Posts Tagged ‘Water’


The Sea At Night

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Dana wasn’t allowed to walk the beach alone, even in broad daylight. Her parents never gave a reason, but she’d heard them whispering about the men who lived in the sea.

Late at night, when her family was asleep, Dana would wade out into the surf. She’d dig up sand dollars and watch the moonlight refract through the water. She had never been hindered by fear of the unknown.

When the sea men came for her, Dana did not scream. Perhaps this was what she wanted all along. She would not miss her family. She would not miss the earth.


Taking The Leap

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Andrea says.

I look over at my best friend, then down at the water below us. I swallow nervously before replying.

“It can’t be that bad. After all, Alex has done this at least twenty times.” I wince at how shaky my voice sounds.

“Yes, well, Alex is Alex. Remember the time he stayed underwater for two minutes because Tim offered him a frappe?”

We laugh, breaking the tension.

I take a deep breath. It’s time. “Alright, together. Breath, crouch, and jump.”

We clasp hands. I see the doubt and jump off the cliff.

From Guest Contributor Neroli Ladner



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

First little Amy was stricken, taking three days to die.

After collecting the body, the wardens painted the black cross on the door.

Then her husband and son Mark sickened. She could do nothing for their agonies.

A cart collected them to be buried in the pit.

Now the street is sealed off. No food arrives, and the water is almost gone.

She sneezes twice. She knows this is the end. But what is there to live for?

Thus the pauper Mary Wells died alone in London in 1665, with no priest to console her, no caring God above her.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Tuck Magazine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Schlock! Webzine,, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Gary’s gasping two-hand tap against the wall earned second place in the breaststroke. Pete had less time to breathe.

First in the butterfly – their final high school triumph shared.

Later, they met in the shower. Whispers were overpowered by streaming water.

Gary’s kiss goodbye burned as a beloved’s should.

“You’re sure? My heart…so damn broken.” A lump choked his every word.

“Me, too.” Gary held him. “But we’ll be one thousand miles apart.”

Later, Pete laid in the tall grass behind the aquatic center. Silver-voiced male cicadas polished their mating song in desperation, chanting for a miracle.

From Guest Contributor Embe Charpentier


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


Mob Mentality

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Samantha watched the rioters at a distance, curiosity piqued. An hour before, they’d been a united front, marching to the sound of protested chants. The pepper spray turned them into a mindless mass. The desire for destruction and an outlet for their frustration the only apparent bonds.

The police closed in, weapons raised, their eagerness to engage obvious even through their riot gear. The demonstrators scattered like water from a rock, splashing in all directions, following the path of least resistance.

Samantha was surprised to realize she’d never actually been an observer, but had always been part of the mob.


The Final Voyage

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Grandfather boarded the old boat cautiously, wary of his footing. But once he’d left the docks behind, his balance actually improved. The years on shore might have accelerated his aging. We all silently hoped that being on the water might reverse his decline.

We waved optimistically as he pushed away from the pier, careful to act like this was any other departure. As Grandfather awkwardly raised the sails, he lacked the same proficiency of his younger days, though they eventually caught the wind and the boat glided away.

We cried then, knowing we’d never see Grandfather again. The horizon beckoned.


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



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

At age eleven I begged to travel to Venice, to see those water streets.

“My desert baby has wanderlust,” Mama laughed.

On weekends, if we had money for gas, she’d tell me, “Pick a direction.”

We stopped at roadside attractions to buy those tiny spoons. We ate questionable tamales. We took pictures with four different Paul Bunyan statues.

For my sixteenth birthday, we followed highway signs promising The Thing. Surprise! It was a fake mummy. Stomach dropping, I realized people like us never saw the Grand Canal.

“We’re lucky,” Mama whispered. “Italians don’t even dream about seeing something like this.”

From Guest Contributor L.L. Madrid



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Why such sorrow for the swan on the water? Why is it her head is hung with such woe? The moonlight lines her with silver as she glides ripples atop the placid pond. And there are banks of passionflowers that glint their crimsons through the night. Had I been that swan, never would you see my nape so weak and crestfallen, so inwardly curved like tendrils at winter’s start. Because there are other swans on the pond with dispositions just the same. And if I swam my sadness to theirs, perhaps our troubles would combine like violin strings and bows.

From Guest Contributor Man O’Neal