Posts Tagged ‘Kitchen’


Caramel Sauce

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

“Sweet,” Dad said, licking his lips.

“Different,” Mom added.

We were seated in the dining room for Thanksgiving dinner. My
sixteen-year-old brother wanted to showcase the skills he had mastered
in a culinary arts course.

“Wait!” he exclaimed.

The rest of us watched him taste the meal before him. An expression of
bewilderment spread across his face. He ran back to the kitchen and

“I emptied out the wrong pot,” he conceded. ‘The caramel sauce was
meant for apple cake.”

“So what is left for the cake now?” Dad asked while Mom and I
refrained from laughing.

“Turkey gravy.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.


The Mouse

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Robert and Rebecca arrived home to find a dead mouse on their kitchen floor.

It was an old building, so Rebecca was not surprised there would be rodents. Rather than being grossed out, she began reflecting on her own mortality, wondering if she were better or worse off than the mouse for having knowledge of her impending oblivion. It was a thought that often kept her up late into the night, as she listened to Robert’s light snoring and choked back tears.

Robert could only think about the mess that must have attracted the mouse, and began a thorough cleaning.


The Cost Of War

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Grace paced the kitchen while her six-year-old daughter, Sophia, watched curiously. Sophia had bright blue eyes like her father. When would the war end? Grace thought. It had been two months and she hadn’t heard a word from Charles. All she could do to occupy her time was read and take care of Sophia.

Several months later Grace’s doorbell rang. She grabbed her robe and ran downstairs.

It was a military gentleman.

“Are you the wife of Charles McCormick?”

“Yes,” she answered, eyes closed.

“I’m sorry, but your husband died in an explosion.”

Grace collapsed to her knees and wept.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher


Yellow Rose

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

She stood in the kitchen, surrounded by packed boxes. The yellow rose lay wilting on the coffee table; a reminder of the stunning events of the past several days. In flower parlance, yellow roses ask for forgiveness. She knew her marriage was in trouble when her husband turned up with a sheepish look on his face and a yellow rose in his gloved hand. Now it wilted on the table, a ridiculously anti-romantic symbol of their once healthy and robust relationship. He had moved in with the dog trainer and she was left feeling as faded as the damned flower.

From Guest Contributor JoAnne Dowd


Song Service

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

It’s seven in the morning. I’m supposed to be at Songshan Church in Taipei teaching a small Sabbath-School group at nine. But I’m sitting in my kitchen hot boxing a cigarette. Mitigating the queasiness from last night’s escape: a single malt Speyside scotch accompanied by Mozart’s Requiem.

Blazing summer humid heat even at this hour. Should I shower? Will they smell the booze and tobacco on me?

A two-hour train ride later and I find myself up in front of all of the congregants. Ambushed into leading out in song service. The sweat oozes and I wonder if they know.

From Guest Contributor Robert Vogt

Robert worked as a custodian for a number of years until switching to EFL educator after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. Changing from manual laborer to educator caused Vogt much regret though he has reaped manifold benefits from the career change. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Degenerate Literature, Horror, Sleaze and Trash, Outlaw Poetry, and Unlost Journal. Vogt is chief editor at White Liquor.


End Of The Line

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Grace ran her finger over the word.


She over-pronounced each syllable. The word crashed off her computer’s screen. The “t” chipped the floor with its hook. The “e” cracked the tile, and the rest of the letters tumbled into the void.

“Didn’t tell me in person.” The night beacon, bedroom clock blinked 11:15.

In her unkempt kitchen, she knelt beside the sink. Ants crawled, a living chain of perfect order. They bypassed her bait. Scouts explored on. Workers followed trails through the cracks. But in the hive, the queen risked nothing.

Life balanced on the pinhole of a hilltop.

From Guest Contributor Embe Charpentier


Try Again

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

He buys a supermarket flower bouquet and, pecking her cheek, gives it to his wife in the kitchen. She throws it in the trash can after he goes to work the next morning. Again. He buys white roses from the subway exit vendor, and gives them, with a hug, to his wife in the living room. Into the trash can after he goes to work. Again. He gives a pink potted orchid, expectantly, to his wife in the dining room. The orchid sits on a bedroom table the next morning when the wife lies in bed with the trash collector.

From Guest Contributor Gerald Kamens


The Cookie Jar

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Leon sat across the kitchen table, gulping down instant coffee and looking everywhere but at Jaclyn. He was late for work, again, and spoke of nothing else. The toaster pinged and he bustled away.

She felt that their love was like a cookie jar. At first it was full of unexpected treats: crumbly sweetness with sticky jam fillings, dark chocolate coated crunchy goodness, and much, much more.

Now she felt that if she turned the jar upside down and shook it, there might be a few crumbs in there. But it would be too much effort for too little return.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement


What We Might Deserve

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The snarling saw cuts off and the groaning fir drunk on gravity takes its first step. A full ocean is born in the soughing fall and over four centuries whumps the earth like a five-dollar moll on a sprung stained mattress. And you stand there, hands numb and belly tight and you wonder why something so old saves its final words for someone like you. Someone who knows the glass bite of gin straight from the bottle while slouched at the tilt kitchen table as rain plunks a pan on the floor near the hot squat stove in the corner.

From Guest Contributor Casey Hampton


House Hunting

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The realtor pushed the door open. “Will your wife be joining us?”

“Don’t worry about her. Does it have everything I asked for?”

“I believe it does.”

“Which way to the basement?”

She led him through the kitchen. “This is it.”

He flipped on the light and peered down into the dark dank hole. “Uh huh,” he said as he disappeared down the stairs. The realtor followed down behind him.

It was the worst sort of basement, dark corners, only one sliver of a window, musty, dead.

He toed the dirt floor and it gave way under his boot. “Sold.”

From Guest Contributor Darci McIntyre