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)


by Deckard

Leather pressed cool and close to the long flanks of his face

he wakes on the carpet, black matted in thick against the grain, gumming cheek to shoulder. Guts turned, bitter crust white at the corners of his mouth. Knife a dry file on orbital socket, metal tweaking to bone

when he pries them open with a wet crunch and pop, steam sweet and warm in the winter fog that




into a dull roar. Manageable as the gas heater's hiss at the foot of his bed when he rolls over and reminds himself drowsily

not to remember.


by Deckard

Chelsea. Bella and Deckard's apartment. The living room.

A series of three paintings.

He stands upright before them because it hurts to slouch, ropy muscle cast in cords of stripped wire through the slack suspension of his forearms at his sides. Shirtless, all tattoos and bandages that don't hide blotchy bruising up his back half as well as they hide other scars.

It's been a couple of days since he's been awake, he thinks. The sun seems unnaturally white through the open window, bleaching denim's weathered sag away from his boxers.

They still don't make sense.

He should probably shower.


by Deckard

Sumter fell asleep first.

Security assured in the wilds of former suburbia. Nocturnal ambiance, sheets stirring soft around the broken window and Flint sinks onto his haunches in a blue wash of moonlight, nose nearly at the pastor's. Whiskey on shivery breath. Subtle warmth, steadier now that he's crouched in bare feet and tattoos and the scarred ridge of his spine.

Three bedrooms. He selected the largest for himself and now he's hunched on the floor in the smallest, measuring brows and nose and cheekbones softer than his own.

The kind've mug that won't mind if he sleeps here too.


by Deckard

They can't see him in the shower.

No mundane lens can focus through the plastic sweep of the Company curtain and he's already spent a lot of time in here

with himself

in the scorching prattle and steam. Runoff wound hot off his back, cagey muscle and bone sunk lax under fading ink and knotted scars.

He showered at the Y before. Remembers bare feet and brown thinning to crimson through the grate between them, clothing swaddled cold and heavy and dark around his rickety frame

puddles like infections on clammy concrete, everything damp.


But he still misses her.

I would fuck you but

by Deckard

I would fuck you

but I think you might be gay

or seventeen

with a fake ID.

You probably don't approve of murdering innocents either, although

when we met, you were working with that one guy. Maybe you still are. My memory's going. For instance

I can't remember if I've seen you looking at a man before. I mean, really looking, breathy and wet and thinking about his hands on you. I watch too often while you're on stage. Narrow hips. Your eyes are dark and you've never looked at me that way

but a lot of sober women don't.


by Deckard

He likes her on top of him.

That way it feels like he isn't forcing her.

Afterward she molds herself gently to his side, stale with sweat and old panic stirs cold in his gut against the natural brush of her arm across his scrubby chest in the semidark. Subtle like the cool, tender tease of an anaconda's forked tongue before the rest of her affectionate coils loop in to smother and crush.

He should say something but everything is the wrong thing.

He should touch her.

He apologizes instead
never sure exactly for what,

but she's already asleep.

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