was unmistakable. She was done crying.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

5
Oct

Three Imaginary Boys

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Three imaginary boys followed her everywhere. The one she called Whitey was the nicest. He would help her with math and comforted her when she was sad.

Churchill never had anything nice to say. He criticized her for crying too much and called her stupid whenever she made a mistake. He said the reason no one loved her was because she was a girl.

At least Churchill never hurt her, not the way Stephen did. He pinched her, or burned her with cigarettes. Sometimes worse.

She knew all three boys were imaginary, but the scars Stephen left were frighteningly real.

28
Dec

Prom Night

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

She hung the dress on a hook and shoved it all the way back in her closet, past her pink winter coat and communion dress. This was where outfits went to die.

She took a tissue and wiped her tear-stained makeup off in the mirror. The rolled up wad joined a dozen others in the vicinity of her trash bin.

She crawled into bed in full surrender. She looked at her cell phone on the table and thought of calling Janet, but she likely wasn’t home yet. The fact she hated that her friend was enjoying herself made everything worse.

6
Feb

The Cost Of War

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Grace paced the kitchen while her six-year-old daughter, Sophia, watched curiously. Sophia had bright blue eyes like her father. When would the war end? Grace thought. It had been two months and she hadn’t heard a word from Charles. All she could do to occupy her time was read and take care of Sophia.

Several months later Grace’s doorbell rang. She grabbed her robe and ran downstairs.

It was a military gentleman.

“Are you the wife of Charles McCormick?”

“Yes,” she answered, eyes closed.

“I’m sorry, but your husband died in an explosion.”

Grace collapsed to her knees and wept.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

19
Feb

Milk

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

In the beginning, I cried for it. Yet each night after dark, I threw up that sour formula, that fake milk warmed in glass bottles my mother tested on her wrists, so I wouldn’t burn my mouth.

Still, my mouth burned. I was a difficult baby, thin and colicky. I hungered but could not accept nourishment.

That’s how I began: Born at just five pounds, brought home in a receiving blanket, placed in a crib where I protested and screamed, the vein in my neck throbbing.

Years later, I’m still protesting, still screaming.

It scares me to close my mouth.

From Guest Contributor Cinthia Ritchie

Cinthia is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee who writes and runs mountains in Anchorage, Alaska. Find her work at Water-Stone Review, Evening Street Press, Third Wednesday, Best American Sports Writing 2013, Sports Literate, The Boiler Journal, Cactus Heart Press, Mary: A Journal of New Writing, damselfly press, Memoir, Sugar Mule, Foliate Oak Literary Journal and other small presses. Her first novel, Dolls Behaving Badly, released from Hachette Press/Grand Central Publishing

27
Oct

Pumpkin Face

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Pumpkins. Melissa hated them. She also hated Halloween.

A classmate called her Pumpkin Face. She knew why. Her face being round, like a pumpkin.

She pretended it didn’t matter but it did. Deeply. She stayed long hours in her bedroom and cried.

Then, something unusual happened. The doorbell rang on Halloween Eve. The name-caller and his parents stood at the front door. Melissa was summoned. She obliged.

The boy apologized for being mean. He handed a decorated bag of candy and wished Melissa a happy Halloween.

The young girl told her parents she could hardly wait to go out Trick-or-Treating.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been 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.

30
May

Her Little Plum

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The plum blossoms dance in the spring breeze like pink snowflakes across the yard.

A boy again, mother lifts me into the limbs to pick ripened fruit. “Be careful, my precious squirrel.”

“Ready, dear?” my wife asks.

“Yes,” my voice chafes. I inspect my dark suit, adjusting my tie in the window’s reflection. Wipe my face and rub wet fingers together.

“Your speech is in my purse.”

Words. An inadequate parting gift.

My mouth waters as mother sets down a steaming plum pie.

After her funeral, floodlights illuminate wreckage of the fallen tree. A brittle heart splinters. Sobs erupt anew.

From Guest Contributor Eric Schweitz

12
Feb

Inconsolable

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

When Daniel heard the first notes of the song begin to play, he immediately broke out in inconsolable sobs. The best efforts of those around him only made his hysterics worse. The tears ran off his cheeks and began soaking into his collar and tie.

“I’m sorry,” he kept repeating between desperate breaths. “It’s just…that song…always does this to me.”

“Pull yourself together, Jones. This is no time to blubber.”

Daniel looked around, first at his boss, then his marketing associates at the conference table. The clients were there as well. Indeed, this was no time to blubber.