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)

A Thousand Words, Part II.5

by Francois

In 1954, she marries/married her fiance. They live/d together for fifteen years, she bears/ed him exactly one son, and one way or another, the man that stayed at her house is gone from her life long before then.

Francois is/was an impatient student. The details are what he remembers/ed, desiring to fill in the light shading of his eyes, the curve of her lip — not proportion, not perspective. But she is/was a patient teacher, and showed him the circles and lines' necessity. People begin as their skeletons, she tells/told him.

Draw their bones.

Keep Safe

by Francois

Brick on bricks, a theory of guardianship, and it keeps things out (in theory, because Francois won't forget what happened when that failed, when nightmare-memories got in). For a long time, home was a suitcase, a car he'd bought or stolen, the crowded, shared bedrooms, and it's hard to cultivate a particular concern for how well it keeps things away.

It's how it fails to keep things in, how it fails to trap what's important and keep it preserved, keep it close. Theories and strategy paper his bed in blue prints and Xerox journal copies, cold every night.

First Day

by Francois

An introductory tour.

This is where the sick people go, and every day is a bad day, concentrated in a city that is one long bad day. This is where other men have walked in your shoes. Francois doesn't know his name, the one in his head from St Luke's, but he suspect it's the one whose handwriting he's adopted.

He wonders what happened to him, after his eyes go scoping in the mens' mirror for silvergrey shot through his hair.

When the pager goes off for the first time, he thinks he might die. Then he goes to work.

High Noon

by Francois

April 28, 2010

The sun has as much light as you have love: they turn to you for it as flowers twist to benefit from whatever quality it is they gain — you share the same charisma, mon ami. And you have your night times as well, you have your distance and danger and cautionary tales. A blameless quality, a brightness, an inherent inability to be properly claimed.

The days I must steal what you give are as frequent as when I do not need to. Time will tell if you are as constant, or if you go supernova in your destruction.

Folie a Deux

by Francois

Teo's been watching them talk. Like Prior Walter with bedsheets up to his chin as the ghosts of ancestors past squabble over bloodlines and bastards, except these are from the future and the dregs of his imagination.

Watches Ghost's hands go out and snag another pair sheathed in creaking leather gloves. Turns clothed palms up to the sky as if inspecting them. "You're going to get older, quicker. I wouldn't put my cock in Kazimir even if I could."

"Ah." The Frenchman's eyes are azzurro over a sharp smile. Teeth flash in the dark like knives. Amusement. "C'est la vie."


by Francois

Tattoos draw paths, mimicked with fingertip touches, and Francois would not write his name next to the eagle or the chess piece. It's not how he operates, and his touches remain random and exploratory. There are few things in the world he would try to claim, and Teodoro isn't an exception, even if the world tries to draw parallels between love and possession.

He mutters something against the nape of Teo's neck, and it's French for you flatter me, though Teo hasn't said a thing, nor yet woken up.

Youth is wasted on the young, in most cases. Not his.


by Francois

Black and red, like the bottom of a dying hearth, and there's a certain burn-heat too to the repeated needlepricks darting in and out of his flesh. Lying as if sedated on his stomach, arms folded beneath his chin, and strangely nervous about this, this scar, a deliberate injury though it might be. There is little he plans to own up until his imagined far away death, but he will have this.

This is a token of facetious patriotism, even after his accent dims, even after he forgets how to speak the language, and even after he never goes back.

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