Posts Tagged ‘Village’
May
A Close Call
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
She traveled on a budget during her graduation trip. After getting off the train, she headed to a village near a scenic spot. It was dark when she arrived. She hoped to stay overnight with a peasant family.
A 58-year-old man passed and spotted her crouching alone on the road. He offered to let her stay over. He was too poor to afford a wife and believed it was his chance. He made her tea and put knockout drops in it.
As she was about to drink it, two travelers knocked at the door and asked for a night’s lodging.
From Guest Contributor Huina Zheng
Huina either coaches her students to write at work or write stories for fun after work.
Oct
My Forest Camp
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
At my forest camp, he collapses on to the mattress in my tent, and is asleep in moments. I pack my travel bag, leave him a note saying he can have the tent and everything in it, light some incense and put it at my tiny shrine to Lord Ganesh, say a prayer for him and the other strugglers around here, feed peanuts to the local monkeys, my friends for the last few months, and walk back along the path into the village and across the bridge over the River Ganges towards Rishikesh, to get a bus back to Delhi.
From Guest Contributor Stephen House
May
Platero And I: The Hunt
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
You will be pleased to know, Platero, that the Earl has decided to no longer conduct or permit hunting parties on his estate.
You and all the other animals of the village will no longer be startled by loud blasts of old guns, nor will the smell of gunpowder hang over the fields for days like an autumn mist.
I will certainly miss that delightful and wonderfully spiced pie the Earl brings me every year.
Ramiro, the old poacher, chuckled as he confided in me: “That recent obligation to wear fluorescent vests while hunting was too much for the Earl.”
From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys
Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.
Dec
Hard To Swallow
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
We take the caddy everywhere; it is a modern Grand Tour.
During our European escapades my brother was the fourth cavalier, so we are retracing our trip of a lifetime: Oslo, Paris and Tuscany; Ljubljana and Granada.
Back in England, my wife welcomes us before we leave for the final destination: Bibury, the most beautiful village in England.
She makes steaming mugs of tea and we toast my friend, my brother, tears welling in our eyes. Then it is time to move, and I pick up the caddy.
It’s empty. He’s gone.
My wife is ashen-faced.
And we turn green.
From Guest Contributor Hugh Cartwright
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
A Grass Dog
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
After my death, one half of my soul rose to the heavens, and the other half slept underground. My blood seeped into the roots of weeds. When the village held a festival, my daughter cut the grass and wove my halved soul into a dog-shaped chugou. She placed me beneath my husband’s bed. After a while, my husband tossed about and moaned in sleep.
“Don’t kill me!” he screamed.
My daughter stood over him and flung down her hatchet. His blood dripped through the mattress and onto the floor. I chuckled as I learned who had murdered me while asleep.
From Guest Contributor Yuki Fuwa
Translated by Toshiya Kamei
Yuki Fuwa is a Japanese writer from Osaka. In 2020, she was named a finalist for the first Reiwa Novel Prize. In the same year, her short story was a finalist in the first Kaguya SF Contest. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yuki’s short fiction has appeared in New World Writing.
Dec
Kesaran-Pasaran
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
When I walked into the village, white fur balls kept falling from the sky.
“What are they?” I asked a villager.
“They’re kesaran-pasaran.”
They floated through the air like dandelion spores. On sunny days, they fell and covered the ground. On rainy days they spread and multiplied. The dead ones fueled the city. Their spirits harvested crops and generated electricity.
“What do we know? Our livelihood totally depends on them,” the villager said, laughing.
One day I left the village. When I turned back, the village was gone. Instead, white fluff balls spread as far as the eye could see.
From Guest Contributor Yukari Kousaka
Translated by Toshiya Kamei
Born in Osaka in 2001, Yukari Kousaka is a Japanese poet, fiction writer, and essayist. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, her short fiction has appeared in New World Writing.
Jun
The Man Who Loved Trees
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
NATURE SUBMISSION:
There once was a boy who loved trees. He frequently played in the woods near his village, until one day all the trees were gone.
He decided to plant a new tree every day. His friends laughed at him, insisting that one person couldn’t make a difference. But he was determined. Many years passed, and the number of trees he’d planted grew into the thousands. An entire forest existed thanks to his efforts.
Then the hurricane came. All his trees were wiped out in a single night.
The morning after the storm, the man woke up and planted a tree.
From Guest Contributor Cissy Lee
May
The Cellar
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Oksana pounded the door of Zoya’s wooden house. She screamed.
“Zoya, the Red Army has surrounded the village. Hide, Zoya!”
Zoya, holding her toddler Ekaterina in her arms, opened the door.
“Oh, God, help us. Oksana, where’s Father Nikolai?”
“They’ve started a fire in the church! Hide, Zoya.”
“God have mercy. Run Oksana. We’ll hide in the cellar.” Zoya pressed her daughter tightly to her breast. She ran to the cellar.
Zoya embraced her daughter. She heard a crashing sound. When she realized the smoke was coming from above, she said, “I love you Ekaterina. We’ll be together in Heaven.”
From Guest Contributor Deborah Shrimplin
Jan
Spending A Penny Dreadful
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The Fleadh Ceoil festival was at its height. Those who hadn’t arrived early were relegated to rural camp-sites.
Still, even on the outskirts of the small Kerry village the women’s toilets were dutifully labelled with the Gaelige ‘MNA.’ It wouldn’t do for traditional/folk festivals to be less than authentic.
The next generation of the attending family carnivals had finished their setting-up chores and, thankful of the break, watched with some amusement as the drunk approached with strained gait and increasing urgency until finally bursting into the ‘Ladies,’ zip down.
Screams.
“Must be a wil’ handling being dyslexic,” one mused.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid