Posts Tagged ‘God’


The Bottle Spins

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

“Screw you!” I scream through bloody cracked lips.

He turns his head and looks at me curled up on the cold granite floor. He smiles. Ash from his cigarette drops onto his cheap suit. He carefully brushes it off, not once taking his eyes off me.

On the floor by his feet is an empty wine bottle lying on its side. Slowly, he bends down and spins it once more.

We all watch its slow revolution, desperately praying it won’t point in our direction.

God is not with me today. My silent prayer goes unanswered.

It was my turn again.

From Guest Contributor Mike Jackson

Mike lives in the UK and enjoys writing short tales, especially Drabbles. Many of his offerings can be found on his blog ‘Stories In Your Pocket.’



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

In the weeks after her mother died, Pamela had no skin. Everything was surface—every twitching nerve, every gush of bile. When Creepy Carl told her to smile as he dropped off his rent check, her lips peeled back to the bone.

At home, she told Ben: I know about the girl you’ve been fucking for the last four months. Your intern. In our God damn bed.

Come on, baby, he said, it wasn’t like that.

But it was. She wouldn’t have her raw insides sheathed in lies. She slept in the guest room, on top of the blankets, oozing resentment.

From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook

Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

First little Amy was stricken, taking three days to die.

After collecting the body, the wardens painted the black cross on the door.

Then her husband and son Mark sickened. She could do nothing for their agonies.

A cart collected them to be buried in the pit.

Now the street is sealed off. No food arrives, and the water is almost gone.

She sneezes twice. She knows this is the end. But what is there to live for?

Thus the pauper Mary Wells died alone in London in 1665, with no priest to console her, no caring God above her.

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,, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.


La Piedra

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

I was once asked a question. In fact, it was the most important question in the history of the world.

The question was so immense that it should have been saved for God himself in the afterlife.

It covered love and hate and fact and fiction and everyone and everything at once.

Naturally, I wanted to answer, but my throat froze and my eyes turned to stone like those of a statue. If my heart throbbed, I wasn’t there enough to feel it.

Honestly, how’s a piece of shit like me supposed to know if everything happens for a reason?

From Guest Contributor Branko Tubic


Next Time

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Every time that bastard comes home, he sweet talks me and tells me things will be different and like a complete fool I take him back and then I get pregnant and he takes off again for a year or two.

I swear to God the next time he shows his face around here I’m going to hit him upside the head with a frying pan, knock him out long enough to pack a bag and clear out for a couple of years myself, leave him to take care of three kids with no help, see how he likes it.

From Guest Contributor Simon Hole


The Taxidermist

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

He stuffed his victims, then mounted them on his wall. That’s why they referred to him as the Taxidermist. His arrest, and subsequent conviction, was thought to be the end. No juror would’ve signed off on an insanity plea. He was locked away and, by the time his appeals were exhausted and he finally met his fate, the story had become more legend than reality.

But he was more than just a serial killer. He wasn’t just preserving their skins, but also their souls. Now, with his death, those souls have been released. May God have mercy on us all.


Adam’s Apple

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

“Where did you hear that? She asked, blonde hair peek-a-boo covering her naked breasts.

“An emergency meeting of Seraphim and Cherubim. I was passing by and overheard,” he responded. “You’ve passed that tree a hundred times. The one with the single piece of fruit at the very top. It looks like an apple. ”

“And it’s supposed to have magical powers?”

“The fruit. That’s what He said.”

“Nobody can climb that tree,” she insisted.

“The snake could. He could slither up. You could persuade him,” he winked.

“As soon as I finish hemming these fig leaves,” she winked back.

From Guest Contributor Reynold Junker


Bumping Into An Old Friend

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Like a beacon of an unkind fate the bald pate shines where his pink Mohawk once grew.

“Punk’s not dead,” he drools, the two pints of Heineken having gone to his head, when back in the day it would have taken five, or eight.

“Yeah, the spirit lives on,” I lie to this ghost from my past sitting alone in the bar without any hope of a date.

“Another pint?” the zombie asks, but I don’t hesitate with the well, it’s getting late, been nice to catch up, thanking God for boring suburbs, wife and kids, the nine to five.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He has had short stories published in various genres in Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly,, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.


Public Poems Built On Public Property

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Public poems built on public property are, as they say, asking for it. When you use such flimsy bread, eating away at holy Wonder until such thinly-sliced letters remain, every one meant to be swallowed, not whispered; when you hold them down with found rocks in a stream that is not a stream, just a concrete ditch void of the hand of God; when you slip out the window in the night like a Sufi thief or an idiot child, praying the wrong way, dancing naked, licking vowels in your own nonsense language
don’t expect to get anything

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

After graduating with a BA in English from Vassar College, Brook Bhagat landed her first paid writing job as a reporter for a small-town Colorado newspaper. She left it to travel to India, where she fell in love, got married and canceled her ticket home. She and her husband Gaurav write freelance articles for dozens of publications, including Outpost, Ecoworld, and Little India. In 2013, they launched, which she edits and writes for. She also teaches writing at a community college, is earning her MFA in Writing at Lindenwood University, and is writing a novel.



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

He felt he’d been travelling. Couldn’t be sure. His memory was as misty as the panorama. It looked like Kiev: all those domed churches. How would I know that? The question hung there, unspoken. The answer ignored it.

He looked down at shapely legs and high-heels. What the–

The world spun. Elise was a woman: always had been. The last thing she remembered was the headache at Lloyds. Oh God…work. Did I walk out?

She reached into her handbag. Passport, cash, credit cards…no tickets.

She determined to make a doctor’s appointment the minute she got home.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid