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)

Shadows Across Timelines

By Elisabeth

Where Izzy'd found a copy, Elisabeth had no idea.

"Then Wendy saw the shadow on the floor, looking so draggled, and she was frightfully sorry for Peter. 'How awful!' she said, but she could not help smiling when she saw that he had been trying to stick it on with soap. How exactly like a boy!

Fortunately, she knew at once what to do. 'It must be sewn on!'"

"Mummy," Aurora yawned, "You can't sew on a shadow either."

Elisabeth couldn't help laughing, a fond memory of teasing a shadow with the threat passing through her mind. "Absolutely right, lovely."

Story Time

by Kaylee

"Read it to me again, Momma!"

Climbing into my lap, his little hands create new wrinkles in the pages of the picture book, as he pushes them aside to reveal the next scene. Revealing the colorful pictures and crisp lettered words. Bright round eyes new and full of wonder wait to hear his favorite tale.

About a dragon that beats the horrible knight and saves the princess. He said it showed that not all monsters were bad.

Sometimes he seems far too wise for his young age.

How does he always seem to know when I need this story most?

Samson Thirteen: Walter

by Delilah

i dont get to be rough anymore. i will be like hahcheekoh and i will wait for him to get big every day more. i dont know what that means but i will do it because i love him.

he still is very tiny but she says Walltur will get big like me. i hope it comes soon. when winter is gone i think.

we will play on the beach

i show him SqueaksSqueakseeks he likes them. when he yells i lick his face clean. when he is sleeping i stay there too. i am a good dog.

i am a good dog.


by Delilah

He can't walk, or talk, or even crawl yet, but I think he's quickly becoming my best friend. I don't think I've ever had a proper one, to be honest.

I have friends, and lovers, and family, but there's never been someone that-

Friends listen, lovers hold you, family consoles you if they must-

-but none of them have that immeasurable bond.

I always imagined having a new family to replace the one that I lost, but I never expected just the two of us. I think we're a pretty good pair, though.

I hope my old family thinks the same thing.

Negative Space

by Anonymous

When I was a child, I wanted you to come back. Whoever you happened to be; I didn't even know. I imagined someone who had very important things to be doing, like piracy or heroism, too important to father a child, to husband a woman. Romantic movies and love songs made her sad. My hugs around her waist not enough to reach the emptiness inside.

I grew older.


You left emptiness with your presence too, and I think that must be why you went. And although she never could, I did inherit spine enough to blame you for it.


by Anonymous

The tart fruit are protected by gossamer-fine cases that are more fun to peel away than the prizes inside are tasty. It's why she lets him help, with the kitchen counter as high as his chin and hands reaching to shuck the gooseberries clean. They'd go well in a pie, she had said. He'd wondered how old you'd have to be, to know things like that.

She smacks his shoulder when she catches him sneaking a couple to eat, but he sees her pretend not to see just as many times. One day, he wishes he had paid more attention.

Professor X

by Anonymous

She's my Professor X.

No wheelchair or baldness. Her hair is long and beautiful. But like Professor Xavier, she taught me how to use my ability; she trained me until I mastered as many aspects of it as we could find.

Every book she could salvage that seemed to involve my ability, she made me read, until the words all blurred together.

The first time I faltered during a lesson, I got a burn scar on my shoulder and stern words about concentration followed almost immediately by encouragement and caring.

Because of her, I know exactly what I can do.

At the Dinner Table

by Anonymous

Watching them, it's hard to believe they had their own lives before, independent and autonomous. A life before me. There’s an easiness between them now, kinship and understanding. They’re comfortable. They’re best friends. They’re not in love.

I don’t think they’ve ever been in love. Not with each other.

They could split up now. I’m old enough. But Life has worn ruts and grooves into their hearts that make it hard to fathom a life apart. A life without.

There’s more than one kind of love. They’ve found one. They’ve made a life of it.

Hopefully it’s one without regrets.


by Anonymous

A father should be proud of his son…

Mine is a rebel, has been since birth, will be when he dies I imagine. I didn't get the choice to be in his life, didn't get the opportunity to be a father. When we finally met, he'd already made up his mind about hating me. I don't blame him.

He took up a rebel's name, wears it proudly.

I watch him from afar, watch the struggle make him stronger. He'll become strong enough — become what is needed — because he's my son. I wouldn't expect any less.

And if he finally kills me

I'll die proud.

Living in Shadow

by Anonymous

Your name is whispered with reverence reserved for saints and legends. How can I live up to that? In every way I'm lesser. Smaller. Weaker.

No one has to tell me so.


I am your legacy. Do you see you in me? Flawed and raw as I am?

I want to see myself in your refined grace, your fierce power. I want to fulfill the promise of your blood beating in my veins.

But I'm afraid; if I become more like you, will I lose that which makes me me?

Can I be a legacy and still be me?

Broken Picture

by Anonymous

I'd only ever seen her in a picture. She died years before I was born. The second woman he truly loved. The last woman he truly loved. Hidden away in a desk, the picture only came out when the decanter had nearly been emptied.

The first time I noticed it I was six, mother had thrown it across the room, breaking the glass and cracking the frame. My father bought a new one the next day. A memory, a regret, the love he could never have. A face he could never get away from. A regret that slowly destroyed him.


by Anonymous

She isn't mom, but she is.

I can't remember what she looked like when I was little. Can't forget her eyes, they're still the same. She can still make me sit up straight and behave. I'm afraid to touch her, hug her, tell her how much she means to me.

I'm afraid to tell her she raised me as best she could, that she took an impossible task and succeeded. I'm afraid because she'll reject me. She's my heart when I feel less than human.

I guess I'm just afraid of showing her what I've become.

A heartless machine, conceived in a lab.


by Anonymous

People talk about heroes like they're all gone.

Growing up, people talked about my father. Told me he was a hero, told me he died to protect his student. Now he teaches me, tells me about the man that molded him.

People talk about my mother, they say she died a hero too. Day I was born, it was in a fountain. Mom had a gun out while she was in labor, the battle was so loud they couldn't hear me cry. First sight were tracer rounds streaking through the air, first smell was cordite and gunpowder.

Heroes aren't gone.

We just needed time.

Two Months

by Tess

Two months. That's all I got. Less than that really. A full month was wasted. Wasted by misconceptions and hard feelings. Wasted by the past, the present, and fears of the future. I can't even say they were needless fears.

We both could've done things differently. I came on too strong. He came on too assholish. No one person is to blame. Not for that. Not really. But I wish it could've been different. I wish that we'd gotten more time together. That I could've gotten to know him.

I just want another two months. I just want him back.

The Corpses of Fireflies

by Anonymous

When I was a little girl, I used to collect fireflies in a jar.

I thought it was fun, holding them tightly to my chest, watching them glow and buzz around. Then one day the glowing stopped, and corpses of fireflies would litter the bottom of the jar. I cried the first time I saw it happen, felt like I had become a terrible person.

It was the first time I ever really understood death, and understood that my father was gone. When my mother found out, she took me aside and told me something I'll never forget.

"Everything lives to be free."


by Anonymous

When I was a little boy, people used to tell me stories of my mother.

They said she was brave, kind, and loved me.

As I grew older, I came to realize that none of the people raising me actually knew her.

They just told me what any child should think, and never spoke to me of my father.

It wasn't until he stole me back that I learned the truth; that my mother never wanted me and my father was a monster.

I spent the next few years resenting them both, praying for death.

Instead, I was saved.

Now I just resent you for saving me.


by Anonymous

My mother is gentle, kind, told me stories of heroes and myth and she taught me how to jump on and enjoy the ride.

My mother is aggressive and free, and taught me to always fight tooth and claw for the people and things I want.

My mother is fearless and strong, taking on the world like there's nothing she can't do, and she taught me that there's nothing I can't do if I try.

My mother is fun-loving and energetic, always finding the enjoyment in everything and she taught me to find the best in anyone or any situation.

Selfish Misery

by Anonymous

My parents were miserable. My father took his pills with his alcohol, and my mother did the same, when she wasn't taking her anger out on others. Never me, but always someone. The hired help. The people next door. Herself. They slept in separate beds for so long I didn't understand parents were supposed to sleep in the same til I was a teenager.

He regretted lost loves. She regretted lives discarded.

I wouldn't be here, if they hadn't been together. But they would have been so much happier apart.

Am I selfish enough to be grateful that they suffered?

Where She Knows She'll Find It

by Anonymous


By the time you read this, I'll already be

I'm gone. I know you forbid didn't want me to do this, but it's like Dad said. Sometimes you have to take a chance and not be afraid to make mistakes if you really want to live. That's why you married him, right?

I don't think I know this isn't a mistake. And I really want to live.

And want you to know that I love you, too.

And that I forgive you. For what you thought you had to do everything.

I miss you already.


by Anonymous

All fawns grow into stags.

She's proud of the way these two carry themselves. Gone is the clumsiness of youth, their soft bleating voices and downy hair. Many seasons of hardship have wept the innocence from their eyes and supplanted it with understanding that's still several years shy of true wisdom, but like their antlers did, this too will come in time.

Both are her blood. One born from her womb and the other born from her chosen sister's. Love is their milk. Knowledge, too.

It has made them strong and in a word that once embarrassed them both: beautiful.


by Anonymous

He wasn't there for either of them when she was born.

On her first birthday, her mother blew out the candle and made a wish: come back to us.

On her second birthday, she blew out two and decided to forgo the wishing and take the advice of her friends. There is a time to grieve, a time to mourn, a time to move on with your life—

A time to find him on your doorstep not long after that and tell him he's not allowed to see her.

He gave up that right when he gave up being there.


by Anonymous

The last time I saw my daddy, he was resting in an unfinished pine box, and I remember wishing that when they closed the lid it could've just stayed that way.

They let us keep it for the wake. For the procession to the hole we carved outta the earth with our weighty old shovels, but they lowered him into the dark in a heavy canvas bag tied at his feet and head because it was the last casket and my second momma told me he would've wanted it that way.

He wasn't selfish, she said. And neither are we.

Five Things Teo Wants For His Son

by Teo

  1. Fortitude.
  2. A good, if flatteringly indistinct impression of his father, described within the stencil of somebody a mother like Li would’ve wanted to keep a piece of.
  3. Returns in investment. Reason to thank God, but having earned it. (Most of it. To be born red and perfect are gifts.)
  4. Lots of meaningful sex.
  5. Italiano. What English names 'stone' becomes pietra. Pi-e-tra— cadence, weave, feminine as the Earth instead of one nub of a monosyllable. Uno, due, tre; 'one' same as 'a,' less lonely; 'two' like 'duet,' 'three'— crisper. Pila: 'battery,' should your heart run empty.

A Missed Moment

by Kaylee

"Yeah, Ray?"
"We should meet. Today for lunch. I— I want to see you. I— want to tell you about your siblings. You've got two, I'm sure they would like to meet you, too. Maybe… maybe we can do the holidays as a family."
"I dunno… I have class…."
"I need to talk to you, Kaylee. It's important."
Sigh. "Fine… I'll meet you at one.

A chance to meet him, I took it for granted and the Midtown Man blew it away. Now, I may never get that chance again.


by Delia

There are so many things in this world, the haves and the have nots. You were always in the haves.You got the new clothes. You got the first bike. You got the rollerblades. You got the grades. You got to go to Paris. I got to stay behind. I hated you.

You always get the last bit of milk in the carton. You had everything, have everything. I'm jealous. I've always been jealous. Compared to you; I'm always the red ribbon, the silver medal. Unless we're alone, then you always give me the blue one.

You're my best friend.


by Tasha

Your power doesn't surprise me- not one bit.

When I was a kid, you were there: solid and sturdy, someone I could look up to. Someone that made me proud. Someone that I wanted to make proud of me.

But you slipped away slowly, fading until I could no longer feel you there for me. My small hand grasping for yours came away empty. Eventually I stopped reaching- I could not feel you, though your voice claimed you were there.

Now I push you away.

The memories of what we once had are just vapor trails left in your wake.

The Cherub

by Gillian

Statues are not born. They do not age. You can not love the statue. You can only love the image.

It will never love you back.

One of the only things I possess of a child I can never have is the memory of a statue.

A statue in a warped dream. The cherub from a rooftop, which had a bullet in it's heart. A bullet which I fired at the man who would have been his father.

That memory is as fleeting and intangible as he is. Eventually that will disappear. It will be as if he never existed.

Siabhra Sails

by Delilah

My mother used to sing a lullaby to me, and I yearn to sing it for someone else. The kids may like it, but I doubt they will truly understand the love that I can feel in it.

I will have to keep it on my cuff for someone else. It's such a beautiful song.

Sleep, my child, for the red-bee hums,
The silent twilight falls,
Aoibheall from the Grey Rock comes,
To wrap the world in thrall.
A leanbhan O, my child, my joy,
My love and heart's desire,
The crickets sing you a lullaby,
Beside the dying fire.

The Seeds Root

by Delilah

The greenhouse was always full- she could breathe in the smells So she spent most of her time playing inside, hiding under the wooden tables, shelves, and slats.

She would sit under the dripping tables of garden flowers, with dirty knees, hands, fingernails, smudges on her nose and cheeks.

Walter would often kick her out.

But her fingers were tracing peepholes before she would be discovered. Delilah found herself peeking past little grimy holes on the other side of glass.

Grandfather was such a magician! Oh, what magic!

One day she would be that good!

Mom and Dad

by Melissa

I don't expect much from you. I never did. I never expected to be praised when I did well in school. Or punished when I got in trouble. I didn't think that you would ever sit down with me and ask me if there were any boys I liked, or if I had any problems that I needed advice on.

No, I didn't expect any of that, though most people would have. Most people don't have to expect it. They simply receive it. It's not asked for, simply given when it's needed.

The one thing I did expect? Your love.


by Delilah

"They are all that I have now, and you come with this?"

"I'm sorry, Walter."

"Get out. Now."

Delilah doesn't like it when he gets angry; it is the kind of anger that seethes out of him. The man in fine clothes leaves the greenhouse. Delilah, tiny and hiding in her flowery dress, studies him from her spot behind the door. He had a stern brow and a big nose.

She goes to moon over Walter as she always does. There is a ribbon in her red hair that he fusses with, smiling weakly, warmth in his piercing blue eyes.

Ungrateful Child

by Helena

The room is cold but it doesn't matter because she feels like she is drifting in honey. Her arms and shoulders hurt from the awkward way that her wrists have been cuffed to the pipe, but she has long since learned how to tune out such discomforts. What disturbs her most are the visits, when she's brought what little food or water she's permitted, and she has to look at familiar faces, most especially his face. She can pretend not to see the others, but there is no way she can avoid him. She kneels before him, an ungrateful child.

Waiting Room

by Eileen

Sophia made her stay in the waiting room alone with the woman whose husband stepped out in front of the lorry. She holds her hand because she feels as though that's what she ought to be doing but cannot bring herself to meet her eyes when she asks what happened to her brother.

A man in a white coat comes out, tells them that the woman's husband has passed and suddenly: Eileen is afraid.

The surgeon puts Nick's jaw back together with metal plates and fine screws. Much later, she'll wish he'd been hit by a lorry and died too.

This Quintessence of Dust

by Peyton

Photographs whisper a story the world already knows- a little girl lost, and lost again. Did he fail her, or was it the other way around? Would it have been better (easier?) had she not been found? She cannot know.

A picture's worth a thousand words, they say, but she will never hear that many fall from his lips. Twenty-one years' worth of words cannot be spoken in mere moments.

Dust and photographs are all that remain.

He was intangible as dust, invisible in the darkness.

In the light, dust glitters like fool's gold— illusions of what could never be.

The Lies of a Father

by Ryans

I raised my girls to be honest to never lie. That lies were bad and would only bring hurt to you and those you love.

I am a hypocrite.

Do as I say, not as I do.

I have lied to them their whole life. I have lied about what I did to keep a secret.

How long before my lies hurt the ones I love?

The only lie I haven't told is how much I love them and that I will do everything that need to be done to protect them.

Even if it means I have to lie.

Parental Lies

by Kaylee

My mother lied about who he was.

How bad did he hurt you, mom, that you would let your daughter think he never cared?

I had to find out from strangers, who my father really was.

Only to find my father lied to me and let me think he was dead.

Why do they continue to lie to me, instead telling me the truth?

I want to know the truth, I want to see my father. I want them to quit lying to me, and thinking its for the best. I am not a little girl anymore to be protected.

My Daughter

by Faye

What I remember most was his smile. It was kind, gentle, fatherly, attentive. I knew he was old enough to be my father, if not more so, but he made me feel safe. I wanted him to see me through his camera, capture me from all angles, find the beauty that I didn't see in myself. It started out innocent. Pictures and smiles. It turned intimate when I took him out on the boat for the first time, the sky and sails captured on film. I knew it couldn't last, but I never regretted it.

He gave me my daughter.


by Huruma

The voices of babies were never as harsh as they are now, storms rolling thunderous overhead and the smell of roses amidst Lagos garbage twinging her nostrils when she moves through the ward. She knows that she cannot keep them. Neither one of them.

They'll be better off dead.

Better off dead.

Though she returns months later to leave them behind.

Maybe she was wrong?

But she can't take it back now.

She remembers to sing the lullaby now. To sing to his baby boy, his little treasure, his lindelani. The little man in the Moon, listen to the birdsong.

Faded Footsteps

by Veronica

A lab coat dwarfing her body, a stethoscope hanging down to her knees, the child holds the device to her father's chest, tilting her head to listen to the thumping in her ears.

"What will you be when you grow up?"

This, asked by a matronly relative, finding the antics charming.

Most four-year-olds' answers are outlandish dreams: cowboy, spaceman, lion tamer. Hers, precocious words spoken with a baby's lisp: "A neurosurgeon. Just like my Daddy is."

"Will you be Dr. Veronica?" the aunt asks.

"Dr. Sawyer, silly. Just like my Daddy."

Her dream? Turned out to be outlandish after all.

His Shoes

by Eileen

At four, she pulls on her ballet slippers sewn from pink satin and stands behind the door, listening to Mummy speak in terse hisses with a shadow whose face she can no longer remember even though he roughly wrenched her away when she tried to hold it in her hands. Instead, his shoes: black and polished with hard soles that sound like an open palm on a blushing cheek.

At six, when her father leaves them, she asks Mummy if the man with the fancy shoes will come and be her new daddy. "Leenie," Sophia breathes, "you should hope not."


by Judah

To a father growing old nothing is dearer than a daughter.

Judah Demsky has two. As for the saying, he first it on a card at the Hallmark while looking for something suitable for his cousin in Newark. Joanna, pregnant again; if the first three are any indication it's with another bouncing baby boy, rendering all frilliness and pink unnecessary.

He'll deny he's vindictive but he sent the rosiest, laciest pair of doll-sized pajamas he could find when Nina asked him to contribute to the shower. It's what Joanna gets for asking when he'll marry and have a real one.

A Beacon

by Gillian

I never wanted a family. I rebelled and acted out. I tried to be the daughter that they'd roll their eyes at and wish would disappear. I treated my brother and sister poorly. I was terrible big sister.

Family was never something I wanted, until I lost it.

And fought to get it back.

A brother in blood. A fragment of a sister living on in the man who killed her. Children that aren't mine.

A lighthouse is a beacon in stormy weather. Now it's my family and my home.

And I don't want to let it down. Not again.


by Huruma

When they are old enough to fend for themselves, leopards will leave their cubs behind and move on. Humans do this in the same kind of capacity, much of the time. Sometimes reason makes it stall, or reason makes it premature. He had a reason- he had to protect his family from someone inside of it. Two whole children are better than one of three, forever fractured.

His mother didn't like it. She left soon after, to find her.

Huruma never came back.

He never expects that she will, if she's alive.

No regrets on either side. None at all.

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