Posts Tagged ‘Hair’
Jun
Creation
by thegooddoctor in Uncategorized
The painting of the woman holding a baby close, swaddled in a white blanket, is meticulous. Her long unkempt hair is covering her face, and a man leaning over has his hands gently placed on each of her shoulders. The mother’s tear drop gives off a somber scene; however, the colorful blue background breaks the bleakness.
“Sarah, this sullen painting, even with blue in the background, isn’t joyful as I instructed.”
“It is.”
“Explain.”
“If my brother hadn’t been still born, I wouldn’t have been created.
Sarah packed her supplies and, satisfied, left the room with a sensation of stares.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Apr
Old Fire Station – Berlin – March 20, 1939
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:
Removing his peaked cap, Gerhard runs his hand thru his fair, slicked-back hair. He is only a soldier: molded by the Nazi party. He isn’t a person just something to enforce Chancellor Hitler’s government. This time though, the instructions come from Joseph Goebbel. Anything marked with an X gets no mercy.
Gerhard stares into the inferno that devours the art dubbed degenerate. The canvases feeds the blaze, bubbles, and burns: turning into searing embers that fade to ash. He never understood art. The only thing he knows is everything burns. No matter the color, vibrancy, culture, religion.
We’ll all burn!
From Guest Contributor McKenzie A. Frey
Jan
Dinner Time
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Sam sat, crossed his hands over his chest, and sighed.
“Baked chicken, boiled potatoes, and string beans. Really, Mom?”
“You know the doctor wants you to eat healthy,” she answered, filling his dish.
Sam swallowed a piece of chicken and it was like a rock had hit his stomach. He missed the crispy taste of fried, juicy white meat.
“String bean pie for dessert,” he chuckled and noticed a hair on his dish.
Sam removed his hat and a clump of his hair fell on the table.
“Does this mean the radiation is working?”
His mother gasped at the sight.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Dec
Names
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Mihir let us call our daughter Roja or else Shahad?”
I am now being dragged by my hair through the courtyard, then the terracotta floor of hanuman mandir, the broken scalps of which kept poking my menstrual pad. Crying hysterically, I pleaded “Only Hindu names from now. No Muslim.”
Nani, plastering dung cakes for the winter, Raja beta biting nails in anticipation, and Mantu my sister-in-law licking her middle finger out of the pickle jar as Mihir unburdened his hands off my hair with a thundering jolt of Indra.
Later, men smoking bidi took my bleeding body to Shamshan Ghat.
From Guest Contributor Noya Nirriti
Aug
Young Love
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Elsie opens the window and the warm breeze enters the room. She sits next to William holding his hand, remembering.
“It’s a beautiful spring day. It reminds me of our first picnic in the park. After eating and talking for hours, you finally leaned my head back, kissed me and wrapped your hands gently around my waist. Your lips were soft and tasted of salt from the chips.” Elsie brushes William’s hair behind his ear. “I can’t believe that has only been a year ago.”
Elsie’s eyes begin to water, and she wonders why dementia has taken her young love.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Jul
The Goddess Becomes
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
It was a pleasure to burn. Of the eight, it was my most beautiful arm: the hillside slope of the shoulder, the tender elbow, that lilting wrist, narrow yet invincible. Had he seen it in the dance, or still in his Sistine posture, even Michelangelo would have known God is a woman.
The downy hair went up first, and then the skin, the perfect fingernails, the sizzling fat and muscle. There is always a relaxation in admitting the truth, even a truth that smells like sulfur and charcoal: I am the flames as much as I was ever the arm.
From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat
Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, MoonPark Review, Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat’s Ass Review, Peacock Journal, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. In 2013, she and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, teaches poetry and creative writing at a community college, and is writing a novel. See more at www.brook-bhagat.com or reach her on Twitter at @BrookBhagat.
Jul
She Looked On The Bright Side
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Going to the wedding, are you?” The SuperValu cashier jigged the question as the wiry woman with blowzy white hair fished coins from her purse for the crossword lotto cards lying on the counter. “Here you go, exactly.” She plunked the coins down and scooped up her cards. “Hope you’re a winner. Spelling games are my pet picks,” quipped the cashier. “Yes, I deserve a good spell; even though these daily lotto spoil everything. I’ll be back in a short bit to bet on today’s talk of the town. I have a hunch the odds are running in my favor.”
From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa
Nov
Reflection
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I sit by the fireplace in the cabin I rent, sipping steaming tea,
staring at the painting above the mantel.
The woman’s face has a distinct redness to her cheeks and lips. Her deep
brown eyes match the color of her hair which is tied in a bun with one
small red rose tucked behind her left ear, her head tilting ever so
slightly. Her pearl necklace drapes neatly around her neck and she
stands tall, her gown showing off her shapely hips.
There’s no date on the painting or artist signature.
The young woman in the painting is me.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Nov
Sweet Memory
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The girls play hopscotch, the one sister’s hair bounces in rhythm to her skips. She giggles and bends to pick up the rock, balancing her leg in the air. She wins, and they play again and again, until the sky opens, drenching them. Hand in hand they run home with their mouths open tasting rain drops. Entering the house, their mother yells for them to take off their wet sneakers and leave them by the door.
They kick off their sneakers and socks.
In the kitchen there’s the sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies.
Eighty-five-year-old Cindy smiles at the memory.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Oct
My Cannibal Summer
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Hurricane season is upon us. Heat is the agitation of molecules. Today it’s raining, and my car is lonely as an empty swimming pool. Like a lost pilot, I drive myself around and around, although I don’t know where I’m going. All I can hear is black and white noise. Yesterday, I combed my hysterical hair, so I looked like someone based on real events. When I applied for the lifeguard job, I told them I prefer select flesh, and I never let the weather bother me. Was Amelia Earhart’s body ever recovered? I’m pretty sure there is still time.
From Guest Contributor Brad Rose