Posts Tagged ‘Guest Contributor’
Apr
Warmth
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Kathy’s headstone was weather beaten. I hadn’t been to the grave site in years and the memory of her death hit me all over again.
“Keith, he’s heading straight toward us!” Kathy screamed and then all went dark.
A drunk driver hit us head on. I was hospitalized for eight months in a coma and my wife died on impact. I was left to take care of our young son by myself.
I leaned close and placed the red roses next to her name on the stone. “I miss you, Kathy.”
A sudden warmth ran up and down my spine.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Apr
The Boat
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Queenie was a friend of mine. I went to visit one weekend. Her husband was there but I didn’t get to see him much because he was “busy working on the boat.”
He was working in the garden. I went out to say hello but he was silent and went on with the work.
We had a meal, just the two of us. Queenie was used to dining alone.
When we heard that the boat had sunk on its first voyage, there was a certain amount of hilarity. He had escaped with his life. The devil looks after his own.
From Guest Contributor Derek McMillan
Derek is the writer of “Murder from Beyond the Grave” available on eBay.
Mar
The Bed One Lies In
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Brother declared himself ‘nonconformist,’ deciding back in grade school that rules and rituals mattered not.
Many blamed him in situations for his lack of respect. He claimed he simply had no interest.
The breaking point was the forging of Dad’s signature on a cheque. Mother decided on a punishment.
“You have to lie in the bed you made,” she grunted.
“I never make my bed,” he grinned.
He broke the curfew, not returning on time. In the morning it was learned he crashed his motorcycle into a cement wall.
Mother stopped making his bed. No one slept in it again.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes mainly short fiction and poetry.
Mar
The Antiques Show
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Excuse me, do you work here?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I would like some information.”
“How can I help you?”
“What are these?”
“Drumsticks.”
“I mean, why are these five times more expensive than new ones? This is a second-hand store, no?”
“Ah! That’s because Led Zeppelin’s Jon Bonham used these sticks while recording ‘Stairway to Heaven’.”
“If I understand correctly, this is actually a bargain…”
“I think so too.”
“Can you pack them for me?”
“Of course. But if you have a moment, I also have the guitar pick here somewhere Jimi Hendrix played with at Woodstock.”
“Do you really?”
From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys
Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.
Mar
The Choice
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
When the bombs exploded, I veered the plane sideways.
My men yelled we should vacate, but I had to make the destination point.
As the men jumped one by one until I was the only one left, shots hit the fuel tank, and I had no choice.
I said a prayer, left my station and vaulted out into the sky.
In the distance, I heard an explosion and flames filled the air.
I heaved a sigh of relief when I landed safely on solid ground, until footsteps approached, and guns were aimed at my chest.
I landed on enemy territory.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Mar
The Rose
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
That vibrant scarlet striking against the snow like a bell ringer striking a bell, reverberating through your body, taking up your entire being. She entices me with her beauty, but her thorns tell me not to touch. The wind sings and she dances with grace. Her perfume is like the smell of the green earth that reminds you you’re alive. I love her beauty, I love her fragrance, I love her grace. I would like to take her to my wife. If she could see this rose the way I see it, then she’d understand the way I see her.
From Guest Contributor Kyla Syner
Mar
Death Is The Last Frontier In The Simulator
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
To be stuck in a simulator of the gateway project is weird, to say the least. How do I know I am not alive? I watch as people die and come back to life. Meaning? Bob Barker. I assure you he died several times. MeatLoaf in 2014 wrecked his car, killing him only for him to die again elsewhere. Maybe death is not what one would expect.
Maybe consciousness continues until it meets an ending in some sort of programmed book outcome. The book of Enoch might be truth. We all live until our own personalized ending of hell fire.
From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle
Mar
The Cemetery Of Buried Feelings
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I would pretend to be sleeping when he flipped on the light in my room. He would loom over me until my eyes opened. The walls would seem to lean in. Fear would distort my breathing. If I tried to scoot away, he would grab me by the arm and drag me back and crack me across the face with the flat of his hand. He was buried on a cold Sunday next to my mother. Some thirty people, mostly family, attended. It began to snow as stood at the graveside. He had finally found a solution to his loneliness.
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.
Mar
The Lie
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I hung up the phone and ten minutes later the doorbell rang. I peeked through the blinds, and it was James. I’d told him I didn’t want to see him anymore and he was on the stoop, holding a bouquet of red roses.
He lied to me, and flowers wouldn’t make it better.
My head ached and I was exhausted from stress. I looked out again and he was sitting on the step now. Good, let him wait, I thought.
I shut the lights, went upstairs, and made myself a hot bath. Soon after, I heard his car screech away.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Mar
Breaking The Rules
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I before E except after C, unless I’m seeing too much ceiling from under my eiderdown. I turn my eyes in disbelief to my neighbor Keith, who at this moment is receiving eight heifers of various heights and weight. Having been neither seized in some heist nor had any profits forfeited, they are feisty beasts. A brawn of weightlifters, beings made of veiled skeins of protein, caffeine and bulging veins, takes them away, no receipts involved. Afterward, the men reign over steins of beer at their leisure. Weird that it should be so hard to relieve the stress of thievery.
From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell