Posts Tagged ‘Past’
Nov
Memories
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
My grandmother tells me not to forget where she is. But she’s forgotten who I am. Would it matter if I was back soon like I told her I would be? Am I even a part of her fragmented memory? She lit up when she saw me (but she could have just craved company). The nurses have to be her companions now. The granddaughter role in her life doesn’t exist anymore. Are you a granddaughter still when your grandmother doesn’t know your name? Face? My grandmother lives in the past now but not the past I am a part of.
From Guest Contributor Olivia Bond
Mar
Tales Of Quantum
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Solomon’s statement. Everything under the sun has been done. I did not believe it to the extent I do now. Meaning? Future, present and past all happen at the same time if the latest quantum hypothesis is real. Meaning? If you spin a reality fast enough with distance enough, it can live, die several times while the reality that spun that reality up. Well, they watch it to see the good, the bad, and the ugly of those souls trapped in their paradise turned into a hell. Say what? Earth is paradise until those in it turn it to hell.
From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle
Jan
Welcome To Chez Yesterday
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
We step into the past, warm and bright, light up a Lucky and slip into the booth by the window with its posh leather seats, its black and white glossies on the walls: Sinatra, Sammy, Bogey and Bacall. We say, Let’s have the T-bone rare, please, the baked potato, loaded, and that wonderful Caesar salad tossed tableside. While outside, mayhem on the march. Throngs chanting, flags unfurled in a cold rain, and darkness soon to settle in. While we sit, sipping Manhattans, cozy in our denial, where dinner will soon be served, and there’s Sinatra piped in, singing “My Way.”
From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe
Linda’s stories and poems have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, BOMBFIRE, Misfit Magazine, Outlook Springs, and others.
Jul
Relic
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
They found the capsule buried in the desert. Its outer shell consisted of some unknown material, a shiny metal that was alien in origin. Opening it with their bare hands proved impossible and smashing it against the rocks barely left a scratch.
Many theories arose as to where the container came from. Perhaps it was a message from the stars. One wiseman hypothesized it was a relic from the distant past. The future seemed more likely.
When they finally pried the lid off, the language seemed familiar but the words were largely unintelligible:
Crispus Attucks Elementary School Class of ‘25.
May
Perspectives
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
In the past, they described Michael as an “introvert” and “sensitive.” They said he was “different, but he’s harmless.” “He’s a good kid, just a little shy.”
Today, they said he’s a “loner” and is “withdrawn.” “I knew something was wrong with that kid. “He had no friends at school and never seemed to want any friends. He sat and ate alone in the cafeteria.” “Sometimes other kids teased and made fun of Michael.”
The headline read: Michael Stocktan, age 19, entered Morris High School with his dad’s handgun and shot 19 students and a teacher. Three are critically wounded.
From Guest Contributor David W. Cofer
Oct
Alice Falls For A Killer
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
She surmises blood stains under everything. His skin is cracked like hard dirt in a barren winter. “You could use baby oil,” she says. Later, they share a half-gallon of chocolate chip ice cream, her treat. They always meet by the railroad tracks because of his love of trains and exit signs. He speaks in fragments, and she imagines his past is dammed up, full of unexplained absences. She wants to show him her breasts under the moonlight. She wants to hear him whistle so shrilly it will puncture the dark. Then, the darkness will erase the both of them.
From Guest Contributor Kyle Hemmings
Apr
Dream Beach
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
He walked along the beach he’d frequented as a child in holidays long ago.
“All those years,” he thought, “and my life has had as much significance as a grain of sand on this shore!”
“Even my memories are fading,” he reflected, as the past receded ever further year on year.
“My senses too are dulled. The sights and sounds of the sea are not as vivid as before.”
Hearing the mesmerizing cadence of the waves he felt he was walking in a dream.
Yes, it would soon be time for his return to the dust from whence he came.
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
Oct
The Bundle
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
He’d always seen the precious bundle as his passport to validation, his means to assuage all the failures of the past. He sought to learn from the wisdom of its sometimes harsh words. It was only two years old, light enough yet to cradle in his arms until he fell asleep in his chair, teary-eyed, yet hopeful.
Each morning there would be either little to feed it, or surfeit enough for an unsightly spurt of growth. It all depended on the postman.
A particularly cruel epithet from an envelope’s maw tipped the scales.
The bundle helps the dry leaves burn.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
Feb
The Mirror
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The crack begins in the center of the mirror, spreads out, and creates four distinct sections. Each one reflects a different period of his life: childhood, young adult, middle age, old age. He sees the past and the future all at once. Like the mirror, he is shattered, torn in different directions. He has regrets, sure, but he wouldn’t be where he is today without those regrets and where he is isn’t so bad. Still, what if he could do it all over again? He reaches out and falls into the mirror and finds himself back at the beginning again.
From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten
Oct
I’ll Stay
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I’ll stay.
I never did see their faces when they grabbed, raped, and beat me. Nor when they left me for dead in the canal not far from home.
A delusional hermit fished me out – tended to me in his old gardening shed they used to give coal miners. He called me daughter. His tenderness and doting seemed true.
It’s been two years – he is my Dad. And I his Isabella. A cozy shed-home for two.
But now shades of my past have begun flickering through the fog. I had been Anne. An orphaned young prostitute. Alone.
Isabella was lucky.
From Guest Contributor Nicolle Browne-Jamet