Posts Tagged ‘Mother’



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

“Not healthy,” Jan whispered to her surviving brother, peering into the darkened parlour where her mother sat, eyes fixed on the flickering screen of Brian’s cracked Smartphone.

Tom lifted and dropped his shoulders helplessly and returned to the closed-coffin wake in the other room.

Jan herself had only been able to watch the footage once: the glee of Brian hanging from a spar changing to terror as his grip had slipped.

The phone had been lucky enough to fall back onto the bridge.

Jan stared as her mother hit replay again. She’d even stopped sobbing.

“Friggin’ selfie generation,” she muttered.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

After his mother, it was his wife’s turn to chide him for his lethargy. Only a few of his good friends knew him to be a perfectionist. ‘You take a year to complete a chore’ was the common refrain muttered by his wife. His sweet talk on any given day always ended in a tiff. His wife, who envied the life of a butterfly, was fed up with him.

Unfortunately, he died suddenly of a heart attack.

A year later, in a drunken brawl, certain words slipped from two men, which led to the arrest of his wife for murder.

From Guest Contributor Thriveni C. Mysore


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



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

In the weeks after her mother died, Pamela had no skin. Everything was surface—every twitching nerve, every gush of bile. When Creepy Carl told her to smile as he dropped off his rent check, her lips peeled back to the bone.

At home, she told Ben: I know about the girl you’ve been fucking for the last four months. Your intern. In our God damn bed.

Come on, baby, he said, it wasn’t like that.

But it was. She wouldn’t have her raw insides sheathed in lies. She slept in the guest room, on top of the blankets, oozing resentment.

From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook

Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.


At The Lake

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Sitting in the sun with her friends at the lake, she hoped for Cannon Stevens to notice her, she hoped her mother wouldn’t notice her tan line, and she hoped she didn’t get burned.

Water hit her legs and she jumped up and ran towards Cannon who stood laughing in the shallows. Scooping water up with her hands, she splashed him and he grabbed her hands, his laugh turning into a silly grin.

That night, her mom flipped, “Bikini lines! Not on my daughter!”

Aloe couldn’t heal the cigarette burns on her stomach.

The lake water and Cannon’s touch did.

From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a daydreamer, believer, and writer who lives in the Northwest.



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

It had been three years since Lea admitted her mother into the nursing home for Alzheimer patients. Sometimes she knew Lea and sometimes she was just a stranger visiting.

“Mom, wouldn’t you like to get some fresh air outside. Let me take you for a walk.” Lea pushed the wheelchair to the door.

“Where is my daughter? I don’t know you!” She struggled to break free from her wheelchair.

“I’m your daughter. It’s me, Lea.”

The nurse came in and helped Lea’s mother back into bed.

“I raised a nice girl.” Lea’s mother said.

It wasn’t Lea she spoke of.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher


The Untimely Demise Of A Teenage Rebellion

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Heather relaxed into the sofa. The best word to describe her sessions with Dr. Goldstein was therapeutic. She especially took pleasure in the way her stories shocked the old man.

Today, she was relating a particularly scandalous dream, one involving a milkman and a silk robe.

“I must interrupt, Heather. Isn’t a milkman rather anachronistic for a teenager’s dream?”

Heather tried piecing together an explanation that involved vintage reruns, but it eventually unraveled. Still, the umbrage her therapist took when he learned Heather had been sharing entries from her mother’s diary all along made up for her deception’s untimely demise.



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Combined their ages were 106; they decided to celebrate their birthdays straight after her youngest sister’s wedding in May. They would drive from Boca Grande, Florida all the way to Tampa and hop the first flight to London available. Only a few would be privy to their plan. The mother of the bride and her eldest daughter, whom many despised. They would celebrate the sixties and the end of thirties with the same trials and failures that they marked the twenties, fifties, forties, and tens. The zeros were so distant; neither woman could remember them. “Happy 106, us,” they smirked.

From Guest Contributor E.B. Morrison


The True Meaning Of Christmas

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Three-year-old Hannah placed a reindeer ornament on the Christmas tree while her mother put on the sparkling red star topper. The tree with its colorful lights lit up the room.

Hannah’s mother admired its beauty. “Your father will be very surprised.”

“Do you think Santa will bring me everything I asked for?” Hannah danced in a circle.

“Presents aren’t the true meaning of Christmas. We celebrate the birth of baby Jesus.”

Hannah didn’t quite understand, but picked up the baby Jesus from the manger.

“Mom can we buy Jesus a present for Christmas?”

Hannah’s mother touched her face and smiled.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

She walked along the deserted beach, cold wet sand hard underfoot, leaving her well-formed arch, her heavy heel dug-in tight, her human track. She scanned the choppy grey ocean, a seagull skimming along ready to dive. Looking ahead, an outcropping of massive black boulders stumbled together into a makeshift Henry Moore sculpture. The solid blocks of granite, columnar or reclining, soft-edged or angular, were reminiscent of her mother. The stoic strength, the impermeability, the dense solid weight of judgement. She had framed her adult life accordingly, with a negative imperative: I will not be like my mother.​

From Guest Contributor Holiday Goldfarb