Posts Tagged ‘Fresh Air’
Nov
Perfect Spring Day
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Rob stares out the window at two young girls playing jump rope while their mother and grandmother cheer. The girls are chortling and clapping without a care.
The birds swoop overhead, and leaves blow in the light breeze. It’s the perfect spring day.
It becomes too hot by the window, so Rob backs away.
“Hello son. Let’s go outside. The doctor says the fresh air will do you good.”
Rob nods and wheels his chair toward the door. His dad pushes him the rest of the way.
The girls will be jumping rope, while he looks on from his wheelchair.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
May
Donning A Mask
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The first time I’d worn a mask other than Halloween, was during the Covid-19 crisis. I needed groceries and the supermarkets had strict rules about entering without protection.
When I exited my car, I donned my mask, latex gloves, wiped down the wagon and entered the store. The supermarket was eerily empty, and the shelves were bare of toilet paper and rice.
I approached the cashier who was behind a protective shield and slid my credit card through the slot. Once approved, I packed my bags and left.
When I got behind the wheel, I removed my mask.
Fresh air.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Apr
Searching
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Robyn rolls down the car window and breaths in the fresh air. It is warm, but not enough to sit on the beach and take in the sun, or swim in the water.
Robyn notices a lone woman standing on the dock. Her back is turned, and head erect. The wind blows her black hair above the shoulders and seagulls soar in search of prey, while the waves ripple.
After Robyn finishes her coffee, she puts the car in gear and slowly backs up. She hears deafening screams and jams on the brake.
The woman on the dock is gone.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Feb
Last Days Of Summer
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Charles Delany stepped off the horse and buggy. In front of him a white
shingled wood house with a porch, surrounded by an abundance of trees,
overlooked the ocean. He removed his hat and walked slowly up the
pathway to the porch. He sat on the wooden bench and took it all in,
listening to the waves slapping against the fishing dock.
“Okay, son, this’ll be your home for the summer. The doctor said the
fresh air and trees are good for your condition.”
Charles nodded and when his father walked away, he coughed clumps of red
into his handkerchief.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
May
Unlucky Fate
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
After six months of recovery in the hospital from my car accident, I’m finally going home.
I walk outside into the fresh air, taking deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling. I can’t stand the musty air in hospitals. My cell rings distracting me from my happy moment and I answer it.
“Hey, Charlie, I heard you’re discharged today.”
“Yeah, I’m on my way home as we speak.”
As I’m crossing the street, I walk straight into an oncoming car. People gather around me as I’m on the ground unable to move.
I guess I won’t be enjoying my own bed tonight.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Apr
Unfamiliar
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
It had been three years since Lea admitted her mother into the nursing home for Alzheimer patients. Sometimes she knew Lea and sometimes she was just a stranger visiting.
“Mom, wouldn’t you like to get some fresh air outside. Let me take you for a walk.” Lea pushed the wheelchair to the door.
“Where is my daughter? I don’t know you!” She struggled to break free from her wheelchair.
“I’m your daughter. It’s me, Lea.”
The nurse came in and helped Lea’s mother back into bed.
“I raised a nice girl.” Lea’s mother said.
It wasn’t Lea she spoke of.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Jan
House Of A Hoarder
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The stench of stale tobacco hangs in the air. You treat your house like an air-tight Tupperware; you think your hoarded items could be destroyed by fresh air, so you never let me in. You ignore the smoke that settles on those decaying maps of ancient civilizations.
I walk into this careful messiness. The smoke accumulates on the loose silk threads of my dress. You study my face as if it were one of your maps: tracing the lines of ancient feelings in the wrinkles of my skin. I replace the roughness of your scrutiny by leaving. Can’t hoard me.
From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni
Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.