A Selection of Drabbles
Photo: © davincidig | Depositphotos.com
This past Fall (2023) I spent some time writing drabbles.
Drabbles are one hundred word stories; exactly one hundred words. It's always challenging to write very short, but an exact word count requirement adds a little something extra.
Here's a smattering of what I wrote. Most of these are untitled and they run in various genres although they skew fantasy/supernatural (which is typical of my fiction anyways).
If you've ever wondered what a one hundred word story looks like (because I'm sure you have), here you go...
With two fingers pressed to the wood, Mary pushed open the door that sat at the very top of the staircase in her university’s library.
After studying for hours, she needed to get her blood pumping and decided the stairs would be great for that. When she saw the door ajar, she couldn’t help herself…
On a table in the center of the room, lay an open book. Walking toward it, Mary recognized it as a copy of Gray’s Anatomy. That’s when she noticed the shelves full of skulls and bones. The door slammed shut and the room went dark.
We met on a boat out on the river. Well, I was on a boat. She was in a tube.
“Hey there,” she called out while floating by. “How’s the fishing?” She must have noticed my equipment.
“Terrible,” I said, smiling.
“That’s okay,” she responded, sipping from a can. “It’s gorgeous out.”
“That it is,” I said, and I wasn’t just talking about the scenery.
She floated by with one last wave and I had half a mind to call out and ask her to stay.
But I didn’t.
I watched as her light blue tube eventually faded from view.
I took a sip of mulled cider, fresh from the slow cooker, and savored all the flavors. Orange, clove, cinnamon, nutmeg. They were easy to pick out against the sweetness of the apple. I placed my red mug on the side table and thought back to last November when he was still here.
We had made the mulled cider together. When it was ready, we added a little bourbon and drank it in front of the fireplace before heading off to the bedroom.
The cider had been hot but the bed was hotter.
Now, my mug was a little lukewarm.
He was three hundred and twenty-six years old with a great head of dark hair and flawless tan skin.
She was a mere seventy-eight with a quiet demeanor that belied the unnatural strength she possessed when the moon was full and fur covered every inch of her body.
Across the bar, he looked at her and she looked at him.
This could never be, but they did have tonight.
Picking up his glass of red wine, he walked over to where she sat and set it down next to her dark ale. She smiled.
“So, when’s the next full moon?”
The dead leaves crunched under the soles of my shoes and I instantly remembered what a satisfying sound it was.
Crispy and delicate.
I much preferred them dead and brown, as unpopular of an opinion as that was. There was something fulfilling about seeing them scattered on the ground, bunched up against curbs, bagged and ready for pick up.
It was a life well lived. But it also reminded me that they were making space for the new life that would come next spring.
Plump and green. Bursting with life.
Until they withered, turned brown, and fell.
Crispy and delicate.
The Taste
It wasn’t the fur that started to sprout on all areas of my body that tipped me off. Not really. It was my taste for flesh.
I had always enjoyed a rare steak, but this was different. It all started with one and a third pounds of ground beef. I had ripped the plastic off and devoured it before it even occurred to me that it was raw.
And then there were the animals. My distraught neighbors posted “missing” fliers all over the neighborhood and on social media.
Maybe I would make one for my spouse after I cleaned up.
The house was constructed entirely of mirrors. The interior walls were one smooth reflective surface after another.
Not like in a fun house where the mirrors were different sizes and shapes. These mirrors didn’t distort; they showed you exactly as you were.
You couldn’t get away from yourself.
No one could stay for long. The continuous sight of one’s body was enough to make most people uneasy, or downright angry.
A shadow, but worse.
Shadows come and go with the light, but your reflection is always there as long as you are.
Staring right back at you with your eyes.
Amanda Linehan is a multi-genre fiction writer and indie author. She has published five novels and one novella since 2012 and has been read in 113 countries.
If you enjoyed these drabbles you can donate on her Ko-fi page by clicking the button below. All support is voluntary and appreciated. :)
