Posts Tagged ‘Shit’
Apr
The Origins Of Classic Nursery Rhymes
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I didn’t grow up surrounded by art and culture. There were newspapers scattered around the house but few books on the shelves or paintings on the walls. One day I sat drawing in my room – I must have been 12 or 13 years old, just starting to figure shit out – when my mom stuck her head in. She watched me for a moment, then she said, “Why are you wasting paper?” I have had kind of a bad feeling ever since, like the farmer’s wife is still back there in the kitchen torturing three blind helpless mice with a knife.
From Guest Contributor Howie Good
Howie’s newest poetry collection is Heart-Shape Hole (Laughing Ronin Press), which also includes examples of his handmade collages.
Feb
Happy
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
When I was twenty, I had a friend who worked as a bartender. I remember that he hated sports, but that he learned to talk sports in order to get through his nights behind the bar with some civility, and of course to earn tips. And that is how I get through my life, by acting like I give a shit about things that I could care less about, by going through the motions. It generally works pretty well for me. People think that I’m a nice guy. Some have even gone so far as to think that I’m happy.
From Guest Contributor Les Bohem
Feb
La Piedra
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
I was once asked a question. In fact, it was the most important question in the history of the world.
The question was so immense that it should have been saved for God himself in the afterlife.
It covered love and hate and fact and fiction and everyone and everything at once.
Naturally, I wanted to answer, but my throat froze and my eyes turned to stone like those of a statue. If my heart throbbed, I wasn’t there enough to feel it.
Honestly, how’s a piece of shit like me supposed to know if everything happens for a reason?
From Guest Contributor Branko Tubic
Aug
The Do-Gooder From Beyond The Grave
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Shit! Here he comes.
“I’m running for cancer research on Sunday.”
“Oh, yeah?” I say looking at the gaunt face, an over-achiever in athletics as well as the office.
“Will you sponsor me? Most are pitching in a pound or two per mile.”
Christ, a fucking half-marathon.
I pledge a pound.
“Thanks, it’s a good cause.”
Monday morning. He’s late, he’s never late.
“Bad news,” says the boss. “Mike collapsed and died after the race.”
Thirteen quid saved, I think amidst the office tears.
“I suggest we all double our contributions to show respect,” says the boss.
God damn him!
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had short stories and poems published in Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, Dead Snakes, 1947 A Literary Journal, and in various anthologies. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.
Jan
Some Things Will Always Remain A Mystery
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
When Bob achieved omniscience in heaven, pretty much all the crazy shit that had never made sense now became clear. But as he sat on a cloud with Baby Jesus, there was still one mystery that confused him.
“You forgive everyone, right?”
“That’s right,” Baby Jesus said.
“Even those religious fundamentalists who preach intolerance?”
“Yes, even them.”
“I guess they’re lucky you’re a forgiving God.”
Baby Jesus giggled. “To tell you the truth, I don’t get why they worshiped me in the first place. Why not go in for one of the more vengeful religions that better suited their temperament?”
Apr
The Inner Sanctum
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Maggie, the newest serving girl, waited outside nervously.
“The Queen’s in one of her humours,” she was warned. “You best be careful.”
Maggie didn’t ask, but the veteran servant offered an explanation anyway. “Her alembic has disagreed with her constitution again.”
Once inside the Queen’s private chambers, Maggie had no time to be awed by the ornamentation. The Queen, in all her naked corpulence, was crouched over a chamber pot in the corner.
“So you’re the lucky subject who get’s to clean the Queen’s shit.”
Maggie smiled. She’d make a lot of money selling that shit on the black market.