Posts Tagged ‘School’
Feb
Life Misspelled
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Intelligent machines probe not only my words, but also the silent spaces between words, searching for hidden doors to secret rooms. As a kid, I won a goldfish at the county fair by tossing a ping-pong ball into the fish’s bowl. My mom flushed Goldie down the toilet while I was at school. I think of it sometimes when I see Nazis invading Poland on the History Channel. “Last name?” the woman behind the counter asks, eyes on the computer screen, hands poised on the keyboard. “Good,” I say. “How do you spell that?” “Like God, but with two o’s.”
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.
Feb
Freedom Of Expression
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Their art combined gibberish with colour. Exterior walls and street recycling receptacles became graphic spectacles.
“Let’s see you join us,” they demanded.
“It’s wrong to deface public property,” I replied.
When a recycling truck rolled in, frustration of the driver as to not being able to do his pickup job landed them at the school office. The self-appointed artists got suspended from class and were ordered to remove their creations.
“Did you take part in that graffiti?” Dad asked.
“No, I only watched,” I answered, careful to not disclose that they asked me for my artistic advice and I obliged.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She
resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals and
many friends.
Dec
Love Triumphal
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Mother hides me in the closet.
You won’t go back to that school. I’ll deal with that asshole father.
She smells of lavender perfume and sweat. Not like Dad with his Old Spice, calculated aroma, who mocks Mother. Arranges my future with Headmaster Edgar. Harvard, law.
Men bang at the doors. Buzzwords waft into my musky space: “Custody arrangement,” “Legal orders.”
Fuck off. Mother’s words hold firmness, edge.
Footsteps draw near, unpleasant pounding.
My mother tells them I’m her son. I’m someone who needs love.
I absorb that word, so foreign, while she spars, words rising.
Love. What beautiful form.
From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri.
Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50 Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.
Nov
This Boy’s Life
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Sammy’s live-in, Tanya, abhors Sammy’s pet tarantula, Quentin. Tanya’s friend, Gwen—Sammy’s illicit lover—sees murder in Tanya’s eyes. Quentin disappears. Sammy suspects Tanya. Time smolders. Back into the picture Quentin dramatically creeps. Tanya proves Gwen prescient, then moves out. Gwen moves in, eventually giving birth to a boy they call Quentin. Time bursts into flames. Hating his parents for naming him after a spider, Quentin kills spiders to spite them, worrying school counselors. Twenty-first century America. Mad boy. 3-D printers. Time, get wise. They call the boy Thomas. He learns violin, no spiders wantonly harmed in this boy’s life.
From Guest Contributor Darrell Petska
Darrell is a Madison, Wisconsin writer. View some of his fiction and poetry at conservancies.wordpress.com.
Jul
Quick Examples Of Homonyms
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“To bare one’s soul is a difficult thing indeed,” Pappa said.
Baby Bear tried to balance on one leg and fell over.
“Not that type of sole, dear,” Mamma confided, helping her son to his feet.
“What sort of education is that school providing,” Poppa growled, we can barely bear the annual fees. They don’t mete out value for honey.”
“Only the bare essentials, dear,” Momma said, ladling porridge. “That principal, Goldilocks, operates under the principle that bears have no role in The Academie.”
“I must meet her.”
“Deer meat – where?” Baby Bear licked his lips.
Poppa rolled his eyes.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
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
May
Revenge
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Home for a funeral, I pop into my local of yesteryear.
I recognize that boozy bleary-eyed pig face propping up the bar.
Wilkins, the school bully!
Wanker!
How he’d tormented me forty years ago, but clearly he remembers me not.
How I’ve fantasized about going back in time and standing up to him!
But now he has aged, badly, looking like a grotesquely inflated beach ball with his vast beer belly, all muscle turned to flab.
I fantasize about following him out at closing time and beating him up but desist, for life has already done the job for me.
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
Nov
Of Weak Spots
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Summer holidays meant wagon rides and a delicious break from school.
On the run for letting the poultry loose, my brother and I were making a hidden treehouse.
Later, we would have gone to the bank, devoured stolen nuts, nailed floorboards, as punishment. Together, we would have made jokes. Of weak spots on the fence and Granddad!
However, the treehouse being too feeble, our hands slippery from juice, hearts too unwilling, he fell to death.
Standing on the desolate bank, I glance at the familiar walnut blooms at Johnson’s. I wonder how we never discovered the weak spot in life.
From Guest Contributor Swatilekha Roy
Oct
Locked
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Depression lives with me. Locks my mind in a formidable place. It allows limited interactions with the outside world. Pushes aside the people who love me.
When I feel ready to emerge, it tempts me to abandon the thought. I’d peer out of windows opened to the world and sniff the air. Then, recoil. Preferring the comfort of what I know to something new.
Today, its hold is difficult to resist. A backpack filled with textbooks stays put in my bedroom. The bed becomes my refuge. The pillow, a sponge for tears.
The lock on my school locker remains locked.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been 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.
Jul
Contrast
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
A painting pulled me from across the room. Past spectators scrutinizing other exhibits. Past a man commenting on contemporary art.
I wanted to meet the artist and ask what had inspired him.
Hut alone in a field. The dark evening sky contrasted with flaxen wheat. No people or animals.
“Do you like it,” a man asked me.
“Too depressing,” I answered. “Looks familiar.”
“It’s the toolshed on my parents’ farm. As a boy, I took shelter there during a sudden storm.”
“So, you’re the artist,” I exclaimed eyeing him.
I left the gallery realizing we were once classmates at school.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been 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.