If you would like to submit a drabble (a short work of game-related fiction exactly 100 words), please @mail Queens with your submission, the title, the name you would like it to appear under and which category you feel it belongs best in.
Challenge Drabble for October 2018's the topic is Books.
316 String Theory drabbles written — and counting.
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Walter (2)
Untitled II
by Abigail
I am ashamed of myself. I am un-happy. I am ashamed of myself. I am depressed. I am ashamed of myself. I am guilty. I am ashamed of myself. I am heavy-hearted. I am ashamed of myself. I am sorry. I am ashamed of myself. I am distressed. I am ashamed of myself. I am immodest. I am ashamed of myself. I am immoral. I am ashamed of myself. I am wretched. I am ashamed of myself. I am reprehensible. I am ashamed of myself. I am delinquent. I am ashamed of myself. I am UN-HAPPY.
I am not me.
Fires of Destruction
by Abby
I am destruction.
I watched the timbers fall all around, on me, through me. Watched part of my livelihood and my home go up in flames around me with only myself to blame. I can hear them call for me outside the burning walls but I'm afraid to leave. Afraid that I'll hurt them.
Ironic really, that Izzy's legacy should die likely in the same way she went out. I hear the sirens, can see the water when it hits spots, changing from red to eventually blue.
What have I done to myself?
I'm sorry Richard, I tried. I failed.
At Seventeen
by Abby
At Seventeen I prayed:
I am His hand. Through me He shows His love, His power and His might. Through my hands, He works His earthly miracles and displays the awesomeness of His intentions for this world. I am His love for all cradled in these palms and with a prayer, He takes away your hurts through me. I am His to do with as He see's fit and He see's fit to place me where there are hurts. I will take them all away, for Him, for them, for myself. This is my path in life, set by Him.
What Will It Be
by Abby
What will it be?
What has god chosen for me, what genetic blueprint harbors a surprise that heats my forehead and makes me lay awake while my ribs ache beyond the drugs and wonder, pray, please manifest soon. Another depends on it. Telepath? A holy fire from my hands? Will I fly? A touch laying bare all a persons secrets. Will it be Richards salvation that springs forth from my hands like once it did not long ago.
Sing to me lord of what it shall be.
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, bless this bed that I lay on.
Amen
How To
by Abigail
It's like I was born without the manual that everyone else has. How to say I love you , when to, should you even say it. How to know when to touch someone, when to kiss, where to kiss, when to hold, the etiquette of dating, the do and don'ts of love. Or maybe I'm just at the first chapter after I skipped to the end and I'm reading it backwards. Breaking my heart. Someone slipped that chapter in early, Teodoro probably. Sicilians know all about breaking hearts. Baptists just know about saving them. Maybe someday I'll un-break mine. Please.
Robert
by Abigail
I have had just enough liquid grief. Someone comes up and buys a shot for themselves and one for me and I can't pass because I don't want to drink anymore. Maybe that's why I sighed softly when he pushed me against a wall and confessed that he feels he's disappearing even as our hips met. He doesn't know that he isn't. That he's very real beneath my hand, his heart beating in his throat when I palm his neck. When we were sliding against each other. When my lips are pressed to his and he says Abigail like that.
I'm soooo drunk
Hello kitty comes on thongs. I never knew that till I met Xiu.
Xiu has a great ass.
I'm sitting here and looking at it when she's looking somewhere else or she's going to get more alcohol or the pizza. I don't care how much my wrist hurts, but she has got hello kitty, squished between her butt cheeks. Rising up above her short shorts. I think my momma'd kill me if I wore them. No, Momma's gonna kill me for the blue hair, and the blue nails, and I think she did something to my back.
I'm so drunk.
Damnit, I Do
by Abigail
If I didn't know better, I'd turn around and follow my parents back home to Louisiana. I'd find me a good Christian boy to marry and give our parents bouncing babies by the score. You'd find me in church on Sundays in prim white, elbow deep in dishwater and a smile on my face as sunny as the apron I'd wear and setting back the feminist movement by a couple decades and play at being happy homemaker. Behind my picket fence with the climbing ivy and the cat in the window at night watching the fireflies.
But Damnit, I do.
Huruma
by Abigail
I can feel your fingers in my mind. Not your real fingers. Those are on my shoulders squeezing gently. I mean the ones that you use to realign my emotions. Feel them run over the sadness and the guilt and dig in. Take those feelings and work them like some grand piece of art. Guilt transforms into calm. Sadness to delight. You paint on joy like a rising sun to dominate my mind while you stand there with a hand on my shoulder and watch everyone else around me like some dangerous glittering creature. My emotional guardian and Nubian queen.
Ode to J
by Abigail
You'll find your voice again.
You'll find the words that you need to say to inspire the masses. To bring them back to wherever you settle yourself. I have faith. It is going to take time, and patience and belief that what you do, even if someone else's uses it to hurt others, is still good. Nothing bad can come of following your call.
But it's your call and I can only wait until the day when you find your voice. When you do take the pulpit and speak his words. Till then, I have the faith enough in you.
My Art
by Abigail
I forget about them sometimes, startle when I catch a glimpse drying off after a shower. The scrolling of words along my side that makes me turn and look at them all, crane my neck in the mirror. Each has significance, reason and meaning. For all that I always rolled my eye at being called an angel, I like the look of them on my back. I love the look on Roberts face when he saw them. Like he can't believe they're there. The feel of flints fingers tracing the letters or Brenda kissing the cross as she goes by.
String Theory
by Abigail
Hours, days, weeks and months tapping keys and watching imaginary lives and people take shape on the screen before us. Living lives that we can and do only dream of. An escape from the real world and place to vent real emotions. RP with me? Open scene in the park, all welcome! We need volunteers to have their lives ripped apart so can be cobbled back together. Gala's, fist-fights, mass slaughter and evolved prisons. A handful of people who cater to our whims with little thanks, approval sought and fingers wagged when we err. Refreshing that window every five minutes.
Dodo, l'enfant do
by Abigail
Dodo, l'enfant do, L'enfant dormira bien vite. How much time passed between when he saw the child before he saw the grown woman. Dodo, l'enfant do L'enfant dormira bientot. Pink hair, body fleshed out in hips, bust, but still that same girl. Une poule blanche. Est la dans la grange. She came to him twice, untouched by what he gave her, offering to help him. Qui va faire un petit coco. She thinks that long ago her mother sang it to her, not a dying Frenchman sure his fate was sealed by cherubic cheeks. Pour l'enfant qui va fair' dodo.
Bastard
by Abigail
There's something about that month, month or more that I don't want to forget. I'll never tell him, never tell anyone what it is. What came after the green flare. The way happiness and warmth bubbled up from infinitesimal point of origin in my body. It crept forward like a warm blanket pulled over me and after the first time, I never fought it again. I can see why they love him. I loved him too for that. I confess when I hit him, I wanted to feel that again. He disappointed me and gave me only pain. You bastard.
Happiness: Changes
by Abigail
Happiness used to be fingers of sunlight reaching through the tangle of Kudzu and tree's to splay it's weak warmth on my face while I laid on the moss while water burbled around me and I daydreamed about the children I would have. Now, happiness is being at peace with myself, my place in the world, people around me and my faith in all things. Happiness is a dinner table groaning with food and those I love and care for seated at it's table. Our hands grasped in each others and prayer's for safety. My happiness always changes with age.
First Time
by Abigail
The first time you touched me in that way, a hotel room in Milwaukee far away from everyone we knew and nothing but anger at the world and unresolved sexual tension that should have come out in rough handling and bruises that make us groan in other ways afterward. You slid under my skin like your hands slid over it in places never touched before by anything. The smell of whiskey winding through my senses, tasting it on your lips, smelling it on your skin. Instant arousal. I don't know if I want to do it without that smell again.
Peter
by Abigail
Normal is his battlecry. His plea with every breath. "I want for normal. For the world to stop knocking on my door and begging."
Normal, is not possible I say. "Normal is an unattainable state of being that we were not born to or born for. Bombs threaten, Viral plagues, shoulders heavy with the burdens. Cries of 'HELP' coming from all corners to be saved. That is our normal. This is our world."
We don't get normal dashing from one apocalypse to the next. You want normal? Shoulda become a mailman Peter. Not a Paramedic.
You're still saving the world.
Would That I Could But I Can't
by Abigail
Would that I could turn back time. Not hop back and forth at whim to set right what is wrong. I would turn it back and see all that I missed with my own eyes. See the time when our hands touched and shared something divine. Rewind and watch that exact moment where the illusions broke and I saw the world without it's shine of naivete. Watch him watching me. That I could see this dead future of what could have been and a happiness that he swears we had. Where I still had it. I can wish. I dream.
Pila
by Abigail
Up goes the cloth and is it him? No. Not all the time. It's her, or the other him. But when it's him, my Sicilian, I give him my fury! Where have you been?! You've been with another! I am your queen! I am your world and I am the one who's newspaper you should be changing! You can leave when I tell you to. Freshen my seed and water boy! But when he stays and his finger is where I am perched. Ahh but my world is complete and I nibble his ear. He is mine and no others.