Posts Tagged ‘Energy’
Aug
Crossroads
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
A skinny young guy, carrying a battered guitar case slung over his shoulder like a cotton picker’s sack, went down to the crossroads to catch a ride. The folks at home wouldn’t ever hear from him again. Rumors took the place of news – that he’d been shot and killed over a gambling debt, that he’d been lynched by a white mob, that he played guitar on the Chitlin’ Circuit with such violent energy that gravestones fell over and broke and that’s why now, every day around dawn, birds resume singing a centuries-old murder ballad specifically for our continued moral instruction.
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie’s newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.
May
Victory
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The air is ominous, and lightning brightens the sky. I hold onto the mountain with both hands. I’m an avid climber, but the weather forecast is wrong. The sky is not abundant sunshine.
With each step I take, I use all my energy to endure and sustain my worries. All I need to do is take a deep breath.
The rain is heavy, and I feel the weight of it baring down. Just a few more steps. I can do this.
I reach the peak and use all my strength to pull myself up.
I wave my hands in victory.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Aug
The Great War
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The gunfire in the near distance didn’t faze me after ten months of war. I had a job to do and with few hours of sleep and lack of food, the lieutenant couldn’t believe my energy. The truth was, I hid my exhaustion because the men needed my surgical skills.
I operated on an eighteen-year-old boy who took two bullets to the leg. By the time he came to me, it was too late. I had to remove it, or he’d die.
The captain said ‘The Great War’ would end soon.
I wished I believed him as another casualty arrived.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Jan
21
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
My sister’s 21 years older. She’s 37. Often jokes I’m the milkman’s son.
Nancy calls me Saint Nick, says I’m too giving. Nicknames me dummkopf when I trip.
I love her energy, when she jokes about my clothing or love of Debussy. She’s an Elvis-loving newspaperwoman.
Yet, the banter lacks that natural rhythm, that give-and-take. We didn’t grow up playing or fighting together. But Nancy says age is arbitrary.
I wonder if she feels self-consciousness. Especially when she calls me little brother, accentuating the words.
I just banter. Call her sis. Joke that she’s my secret mother.
It’s almost believable.
From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri
Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50 Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.
Dec
Postcards Of Joy
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Mother loves postcards. I wish you could see this cathedral. I miss you. I have been constrained by tradition. I move from friend to friend. Wake in one bedroom, slumber in another. No personal markers, photos. Gifts conveying motherly intimacy. My favorite Yates novel, a radio, a train set. Living with Mother was rife with frenetic energy once Dad left. He called her a senseless dreamer. Life was defined by bottles, hissing wine. Cackling laughter, dissolved smiles. I want Mother at ease. Instead, I conjure her flitting about cathedrals, mistaking facades for joy. I tell her I’m happy. Try to believe.
From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri
Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His story “Soon,” was nominated for a Pushcart and he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50-Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.
Apr
The Great Screen
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Hiro couldn’t stand it. Every day, the same routine of work, eat and sleep gnawed at his core like a termite. So one day, he lay down, refusing to work.
Though he eventually starved, news of his acquiescence spread throughout his country. Hiro’s fellow humans followed suit across the globe until soon, the entire species rejected the daily grind.
Without such toil, the collective energy – generated from human labor that had for eons fueled the great screen obscuring the viewing capacity of even the most powerful telescopes – dissipated.
Suddenly revealed, the entities beyond abandoned their observation of Earth.
From Guest Contributor S.F. Katz
Nov
Hope And The Sword
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Face down in pine-needles, Tom could hear rustling undergrowth.
It wasn’t such disturbance of leaf and stalk that might herald the man’s return, but more woodlandy – some creature curious about the blood…his blood.
Gauging the effort required, he summoned what energy remained and thrust.
His right arm collapsed, the incline rolling him onto his back.
The unobstructed air was invigorating. He’d never appreciated that before. He coughed half way through a breath, spluttering blood.
He managed to avoid choking. He might just survive–
Now he could see the man hadn’t left at all.
The shooter raised the gun again.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
May
Unrequited
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Soft and warm, her diamond-drill eyes cut through troubles to allow her molten laughter to fill his heart.
She moved like a leopard and, when her thighs brushed innocently, nerve endings tingled with an indescribable charge.
Wanting her more than breath, his eyes often sought the smooth valley beneath her throat, desire locking his tongue until…too late, leaving him to pounce at the desiccated dust eddies in her wake.
Fleeting shards of opportunity teased like mirages, requiring more energy and know-how than his aging, wounded, soul possessed.
She’d offered him a photo once. He’d declined. 2D simply wasn’t enough.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
May
Martinet
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
He enters the classroom on Monday morning.
They ignore him, will not be silent as he speaks, chatting about the weekend, this and that, cocooned in subcultures he would not understand.
He cannot break in to quell their energy, bend them to his will, force the curriculum upon them, teach them ‘respect,’ nor corral them down the narrow path his life has taken.
He would beat them if he could but, thwarted by laws he would repeal, he can only shout.
“Shut up! Listen!” he bawls, getting their attention, momentarily.
“Why?” one of them simply asks.
He has no reply.
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Tuck Magazine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.
Dec
At First Blush
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Did it again! He never puts his grubby fingers on the older ones. No, just me and the few new arrivals. If I’m to be honest with myself – we’re less curvy than they. Maybe that’s it? Maybe he thinks we have less grounds for complaint?
Oh! Those two ladies walked right past without saying anything: neither caution nor cursory rebuke. What sort of workplace is this? Here’s me all clean, shiny, and new – arriving full of energy at this library – only to be fondled. Huh, the creep’s calling someone for assistance.
“Excuse me, is this touchscreen supposed to be pink?”
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid