Posts Tagged ‘Dead’
May
Unconditional Love
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“That damn dog! How did she get out this time?” I asked.
He replied, “It’s my fault. I didn’t secure the back gate properly. Why does she run away like this when we take such good care of her?”
“We can’t take it personally. It is just doggy instinct to hunt. I am just sorry you need to chase her when she does this. Try looking down by the pond.”
Just as he grabbed a leash, the culprit appeared: tail wagging, dirty nose, and a dead gopher in her mouth.
“There you are! Come here. Who is our best girl?”
From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius
May
The Walking Dead
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Thinking about escaping across closed borders, I dug a hole outside. It was hard work. I pulled out bricks, barbed wire, glass bottles and jars, and old cans as I dug deeper. When my mind drifted too far into sadness, I stopped. Everything moves slowly now. I’m learning to be very stingy with supplies. On the table is a bunch of flowers I found in the trash. This may be a day for catching up on The Walking Dead, but I stand at a window that looks out on a yard. Somehow, just standing there feels like a hopeful gesture.
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie Good is the author of What It Is and How to Use It (2019) from Grey Book Press, among other poetry collections.
Apr
Gold
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
HISTORICAL FICTION SUBMISSION:
It was a scene out of a Joseph Heller novel. For three weeks, Nyhoff’s platoon, at the behest of Colonel Walters, had driven them to take the god-damned hill. There was no apparent strategic value, and everyone assumed it was another cockamamie order from the generals. The generals rarely knew what they were doing.
But they eventually took the hill, and a lot of men died. Nyhoff wouldn’t say they were good men, but they were men, and now they were dead. All because Colonel Walters had heard rumors of an abandoned cache of gold.
There was never any gold.
From Guest Contributor Gary Linehan
Apr
Sacrifice And Prayer
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
John jumped into the trench for cover, and a dead soldier stared blankly into nothingness. John silently prayed, took a deep breath, reloaded his rifled musket and repositioned. He abhorred shooting at his own people, but that was the only way. President Lincoln wanted slaves freed and John believed slavery was inhumane.
John pulled out a picture of his wife and stared at her radiant smile. He said another prayer, kissed his wife’s face, climbed up the trench and fired. Return shots echoed in his ears.
His wife’s photo remained clutched in his hand as he fell to the ground.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Mar
Old Pete
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Pete was a common sight on the pier. Not surprisingly, as he had spent most of his life on the docks. He was adored by everyone. After the accident, Pete no longer had a fishing vessel. He would see the boats off in the morning and wait on the pier for their return. The unloading fishermen were met by Pete. In turn, they would greet Pete and pause so he could check out their haul. Pete’s reaction to the catch would let them know if he approved.
Everyone was sure Pete knew his owner died at sea three years ago.
From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin
NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.
Mar
Coda
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
He followed the familiar tune through the fog: strings, horns, that impossibly sweet voice. The gloom lifted to reveal the girl, singing her heart out under the spotlight, invisible orchestra in accompaniment. He cried tears of joy, felt love, and also something not quite love.
“You sing it to me every night in my mind. But it sounds so much clearer now. Why?”
She smiled sadly. “Can’t you guess?”
*
“Is he dead?” The reporter watched the killer’s body inside the execution chamber.
“Yes.”
He peered closer. “What does he have to smile about? He murdered that girl right on stage!”
From Guest Contributor Clay Waters
Mar
Myth Match
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The day is cold even by New England standards. Girls dump menstrual blood on icy sidewalks in some kind of protest. Myth is dead. Our high school biology textbook compared the body to a furnace. Mr. C, our very nice teacher, was killed that spring with his wife and baby daughter in a car wreck. There’s no point in speaking ironically to people who can’t understand irony. You’ll just end up having to publicly apologize. Freud said dreams are the day’s residue. It has to linger for a while, as if to warn we’re a danger to self and others.
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.
Feb
Dead Dreams
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
If it wasn’t for lack of encouragement growing up, I might have been an avant-garde artist, a Duchamp or a Warhol, famous for a star-like crack in a windshield, stick figures drawn on toilet paper, floors overflowing with blood. I carry a lot of photos in my phone. The only words anyone ever truly needs have all been cannibalized for parts. Still, when I announce, “I’m going to kill myself,” I don’t care what the police say, you better take it seriously. Saucer-eyed girls have been walking for a while now very close to a volcano with a beautiful name.
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.
Feb
A Ravenous Canvas
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Walking forever through corridors of art, that’s the fate I sought. If I were doomed to resurrect, as everyone was, why not wander eternally around beauty?
But when I tried to reach The Metropolitan Museum, the apocalypse stopped me. Manhattan’s zombies swarmed my car, buried it in dead flesh. I’m trapped.
Now they’re a ravenous canvas, pressed against my windshield. Their faces are yellow papyrus; their spoiling blood and bile are rancid inks and pigments, their viscera are rotting oils. This is their dead aesthetic; their moans exhort me to join it.
I’ll starve.
I’ll rise.
I’ll create art too.
From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan
Jan
Hungry Hannah
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“HUNGRY HANNAH EATS REAL FOOD!” I thought all robotic dolls were creepy, but my twin daughters loved that commercial.
And they loved Hannah.
At least until tonight. Tonight I find the babysitter’s back gnawed down to her spine. Karen lays legless, dead mid-scream, a broken doll herself. Samantha’s face is chewed to tattered strips of scarlet skin — wet ribbons staining hectic red hieroglyphs across the carpet. Her eyes and scalp are gone.
I find Hannah looking up at me. Her painted eyes are flat black coins. Her plastic teeth, still moving, are soaked in violent crimson.
“Feed me,” she bleats.
From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan