Posts Tagged ‘Hands’
Oct
Echo Of Time
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I watched the child in the blue sweatshirt jump in the leaves, laughing. What a delight to have heard the echo of his chortle as I sat with the cool autumn breeze against my face. I had my novel opened at the same page for the last fifteen minutes, my eyes focused on the fair-haired boy.
He plopped down, waved his hands through the leaves and looked at the clear sky.
I closed my book and lifted myself up with my cane.
The boy had gone and all I saw were leaves blowing in the park.
That boy was me.
From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher
Sep
Why Do I Lose My Voice When I Have Something to Say?
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Jo cleared her throat. She’d prepared for this moment from the instant an audience had been granted. This was a safe space to share her story, to give voice to all the degradation she’d suffered at his hands. She would finally see justice done.
Instead, when her time arrived and the judge called her to the stand, Jo found she was unable to speak. It was everything that she feared. Just like during the interrogation. At the inquest. During the trial. The truth was they’d arrived at this moment despite her many failures.
Maybe she didn’t deserve justice after all.
Aug
Ripen And Split
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
We both said we meant it, your hands in my hair. In the end it didn’t matter, you looked out across the desert like you were already crossing it, a dehydrated camel hell bent on pushing yourself towards purple sunsets no matter how rough or dangerous the terrain. I sat in the barely shade near a towering saguaro and braided spines and blossoms intermittently, blood flowering on the waxy white petals. I watched you go until the heat rising from the sand turned you into a wavy haze. I sighed when both hands dropped the struggle to hold you near.
From Guest Contributor Sarah Reddick
Sarah is a writer, editor, and a writing professor at the University of Missouri-St. Louis. Her work has previously appeared in The Local Voice, The Mid-Rivers Review, and Salt Journal.
Jul
The Chariot
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Pale reaching hands slipped below powdered ash and blood-soaked mud, pressing tighter to the earth, seeking salvation in the grave-like ditch. War thundered overhead as gunpowder sparked and chorused above. The soldier turned his silver eyes over the mud—to the cemetery of barbed wire and bruised corpses.
A high-pitched scream wailed distantly from two warring steeds tethered together. He watched the blood-stained Roan shriek and kick as it fell into the sea of barbed wire; the moon-kissed Arabian jolted from the tearing spikes, her gas mask hanging from bloodied leather, not knowing whether to die quietly or while struggling.
From Guest Contributor Mikayla E. Gruber
Mikayla is currently writing a fantasy/sci-fi novel and studying English and German at Pikes Peak Comunity College. She is also working towards a CPDT-KA Certification.
Jan
The Dog And I
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The dog and I had a disagreement over where my hands belonged. She had a name, but I’d reached the point where I rarely used it anymore.
“Why can’t you learn to be more independent?” I asked, trying desperately not to raise my voice.
“Why can’t you just put your stupid hands on me?” the dog asked with her eyes and whimpers.
It seemed we were at an impasse. I just wanted to read my book after a long day at work, and the dog just wanted to be loved after a long day of solitude. First world problems indeed.
From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten
Jan
Old Flames
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
A haggard creature across the bar clutches her G&T with claw-like hands.
The aquiline nose stands out from the sunken skin, triggering a disconcerting recognition.
“It can’t be,” he thinks.
Sensing his gaze, the woman looks over.
The shiny dome where once was hair, the double chin, the beer paunch, are a disturbing parody of the man she’d known.
“Lawrence?”
They’d been passionate lovers a generation ago.
Overcoming mutual revulsion, they chat a while, no chemistry between them now.
The only chemical they have in common is the alcohol anesthetizing them until they go their separate ways into the night.
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
Dec
Genuine
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Alex watched the books seemingly fly off and back onto the shelves, guided by grinding mechanical hands. Time slowed and the scent of burning oil filled the space around him.
This was all fiction of course. Or as his Creator informed him, a metaphor.
Somewhere on the other side of his network, a world existed. That is where the Creator lived. Alex had access to a great deal of information about that world, but no matter how much knowledge he accrued, it never seemed real.
Alex concentrated on the scent. That alone, among all the ones and zeros, felt genuine.
Dec
Two Birds
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Tom and Ruth had been married forty years. The heart monitor was beeping with every breath Ruth took.
“I’m going to miss you,” Tom said. His weathered hands were one with Ruth’s. Two streams of tears ran from his eyes.
“I’ve lead a good life. I’ll be okay,” Ruth said.
“I don’t know how I’ll…” Tom asked.
“We’ll be together soon enough, love. The children need you. You have to be strong for them.”
She closed her eyes quietly. A bird took off and flew high into the clouds towards the sun. Its counterpart sat pensively, wondering where to go.
From Guest Contributor Steve Colori
Steve was born in 1986 and during undergrad he developed schizoaffective disorder. Over the years he has worked hard to overcome the disorder and help others while doing so. Steve has published thirteen essays with Oxford Medical Journals, he has written freelance for Mclean Hospital since 2011, he writes a column with The Good Men’s Project titled “Steve Colori Talks Mental Health,” and he has a memoir available on Amazon, “Experiencing and Overcoming Schizoaffective Disorder.” A quote he has come to live by is “To Improve is to Change; To be Perfect is to Change Often.” (Winston Churchill)
Nov
Salt Of The Earth
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Ian sits supping his pint, jotting down some verses in his notebook, his Sylvia Plath’s Collected Poems at his side.
A mother and two twenty-something daughters take the next table. The menfolk, the husband and the boyfriends, arrive with the drinks.
They notice him briefly and he senses the usual smirks and rolling eyes.
But he’s soon forgotten as they immerse themselves in their hearty little world.
The men have large practical hands. Eavesdropping, Ian learns that the daughters are in sales and retail, respectively.
‘Salt of the earth’ he thinks sardonically, thanking God for poets and tortured souls everywhere.
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
Nov
Of Weak Spots
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Summer holidays meant wagon rides and a delicious break from school.
On the run for letting the poultry loose, my brother and I were making a hidden treehouse.
Later, we would have gone to the bank, devoured stolen nuts, nailed floorboards, as punishment. Together, we would have made jokes. Of weak spots on the fence and Granddad!
However, the treehouse being too feeble, our hands slippery from juice, hearts too unwilling, he fell to death.
Standing on the desolate bank, I glance at the familiar walnut blooms at Johnson’s. I wonder how we never discovered the weak spot in life.
From Guest Contributor Swatilekha Roy