Papa

I slip through alleys to get to the resistance and relay the information I have learned. The black out starts and the only sound is the rustling of my dress.

I hear footsteps and then a voice. “Halt! Papers.”

“Certainly. My father is sick and needed medicine. I had to go across town to the only doctor available.”

There’s something in his eyes that I don’t trust. I stab him through the gut. I’m almost in the clear and then a shot rings out. Blood soaks through my dress, I gasp for air and then collapse.

See you soon, Papa.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Mistaken For Quackery

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

Dr. Jeremiah Jackson touted himself as the most learned man in the Northwest Territory. He offered cures, extremely cheap cures, for everything from consumption to the plague, and he guaranteed their efficacy. As far as he knew, in fact, he was the only man of medicine to offer guarantees of any sort, which should have been testimony enough as to his trustworthiness.

A man of such esteemed intellect deserved respect and accolades everywhere he traveled. So it was with great consternation that he found himself sentenced to death and hanging from a rope just a day's ride from Fort Detroit.

From Guest Contributor Oliver Park

The Three Brigits

Brigit, Irish Goddess of Poetry, sits at the feet of her Mother of Plenty.

She calls to her sisters, Brigit of Medicine and Brigit of Smithcraft. They watch as humans emerge on Earth.

Brigit of inspiration says to them, “Humans are evolving, so I’ve blessed them with verse. What gifts do you bestow?”

Brigit of healing says, “I share my curiosity so they explore their world and themselves.”

Brigit of the forge answers, “I share my love of craft, the shaping of earthly elements.”

Mother says, “I pray they find peace and joy in our plentiful gifts before destroying them.”

From Guest Contributor Soma Datta (@somaxdatta)

Off Her Rocker

Annette sits in her favorite rocking chair, by a big window. A gloomy afternoon.

She cradles her dead baby in her pale arms. Hair as white as a ghost. Lips cracked and bleeding. Her body fragile and weak.

She sings a familiar tune. Rocking back and forth, as if trying to put the baby to sleep.

Her watch beeps. Medicine time. She throws the bottle out the window.

The Devil calls her name. She stops her singing. Her body freezes.

“He made me do it. He made me do it. He made me do it…” She repeats.

The devil exists.

From Guest Contributor Alexa Findlay

Analgesics

My Grandfather’s house is becoming more and more cluttered. I’m afraid he is becoming a hoarder.

I am most concerned he will muddle his medications.

“Where do you keep your medicines, pills and tablets?” I ask.

“In the medicine cabinet, follow me, I’ll show you.” He leads me into the bathroom.

I open the cabinet door revealing dozens of unopened packets of analgesics stacked on the shelves. I look at him quizzically but don’t say anything. Finally he breaks the silence.

“I take them for my memory.”

“No,” I correct him, “Analgesics are prescribed for pain.”

“I have painful memories.”

From guest contributor Barry O'Farrell

Barry O'Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry's stories may also be found in Cyclamens & Swords, 50 Words Stories, and here at A Story In 100 Words.