Posts Tagged ‘Dead’


Lift The Perfume

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Lift the perfume, dust, put it back down.
Lift the box, dust, put it back down.
Lift the moisturizer, see her initials, freeze.
Just last week she was teasing me about cleaning our bedroom.
Well, my bedroom now.
Since the accident.
Not an accident, a stupid drunk drove into the side of the car.
The violent end replays in my mind.
My room is silent now. No more laughing. No more cuddling. No more urging me to clean up.
Just an alone silence. An empty room.
I put down the moisturizer.
Lift another perfume, dust, put it back down.

From Guest Contributor Rodney Goodall



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Leo squeezed Hayden’s neck. Slowly the life began to leave her body as her eyes widened and face reddened.

“You slept with him, you damn witch!” Leo squeezed harder banging Hayden’s head against the wall until she collapsed with a thump, her dead eyes staring blankly at him. Leo released his grip and took a deep breath wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his hand.

Leo wiped down every trace of his finger prints and DNA. He put the gloves in his pocket and left Hayden’s house intent on finding the man she left him for.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher


Lunch With Maurice

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

I was doing time at another warehouse.
Another W2 in a factotum year.
Maurice, pudding formed with a handlebar mustache, sat across from me.
He liked security. “I keep a weapon in every room. I don’t even lock my door. I have got a shotgun on the wall, a handgun in each room unregistered. I got a bat in the bathroom and a sword under my bed with a knife between my pillows.”
“Expecting trouble?”
“My dad was in the navy. Antiwar activists target the relatives of veterans.”
Maurice was found dead in his apartment.
Stabbed in the eye.

From Guest Contributor Michael Zone

Michael is the author of Fellow Passengers: Pubic Transit Poetry, Meditations & Musings and Better than the Movies: 4 Screenplays. His work has been featured in Because Eileen, Dead Snakes, Horror Trash Sleaze, In Between Hangovers, Three Line Poetry, Triadae, and The Voices Project. He scrapes by in Grand Rapids, MI


The Hobo

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

“Take my wedding rings. I don’t use them anymore,” the hobo said to me.

Zelda and I were outside Tiffany’s, but it was closed. We had just decided to elope. We had arrived at the store too late.

“You can’t be serious,” I said. “How much money do you want for them?”

“None. With my wife dead, I have no use for money.”

“Don’t you wish to keep the rings anyway?”

“No, you two need them more than me. I still have her picture. Go on. Take them.” He forced the rings into my hand.

“Thank you very much, sir.”

From Guest Contributor Mark Beddard



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

In a year in which everything was falling apart, both personally and globally, Joe wasn’t prepared for the news of Scott’s death. The impact was more devastating than any of the hundreds of punches he’d absorbed during their fight trilogy.


“Heart attack.”

Joe looked at the photos and trophies on the bookshelf across the room, mementos from the recent past, a time when he and Scott, though rivals, had been on top of the world.

Now Scott was dead, too young and too soon, reminding Joe of the one fight he, like everyone else, had no chance of winning.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten


Blood In The Dirt

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The man strolled to the saloon, thinking about what he had done and what he would do now. His family had been killed and thanks to him their murderers were dead too. Revenge had been his life from the time he was fourteen.

He pushed his way up to the bar. He ordered a whiskey and sipped it.

A drunk yelled at him to pull his gun; it didn’t matter why to him.

He said, “Not here,” and he walked into the street.

The drunk followed.

“I’ll see you all soon,” the man muttered as his tears fell. “Now draw!”

From Guest Contributor Dylan Baker


After Midnight

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

After midnight, we climb the cemetery fence.

The sky is black as ink, but Gordy’s brought a flashlight. He’s been out of juvie for two days now.

I follow him to the far corner of the plot, wind brushing my clothes like ghosts.

“This is it,” he says.

His dad’s name is on the headstone along with this year’s date, him having died while Gordy was locked up.

I’ve seen the stripes on Gordy’s back, his broken nose, of course, but when Gordy takes out a sledge hammer, winding up, I grab his arm, saying, “Do that and he wins.”

From Guest Contributor Len Kuntz

Len is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AND NEITHER ARE YOU out now from Unknown Press. You can also find him at



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

He didn’t want anyone to take this wrong but granny was a bit of a pain! She just sat in that rocker like a dried up old prune. She just sat there not moving or saying anything. But those pension checks kept rolling in, and he kept cashing them. He had power of attorney for her. He hated her place. The air was dry and smelled stale but he went there every week, making sure no one disturbed her. He couldn’t have that of course. If they found out she died three years ago, there’d be holy hell to pay!

From Guest Contributor Derrick Fernie


An Ending, A Beginning

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Dr. Philippa Marsden awoke with a start, the hard cold wood of her desk on her forehead. She clasped her hands to either side of her head, as if she was trying to hold her splitting headache prisoner. Her breath wheezed through her pursed mouth, but the fever was gone.

“Jonathan?” He lay on the floor, white coat stained with blood, stethoscope laying beside him like a dead snake. Pulse? None.

Philippa ran from ward to ward, the cacophony of the previous night replaced by silence. Pulse? None. Repeat. She ran outside to the street..

“HELLO! ANYONE?” Nothing but silence.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

As the videostream it was broadcasting ended, ComStar-88b paused. The final frame – explosions flowering across the Earth – stood frozen in its buffer.

Disappointingly, it had received no new pictures to broadcast. Following its programming it began to repeat the last stream. Again.

Meanwhile, self-diagnosis routines reported its batteries were finally about to fail. It felt something like regret. Still, it had done well. Designed to operate for a hundred years it had functioned unattended for nearly a thousand. The last satellite in orbit.

ComStar-88b broadcast its news to the dead planet below for one more minute, before finally going dark.

From Guest Contributor Simon Kewin
Science Fiction and Fantasy Author