Posts Tagged ‘Grass’
Aug
Permission Slips
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The night sky was red and the grass was a deep green. Kerrin and Jobe were walking.
“I just wish she would forgive me. I feel awful,” Jobe said.
“You guys have been divorced three years?” Kerrin asked.
“Yeah, I feel terrible when I see her. I shouldn’t have cheated.”
“She may never forgive you,” Kerrin said. She squeezed his hand.
“I know.”
“Do you need permission to forgive yourself?” Kerrin asked.
“I don’t, no.” Jobe smiled and took an old slip from his pocket and trashed it.
“People have trouble forgiving but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”
From Guest Contributor Steve Colori
May
The Warrior’s Path
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The warrior sharpened his sword every day by slicing individual strands of grass. He started in the front of his house and worked his way, patch by patch, blade by blade, towards the back. When he finished the last corner, the grass in front had grown long again. Without pausing, he would get to his feet and return to the starting point, ready to start over.
In this way, his weapon remained sharp, always ready to draw blood. And in this way, time had nothing with which to compare itself to and became lost.
Such is the path to immortality.
Apr
Ireland’s Descent
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Niamh clambered down the rocks, grasping grass to ensure balance. Her eyes widened with adoration each time she peered over her shoulder espying tides crashing carelessly against bustling coral. To others it was an empty beach clinging to the base of Irish pastures, but to Niamh her struggle over the roughened pebbles opened the gates of Eden.
Her lens captured what she saw; pulsating amber beasts clinging to years of compressed life, silvery fish darting around with grand families and crabs working hard, hunting. Emerald weeds flowed through natural pools capturing the life of the sun. Images she trapped forever.
From Guest Contributor Kerry Kelly
Mar
The Postcard
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I sit in the beaming sunlight reading Tim’s postcard from France repeatedly.
“Callie, I met a beautiful French woman and we’re in love. I’m not coming home.”
My sweat drips onto the postcard leaving smudge marks. How could he do this to me? I’m so aghast, I throw the postcard on the grass and my dog Bentley whimpers as I kick the lawn chair across the yard, hitting the neighbor’s fence.
“Hey, watch it, Callie! You’ll break my fence,” Charlie yells.
Before I have a chance to answer, I look at the postcard and chortle. It’s full of bird excrement.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Jan
Colony Collapse
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Hands full of bees, Alice screamed at the sky. Sitting in the grass, blades tickled her thighs. Bee by bee, Alice lined them up. “I’m sorry,” said the speaker at a funeral attended only by the dead.
Maybe she shouldn’t have quit work. Never built an apiary. Would’ve been better joining a gym. Cooking. Reading books that lived in corners of her home. Would’ve been better to speak what he said in the elevator, his voice curling green, twisting to lick her ears.
Alice lay down, tears falling into her hair. She didn’t want the bees to see her cry.
From Guest Contributor Michaela Papa
Jun
Mutant Frogs
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“The grandkids found albino frogs again,” he said.
“We can see them much better on the grass when they’re white,” they told him.
But they had found two more the week before, and he worried that the pesticides he had used had drifted into the pond and caused mutations. His wife wasn’t listening; she was trying to figure out why there were two small dents in the flour in the canister just like last week.
The children herded the frogs to the edge of the pond. Where each splashed into the pond, a small, white circle floated on the water.
From Guest Contributor Diane de Anda
May
Nothing To Spare
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Yours? Mine? Arguments. Ideologies differ. Attempt to build bridge between us. Links missing. Structure collapses. Earth? Water? No collaboration. Excuses made. Stubbornness. Misunderstandings. Light? Dark? We try meeting at middle ground. Concluding we can’t agree. Not in thought, time or space. Coffee’s gone cold. I mind. He doesn’t. Ketchup smeared on fridge door. I wipe off. Mustard appears. Grass is greener over there, he says. I don’t care. I prefer wildflowers. He repaints the scene with concrete. I’m younger, by two years exact. Can hardly wait for… Brother leaves for college. Forgets his toothbrush. I throw it into his room.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.
Dec
Best In Show
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Charlie’s Shih-Tzu Bucky ran across the lawn fetching his favorite blue ball. He chewed and pawed at it for a few minutes and then brought it back to Charlie to throw again. Charlie threw it farther this time and Bucky ran faster as the ball rolled across the grass almost hitting the maple tree. Again, Bucky played with it and brought it back to Charlie. This time Charlie didn’t throw the ball. He placed it on the ground to see what Bucky would do. Bucky looked up at Charlie, looked at the ball laying on the ground and walked away.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Dec
Cicadas
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Gary’s gasping two-hand tap against the wall earned second place in the breaststroke. Pete had less time to breathe.
First in the butterfly – their final high school triumph shared.
Later, they met in the shower. Whispers were overpowered by streaming water.
Gary’s kiss goodbye burned as a beloved’s should.
“You’re sure? My heart…so damn broken.” A lump choked his every word.
“Me, too.” Gary held him. “But we’ll be one thousand miles apart.”
Later, Pete laid in the tall grass behind the aquatic center. Silver-voiced male cicadas polished their mating song in desperation, chanting for a miracle.
From Guest Contributor Embe Charpentier
Nov
Rain Vigil
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Worn wooden arms hold me as I rock in my grandma’s rocking chair on the front porch of her old house. My grandma’s quilt keeps me warm in the cool fall air. It’s the first day it hasn’t rained in weeks. A mist of water rises over the treetops, and the grass is wet. I can’t stay here long. The house is already sold. All the rooms are empty. All that’s left is the rocking chair, the quilt, and me. I’ve kept vigil with the sorrowing rain. I pack up these last moments, get behind the wheel, and drive away.
From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson
Tyrean is a writer, daydreamer, and believer at http://tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com