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.


Abby (19)

Adel (2)

Anonymous (14)

Asi (1)

Astor (1)

Audrey (2)

Aviators (1)

Barbara (1)

Bao-Wei (3)

Bella (3)

Benji (3)

Bolivar (1)

Cardinal (2)

Calvin (3)

Cash (1)

Claire (2)

Colette (4)

Cooper (2)

Corbin (3)

Dajan (1)

Danko (2)

Daphne (4)

Deckard (6)

Delia (2)

Delilah (21)

Eileen (15)

Elisabeth (2)

Emily (1)

Evan (1)

Faye (1)

Francois (7)

Gabriel (3)

Gillian (12)

Hannah (2)

Helena (6)

Howard (2)

Huruma (9)

Ingrid (2)

Iris (1)

Jane (1)

Jenny (1)

JJ (2)

Jonathan (1)

Joseph (3)

Joshua (2)

Judah (2)

Kaitlyn (1)

Kaylee (21)

Kincaid (2)

Lancaster (1)

Lene (2)

Lexington (1)

Logan (4)

Lynette (3)

Magnes (1)

McRae (1)

Melissa (32)

Meredith (1)

Monica (1)

Murdoch (1)

Nadira (1)

Nick (1)

Nicole (1)

Nora (3)

Odessa (4)

Pandora (2)

Peyton (3)

Quinn (1)

Raith (3)

Robyn (1)

Roderick (2)

Ruiz (2)

Ryans (9)

Sable (2)

Stef (1)

Sylar (1)

Tasha (3)

Tavisha (1)

Teo (8)

Tess (1)

Veronica (2)

Walter (2)

Ode to Vincent's Pate

by Anonymous

It shines.

It makes one yearn to know if it is indeed a solar panel for a sex machine.

Is that what makes Lancaster belt out aria's from across Sarisa's desk and leave charr'd marks ceilings.

Is it why you frown with the mien of a Kenyan lion that stalks across the Sahara, loosing that antelope that was just a hair, pun intended, faster than you. The lack of a glossy mane to shake at the other Lions.

You are Lazzaro. You own it. Why have hair when you can have Lazzaro's pate, newly sprung from it's smoky depths.



by Anonymous

He met her on a road; he'd fallen from his horse, and she stopped to dust him off. The horse was gone, but she stayed. Even through the smoke of many adventures and labours, she would be there to hand him his sword or wield one herself.

Most heroes have noble steeds or squires, little boys with daggers and eyes for golden crowns- he had her, and though he got many a jeer, he would not have had it otherwise.

While the fire burns down to embers, she is there to shed his armour, mop his hair- kiss his battle-scars.


by Anonymous

My clothes smell like fresh rain. They always give her away.

I don't think she's realised it yet.

We're too much alike sometimes. We both think we know better, and we're both stubborn. She's the light to my dark. It's why we couldn't stay together. I'm too angry and she's too full of hope.

I promised to break her arm if she had me call her aunt. I wish she had become, for her sake and his. I wish it had worked out, for all my misgivings. I wanted them to be happy.

Big dummy.

I want my jeans back.


by Anonymous

A Greek word meaning: purging. Ours is a ritual, though no two times are ever exactly the same. It starts with my mouth on yours or your mouth on mine, terse words hissed past front teeth that bite and catch and pull. Escalates from there.

I like to pretend that when you hurt me, it's because you can't forgive my body for being separate from yours, or you have some way of understanding the desperate noises I make at the back of my throat, begging for release and demanding you allow yourself the same.

Whenever you go first, I follow.

A Dive

by Anonymous

Delicate sensibilities beware.

We do not strip (You want Burlesque).

We will kiss and press hip to hip in short skirts, writhing above that wooden bar and grabbing poles while we dance to whatever blares from the jukebox. Legs will intertwine and alcohol will pour from the bottles that we will tilt tantalizingly from above in exchange for cash.

Kama Sutra on the walls, a couple pant, fondle in the alley while someone waits to press a gun to their temple. The Nun will look away, Red blatantly stares, Izzy screams approval from heaven.

One step above a strip joint.

Happiness: The Medal

by Anonymous

Happiness is the way her mouth appears to get smaller instead of bigger when she smiles. It's matchstick-thin arms cinched around his neck and the press of her handsome face against his chest through the olive brown of his uniform.

It's the abrupt revelation that she's gotten very tall.

Large but feminine hands built for playing scales tease the ribbon between their delicate fingers and explore the gold star's five tapered points. He would wear it on the left side of his jacket if he hadn't asked her to hold it for him.

Герой России. A title he doesn't deserve.


by Anonymous

When I think of Mother Nature, I think of a younger woman rather than an older one. She is always young, because the years since her creation are a thumbprint compared to the universe. I picture a young, strong woman, with hair and eyes that catch the sunlight and hands that hold me steady. Arms to embrace me, and lips that tell me about the sins that mankind ought to fix. Sins we ought to fix, and how much she wants to do it for us.

When I think of Mother Nature, do I think of Helena? I think so.

I've Never Known

by Anonymous

Not mirror images, not really. Her shoulders are narrower, eyes greener. Already she looks more like an adult, if the other knows where to look. Blue eyes stare back, arms entwined and noses touching gently. Green eyes close for just a moment, body leaned into another and a head rest onto shoulder, breath is warm. It's not normal for people to have relationships like this, but they have always been so desperately far from normal; it suits them. Mirrors looking to celebrate newfound differences. "What is love like?" Green eyes ask wordlessly, and their blue mirrors reply, "I've never known."


by Anonymous

If she knew, she would leave.

Never would he be allowed to marvel at the size of her small hands when they sit in his or compare the lily smoothness of her skin to his coarser leather.

Never would he take her hair between his fingers and rub the cornsilk curls over his thumb like a flower petal, releasing their fragrance in order to inhale her sweetness and intoxicate himself with it.

Never would he slake his hunger through her mouth or bury his nose in the soft hollow of her throat just to hear her pulse fluttering there.



by Anonymous

Storms at night- that is what reminds me of him now. I would have agreed with that even before.

He is dark in the way that night can be; sometimes lit with reflections of his world and twinkles in his eyes and smile- sometimes pitch black when his spirit is sore and his eyes aim down to the ground, lips downturned at the corners.

The thunder that he's got inside only shows when he strikes out. Warm droplets of water that hug me close, smooth and clinging to my hair. The static in the air, buzzing impishly in my heart.

Life and Death

by Anonymous

They said we were children of the Tuatha De Danann; heroes.

We did not ask to be heroes, or chosen, or gifted the way we were; lovers.

He was day and I was night, essence of life without the capacity to touch one another; cursed.

War drove us apart and fate kept us there, we longed to be reunited more than anything; eternal.

It took too many generations, too much death and too much pain; division.

Though now we're together again, where we have always longed to be; unified.

Ours was a curse that has finally been ended; thank you.


by Anonymous

We are the evolved underground railroad, silent freedom fighters and cattle rustlers. We are the people who quietly defy the laws that publicly deny your freedom to be. To be who we are, who we were born, who we have been chemically changed to be. We are in front of you, behind you, just to the side, below or above. I am, you are, she is, he was. We are fiction and fact, a proffered hand outstretched to give you aid and shelter you and start a new life. No obolus needs cross our palms to pay for your passage.


by Anonymous

He's been called a monster enough times that it's ceased to have any meaning beyond the subtler connotations of the sounds that accompany such accusations. Hitching breaths, shuddering moans, that noise a throat makes when it closes up around a scream — whether or not he's the cause or a transient remedy, he's heard them all.

They're right, of course. The only time he denies his true nature is in letters written to a girl by her absent brother because their mother works, their father is dead and she has only a cat named Grand Duchess Tatiana Nikolaevna for company.


by Anonymous

Each day we wake, welcomed by the sounds of our New York. The ambulance sirens pass at the speed of life. A protester spews forth his genetic hate and demands of purity over a megaphone. Brakes squeal as the taxi stomps his brakes and screams at pedestrians. Music vibrates through the air when club doors open to disgorge it's patrons. The skeletons of what was - is - midtown groan and creak with their rusting complaints. Gus bellows his displeasure from his fake iceberg in the zoo.

This is my New York.

There is no quiet in our New York.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License