Posts Tagged ‘Words’
Feb
The Curse Of Forest Mother
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Muma is crying like a child while we are watching the river runs red and dead. The hills above us are crumbling away into the deep, giant sinkholes. The ancient forests are cut down or burned. Muma’s hand is so cold, her body is trembling like a leaf. Muma’s lips are motionless but I can hear her silent curse…
Now I understand the meaning of those untold words and feel the real wonder and power of her inner voice. The end is near because we are human and humans must be punished for all crimes against our dear Mother Nature.
From Guest Contributor Ivan Ristic
Jan
Movie Night
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
We’re watching men on the screen sprint along a parapet overhanging a sinkhole. They look down at the spot where the earth opened up, and see their shock reflected in the face of the moon. One actor inches forward while the audience holds its breath. “He who jumps into the void owes no explanation to those who stand and watch,” my man intones. Why must he always quote others, trying to pass off their words as his own? I’m sick of it. “Goddard said that,” I snap. “So?” he says before he vacates his seat, the movie house, my life.
From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell
Cheryl’s books include poetry and fiction of all sizes.
Oct
Echo Of Inevitability
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Sounds become muffled. All she hears is an echo bouncing off the walls. For an infinitesimal moment her soul levitates, detaching from the present. She looks at the doctor’s face as words grow inaudible. A silent scream explodes from her lungs into an invisible body spasm. A voice in her head continues unrestrained: ‘She’ll be alone” but her mind allows her to compose herself as she kisses minuscule freckles on her daughter’s face. As chubby little fingers wipe off her tears, she peers into the eyes of Innocence, so intrinsic, untainted.
The headstone inscribes: ‘RIP Innocence. Your life starts anew.’
From Guest Contributor Andrea Damic
Amateur photographer and author of micro and flash fiction, Andrea Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives in Sydney, Australia. Her words have been published or are forthcoming in 50-Word Stories, Friday Flash Fiction, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Paragraph Planet, 100 Word Project & TDDR with her art featuring or forthcoming in Rejection Letters, Door Is A Jar Magazine, and Fusion Art’s Exhibitions. One day she hopes to finish and publish her novel. You can find her on TW @DamicAndrea, Facebook or Instagram.
Aug
The Art Of Manipulation
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The art of manipulation or being a spy is something. To be a double agent or triple agent even is more interesting than one would expect.
To deal with the reality of a government. Change it just a little. By using words instead of physical assassination, one can change realities.
To get into a government or corporation and manipulate it towards good? Something very few can do. The intentions of corporations along with the state is to control the minds of the people the system of things enslaves. To change the doctrine even a bit can cause pain. Free humanity.
From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle
Clinton is an expat, filmmaker, and story teller
Apr
Close Call
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
The traffic light turned amber. On any other day Geoff would have braked, but today something compelled him to floor the accelerator.
His wife, Janet, looked over, alarmed. “What are you doing?”
Grim-faced, Geoff focused on the road ahead. The light went red. Janet covered her eyes as the car shot through the intersection.
Safely on the other side, Geoff eased off on the accelerator and breathed out.
“What was that all about?” Janet asked.
Geoff was lost for words.
Glancing in the mirror, his jaw dropped as he watched a jack-knifing lorry careering into stationary cars at the intersection.
From Guest Contributor David Lowis
Apr
Recovery
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
“Hi darling,” the young man giggled, noticing a pretty woman leaning towards him. “Which one are you?”
The woman left in disgust. Two men cloaked in white entered.
“Nasty blow to your head,” one confirmed in a heavy accent following something vocalized by the other. “You remember anything?”
“Molly’s. I left Molly’s. Might’ve been O’Hara’s,” the patient prattled. “Didn’t see Molly.”
The two towering over his bed exchanged words.
“When can I leave?” the patient interjected. “Molly is waiting for me. Best beer on the house.”
“You’re in Spain, recovering from an all-nighter at an Irish Pub,” explained the doctor.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.
Mar
Our Private Summit
by thegooddoctor in Uncategorized
I listened to Camilla talking about global warming, the ocean plastic crisis and the deforestation of the Amazon rainforest. Words crowded behind her lips: I silenced them with a kiss. We stayed ten eternal seconds in that first intimate contact.
“I didn’t see it coming,” she told me, when she recovered.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I knew it could happen, but not so soon. I thought you were harmless.”
“The same they say about climate change.”
We spent all afternoon enjoying our private summit, evaluating the measures to be taken in the future. We started to negotiate ecological caress credits.
From Guest Contributor Marcelo Medone
Marcelo (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a fiction writer, poet, essayist and screenwriter. His works have received numerous awards and have been published in magazines and books, individually or in anthologies, in multiple languages in more than 40 countries all over the world, including the US.
He has been nominated for the 2021 Pushcart Prize.
Facebook: Marcelo Medone / Instagram: @marcelomedone
Feb
Not Today
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Sam’s touched up face, slicked brown hair and embalmed body, reminded me that he really was gone.
I sat in the front row as family and friends approached, the same words spoken repeatedly.
“We’re so sorry for your loss, Janny.”
The room filled with flowers, from bleeding hearts to white lilies gave an aroma of a florist rather than a wake.
The priest began to speak, and the room quieted, except for my weeping.
Cancer took my husband too early. He’ll never see his daughter graduate college.
Now I must break the news of my Parkinson’s disease. But not today.
From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher
Feb
On The Sweet Path
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
Ice cream? Al declined. It hurt his teeth.
“Good of him to do so,” acknowledged his school’s principal.
There were other reports of the afternoon sightings. About the SUV parked in front of their school. The dark sunglasses leaning out on a balding head. Words offering a sweet treat.
It happened two days in a row. Possibly three. No one paid close attention until bits of news dribbled out, spreading across the community.
Plans were drawn to nab the culprit.
He must’ve known for no longer was he seen.
Another school needed to heed to the call for ice cream.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season. Although she prefers spring.
Jan
Before The Words, There Were Echoes
by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
There was silence in the universe. Words were nowhere to be found, as if all existence had stopped and all that was left was a void of utter disbelief and confusion. How can there be something, and yet it means nothing?
She had many words inside her, words that boiled into nothingness and brought about the vapor of insignificance. She remembered “in the beginning was the Word,” but instead of feeling any sense of security, she lost heart.
In that loss, she grasped the emptiness of whispers and asked the vast expanse:
“What is needed to be compassionate?”
“A soul.”
From Guest Contributor Aida Bode