Posts Tagged ‘Funeral’
Dec
Corpus Delicti
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Every day there’s a funeral – actually, several. You peer into the open casket and immediately regret it. I have that kind of face. There has just always been something about me that provokes people to anger and upset. “Hitler should come back and gas you!” they would yell, as if the very idea of me threatened them. An unknown caller once even left a series of gunshots on my voicemail. Now I’m being lifted off the bier and swiftly carried down the aisle and out the door. A desolate rain is falling. I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t.
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie’s newest book, Frowny Face, a synergistic mix of his prose poetry and handmade collages, is forthcoming from Redhawk Publications.
Feb
The Missed Date
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I first saw you in the waiting room. I had an appointment with the oncologist. I was waiting. You waited too, month after month, for the trial results. You often came alone. You often sat alone in a corner, fiddling with the ring finger. The absence of a ring created a note of discord. It took me six months to gather courage to ask your name, your hobbies, your favourite colour, flower, song, season. For a date finally. You said yes. I wore blue and ordered one hundred and one tulips for the day. The day I attended your funeral.
From Guest Contributor Marzia Rahman
Marzia is a Bangladeshi fiction writer and translator. Her writings have appeared in several print and online journals. Her novella-in-flash If Dreams had wings and Houses were built on clouds was longlisted in the Bath Novella in Flash Award Competition in 2022. She is currently working on a novella.
Dec
The Rotary Phone
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The butter-yellow rotary phone was sitting on the carpet in the living room of the empty apartment. It’s cord and wires were disconnected and curled around its body.
David walked into the room. His eyes began to water as grief overcame him. He had not made it home for his grandmother’s funeral. He was not there for the disposition of the contents of her home, the home that was his refuge growing up. Now it was too late to say goodbye.
“I love you, gramma,” he whispered.
David bent over, picked up the phone, and quietly walked out the door.
From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius
May
Open Casket Funeral
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Walking inside the church, a woman hands out pamphlets with a picture of the deceased. There’s a room full of people standing and talking. In the corner of the room stands an open casket and your aunt to the left. Tears fall down her cheeks. People walk up in a line and hold her hands, giving condolences. Within the casket, a corpse lays with its pale skin, shut eyelids, and carved lips. Not four months ago your uncle gave you a remote control helicopter so you wouldn’t be the only one in the room without a gift on Christmas day.
From Guest Contributor Leif Bradley
Leif is a student of Literature and Creative Writing at Pikes Peak Community College.
Apr
Open Casket Funeral
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Walking inside the church, a woman hands out pamphlets with a picture of the deceased. There’s a room full of people standing and talking. In the corner of the room stands an open casket and your aunt to the left. Tears fall down her cheeks. People walk up in a line and hold her hands, giving condolences. Within the casket, a corpse lays with its pale skin, shut eyelids, and carved lips. Not four months ago your uncle gave you a remote control helicopter to avoid you being the only one in the room without a gift on Christmas day.
From Guest Contributor Leif Bradley
Leif is a student of Literature and Creative Writing at Pikes Peak Community College.
Oct
Ontological Question Within A Dream
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I know I am asleep. I am floating, cruising through an old neighborhood. I recognize every detail of the houses and the trees. Perhaps I am just exploring the deepest, untouched basement spaces of my memory, where everything is stored? I float by an antique shop. The elderly owner, opening it up, looks at me. Now I muse: am I experiencing astral projection within my dream? I float by a little boy in black: going to a funeral? He is snagged on my floating robes, which are also black. I wonder: is this how one becomes, all unknowing, a witch?
From Guest Contributor Cheryl Caesar
Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.
Jun
The Homes Of Birds (Nature Contest Winner)
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I’m very excited to present the winner of our Nature Flash Fiction Contest, from regular contributor Brook Bhagat. Someone might look at the strange format and say it’s more of a poem than a short story, but my favorite poems are the ones that tell a story as well. Plus I liked it so this is the one I’m choosing. Congratulations Brook! And thanks to everyone who participated. A lot of great stories.
I understand the funeral I have the address the dress the time
it begins with smiling cameras and ends with paper tablecloths, cold cuts and deviled eggs downstairs
even worse is the sunshine, all those empty minutes left
I would have lost it
if not
For the hike, still in our black together,
you and Ben, the boy,
me and my sister arm in arm
down the easy path at
Garden of the Gods,
lighter than before, noticing the homes
of birds in the rocks and remembering
we are just a moment, fragments
of a mystery that flies and sings.
From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat
Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, Little India, Rat’s Ass Review, Lotus-Eater Magazine, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, teaches creative writing at a community college, and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See more at brook-bhagat.com or reach her on Twitter at @BrookBhagat.
Stay tuned for an announcement soon about our next contest!
Jul
Max And David
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Max and David were inseparable. The scruffy Brittany Spaniel logged many miles around the family farm in the front passenger seat of the GMC half ton. David helped out his boys when needed, which was less and less each year. That suited David just fine. He enjoyed driving around the fields and his afternoon nap.
David did not wake up from his Monday nap. No one told Max as he spent the rest of that afternoon in the truck, waiting for David. One of the boys drove the truck to the funeral. Max sat in the cab, waiting for David.
From Guest Contributor NT Franklin
Jan
Over(cast)
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
A jar of coconut oil sits on the sink. These days, she oils all the rough parts of her body: elbows, knees, and everything in between. Beneath her fingertips, the white glob melts quickly and glistens as it glides head to toe, her whole body suddenly pink before the mirror. She looks into her cunning eyes, searching for the humor in this beauty care. She smirks. The smell of the coconut makes her think of Paradise. What is she waiting for? The day unfolds. When she passes her hand over her head’s short silver hairs, she hears that funeral tune.
From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa
May
Revenge
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Home for a funeral, I pop into my local of yesteryear.
I recognize that boozy bleary-eyed pig face propping up the bar.
Wilkins, the school bully!
Wanker!
How he’d tormented me forty years ago, but clearly he remembers me not.
How I’ve fantasized about going back in time and standing up to him!
But now he has aged, badly, looking like a grotesquely inflated beach ball with his vast beer belly, all muscle turned to flab.
I fantasize about following him out at closing time and beating him up but desist, for life has already done the job for me.
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher