Posts Tagged ‘Rain’

22
Jun

Trepidation

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Landslide. Highway closed. Closest motel, five miles back.

The adjoining restaurant was packed. I sat at a table with a couple
and their three high-spirited children. Rain fogged our window.
Someone outdoors fleeted past us.

“Creek flooded road to my cabin,” an elderly gent spoke as we both
exited. “Why are you here?”

I wiped my eyeglasses pretending not to hear. “Can you please walk me
to my room.”

He laughed. “Why, you scared?”

“I saw a prowler earlier.”

He obliged.

Next day’s news revealed that a bear had to be tranquilized on the
grounds, taken back into the woods.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Published
at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words,
Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press),
ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

8
Mar

Rain Day

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

I stare out the window watching the torrents of rain pound the leaves on my maple tree and listen to the ferocious wind hit against the siding of my house. My dog Patty barks and scratches the windowpane. I pull her next to me on the couch and rub her stomach, the only thing that soothes her. Roads are closed due to flooding and I’m stuck at home.

I had an argument with my boss yesterday about not getting enough time off. Now I’m home and bored out of my mind watching the clock.

It’s funny how things turn out.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

26
Jan

Star Wars Fan

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

I bought my movie ticket a week ago, to see Rogue One. Now the day of, a heavy rain storm caused flooding and traffic. I had to make it there. I sat in the car stuck behind honking car horns thinking of last year’s Star Wars film and Princess Leia’s recent death. A tragedy. Okay, the traffic started moving. I had fifteen minutes to get there, park, and buy popcorn.

The parking lot was unusually empty. I found a spot close to the theater. After I ran through puddles, the sign on the door read closed due to inclement weather.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

3
Jan

Window Towards The Barn

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

She consoles the dust for being lonely. The rust for being needy. The rot for becoming unstitched by rain. It is easy to whisper these things on the day of rest. When even birds decline seeding and bees stay inside hives. There was little moving in the sparse outside, save a cat prowling between an empty peach bucket and a splintered fish pole leaned against fence rails, its frayed point vanishing in the tale’s middle.

She sits with tears on her cheek. Cheek on her hand. Pinkie finger tracing glass. Watching her three level acres all forlorn, infertile, sour, outworn.

From Guest Contributor Catherine Moore

Catherine is the author of three chapbooks including “Wetlands” (Dancing Girl Press, 2016). Her fiction appears in Tahoma Literary Review, Illinois Wesleyan University Press, Tishman Review, Mid-American Review, and The Best Small Fictions of 2015 anthology.

11
Nov

Rain Vigil

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Worn wooden arms hold me as I rock in my grandma’s rocking chair on the front porch of her old house. My grandma’s quilt keeps me warm in the cool fall air. It’s the first day it hasn’t rained in weeks. A mist of water rises over the treetops, and the grass is wet. I can’t stay here long. The house is already sold. All the rooms are empty. All that’s left is the rocking chair, the quilt, and me. I’ve kept vigil with the sorrowing rain. I pack up these last moments, get behind the wheel, and drive away.

From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a writer, daydreamer, and believer at http://tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com

16
Sep

Cement Road

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The little girl stomps the yellow rain boots through the puddles, scattering the water that bled from the ground and collected in the damaged parts of the cement road.

She does not feel the moisture that has leaked into her woolen socks, or the place on her ankles where the shrinking shoes chafe. At this age, a child has such a narrow focus. She kicks the water around her until it has been redistributed across the dark pavement.

Once the puddle has disappeared, the patch of ground loses her interest, and she moves down the street, searching intently for another.

From Guest Contributor Caroline Meek

6
Apr

Forgetting Redwoods

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

There are trees on the west coast you can drive through. Ancient monoliths built by thousands of years’ work: rain, floods, winters, dry lightning fires. Our grandfathers’ fathers’, storytellers gone silent over the ages, tales forgotten, archaic aching fallen into disuse, a dead language. Even the wind cannot communicate with these trees anymore.

Wander beneath their canopy, sniffing soft bark with noses pressed to red fur, hoping to draw life form the redness; to taste green needles under tongue, run thick sap through veins. But they are sealed.

And all I smell is the distant salt water licking wet sand.

From Guest Contributor Jon Alston

Jon has an MA in Creative Writing. Good for him. He writes things from time to time, and sometimes people publish them. Good for him. On occasion, he will photograph things (or people), and maybe write about them; sometimes there is money exchanged for his services. Good for him. He is married and has two children of both genders. Way to reproduce. He is the Executive Editor and founder of From Sac, a literary journal for Northern California. How about that? Currently he teaches English at Brigham Young University, Idaho among the frozen potato fields and Mormons. Good for you, Jon.
Websites: www.fromsac.com www.jaawritter.blogspot.com

16
Feb

Water Pitcher

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The mustard-lustered staircase was slick with California rain. Loaded with bridal shower largesse, like some kind of Sierra-Sherpa goat, I lost my footing—and lost the water pitcher over the balustrade escarpment. The abysmal fracture at your feet flashed within your eyes; oh the silence, oh the rain. There must have been other gifts, but I remember this one only, and others: forgetting to set the alarm for the eclipse, going to the airport on the wrong day, and missing Sasha’s graduation. The mind adheres to misadventure like a stubborn sticker on glass. Even the dishwasher of time can’t dislodge.

From Guest Contributor David C. Miller

1
Feb

Periplaneta Sapiens

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The rain and wind further eroded the evidence that humans had once
dominated the Earth.

A cockroach scuttled by. Even in the scant thousand years since humans
had disappeared, Darwinian evolution had changed it. The cockroach
held itself on its hind and middle legs, while it’s forelegs
dexterously solved the problem of extracting a morsel of food from a
crack.

Another cockroach approached. The two insects greeted each other with
interlocked antennae. Evolution had been at work here too. Their
social interactions more complex and their intelligence greater.

From the ruins of one civilization, an even greater civilization would grow.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

14
Nov

A Long Trip

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The neighbor came over and knocked on my door. The rain fell in torrents.

“Come inside,” I said.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just be a minute.” Garbed in a raincoat, he rested an axe against his shoulder.

“Returning this,” he said.

“Oh, thanks.”

“Might be a bit dull.”

“No problem. I have a whetstone.”

“Need another favor,” he said.

“Sure.”

“Need to borrow a shovel.” I thought it odd, but I fetched a shovel for him. He turned and began to leave.

“Hey Bill,” I said. “Is Grace back from her trip yet?”

He walked away. Only the wind replied.

From Guest Contributor Dave Lignell