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)

3:57 AM

by Danko

Bedroom's dark between bands of city light slatted flat across the wall, but it'd be grey even if it wasn't. Familiar neutrality fossilized for one night in a vermiculate smear of seamy hotel rooms and surveillance stakeouts. The sheets stir; a restless killer lifts himself up, lists left — fuzzy skull blotted thick with shadow, eyes too slick for the hour.

Misery gnaws dull through his bones, begging cold comfort from the knowledge that he can't be alone. Even if there's nobody there.

He might've made it personal.

But any soldier worth a damn has principles.

He's not like them.


by Danko

He watches her through a fire that belongs to other men - darker men — eyes cut silvery, wet through the silt slashed and dried grey across his hollow face. The way she moves. The way firelight radiates fluid warmth off her skin but never catches hold in her soul the way it does in her smile.

The way she watches him, so mirthfully aware

that in a war like this one, it's the little things that matter most. Rigor mortis loosing its grip to the noonday sun. Desperation in a drowning man's face. Sticky leaves and sucking mud.

She's dangerous.

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