Posts Tagged ‘Mother’
Jun
Keeping Secrets
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Don’t tell your mother,” whispered Harold, sweeping up porcelain pieces as Jacob walked in.
“Gee, Dad, she’ll explode when she finds out.”
“That’s why I ordered a replacement.”
When the doorbell rang, Carrie raced to the door.
“Did you order anything?” she asked Harold who happened to appear alongside.
“Yes I did,” he mumbled. “I’ll open it in my office, after my next Zoom meeting.”
At dinner, everyone gathered in the dining room. Carrie glanced at the China cabinet.
“Strange,” she uttered. “I’m certain that figurine has blonde hair, not red.”
Jacob turned his head the other way to smile.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.
Jun
The Price Of Love
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The ozone scent of the ocean reminds me how much I have sacrificed to be here: friends, family, home, heritage.
Was it worth it? Most days, yes, but on black days – every step painful – I find myself back before the water.
Mother warned me. But I knew better. “You don’t choose who you fall for.”
“Mark my words, no good came of such a union.”
I brushed it aside – another of her fables.
He is a devoted husband, but he cannot bridge the loneliness.
I lose myself in the roaring of the waves: a world I can no longer enter.
From Guest Contributor Iqbal Hussain
May
Abedabun
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Abedabun weaves baskets while her father makes arrowheads. The sun is warm against her face and she tires of the mundane ritual but does not complain when her father rubs a droplet of sweat from her cheek with affection.
Her mother is by the river collecting herbs, humming in tune with the birds, while her brother and sister collect insects for amusement.
Hiawatha, the finest young man in the tribe, approaches Abedabun and her father with a token of marriage, a deer slung over his broad shoulders.
She stops her work and looks to her father.
Hiawatha’s token is accepted.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
May
One Sentence, A Full Western
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Standing on the corner of the counter of The Silver Dollar Saloon, the only saloon in coal mine village Raccoon’s Crest, whilst drinking his third glass of some nice Kentucky Corn since the gunfight, the outlaw bragged to all those who wanted to hear about his latest so called heroic deed: “The man who will put down Furious Frank isn’t born yet” for the very last time, as if he sensed that at that exact moment the mother of the last man he would ever lay eyes upon, was going into labor to give birth to a now fatherless child.
From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys
Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing whilst recovering from a sports injury. He writes his disturbing fiction generally barefooted and hatless.
Mar
The Silenced
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
She did not say yes.
The silence of more fear than cultural respect was not a sign of consent. The tears on her face at the dawn of her ‘big day’ were not a sign of consent.
The lashes fell upon her, one, two…
She had dreamt of wearing green for her wedding. Red was her mother’s choice.
His voice was loud it silenced her lips.
Ninety-eight or was it already past hundred? She’d later count the scars on her back, looking at her reflection in the broken mirror stained with blood.
She never wanted marriage.
She never wanted this.
From Guest Contributor Anne Silva.
Anne is a student writer from Sri Lanka. She publishes her writing on social media as Poetry of Despair.
You can read them at www.instagram.com/PoetryofDespair.
Mar
A Warning
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The three dice feel like cold teeth in Kate’s hand. She rolls each one separately, as Dorothea instructed. Mumbling, the old fortune teller stares at their placement inside the chalk circle.
Candles flicker on the stone mantle. Kate shifts, sweat dampening her armpits.
“Interesting,” Dorothea mutters.
Suddenly, a sound like beating wings erupts from the fireplace. The candles extinguish and darkness swallows the room.
“Kate!” a familiar voice exclaims. Her mother, murdered exactly three years ago, channels through the fortune teller’s throat.
Kate starts to cry. Somewhere down the hall, a window breaks.
“Run!” her mother screams. “They’ve found you!”
From Guest Contributor Heather Santo
Dec
Forever And Ever
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Love from my heart to yours, always,” Christopher’s mother cooed, cradling his young body.
During adolescence their relationship strengthened. Whenever he lost direction, she made time for him.
Into adulthood, the pattern continued. He didn’t hesitate in seeking her wisdom.
As Christopher strolled on the beach near the home they once shared, something at a distance caught his eye. A polished heart-shaped pebble glistened under the streaming sunshine.
He looked to the deep blueness above, thanking his mother for the gift. Feeling her warmth, after she had left life on earth.
Hearts continued to surface the rest of his life.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.
Dec
Warm Memory
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
A friend says he thinks of Andy Warhol and his pop art when he sees Campbell’s soup cans. But when I see Campbell’s soup cans, I think of my mother.
When younger, I would come home from school on frigid days to the smell of Campbell’s tomato soup, anxious to sit and have the warmth sooth my chilled body.
Now an old man, I still sip Campbell’s soup and remember my mother’s radiance lighting up the room and her deep blue eyes sparkling under the overhead light in our old kitchen. She’s been gone years, but I feel her presence.
From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher
Nov
In Its Own Glory
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Tree looks unwell,” stated Dad.
“When was the last time you watered it, Robbie?” Mother asked their eldest offspring.
“Whoops! I forgot.”
Mother got the watering can out. After days of nurturing, the needles still cascaded to the floor.
“Need to add more decorations,” Dad beamed, holding a box of icicles.
On Christmas Eve they all gathered around the tree to sing carols. Selfies were taken between exclamations of “ooh and aah.”
“Christmas 2020!” exclaimed Mother. “COVID-19 edition.”
Extended family, among them the dearly departed, stared down from their portraits on the wall.
“Grandpa would’ve loved this tree,” said Robbie.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, stuffed animals and many friends.
Sep
The Short-Lived Joys Of Youth
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
When I married at eighteen,
a friend gave us The Joy of Cooking.
My husband, nineteen, turned every page,
looked at every recipe, writing, “Yes!” “Try!”
or (for his mother’s recipes) “No!”
Never thinking of actually cooking something himself.
I wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or flattered,
but the marriage lasted about a year.
When I married at fifty-one,
we compared copies of The Joy of Cooking.
My husband’s was in better repair,
so we gave mine to Goodwill.
He likes cooking, so he does it. I wash the dishes.
It’s been nine years now. We are still married.
From Guest Contributor Cheryl L. Caesar
Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.