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.
Categories
Abilities (9)
Animals (15)
Challenge: Books (10)
Character Study (101)
Family (43)
Life and Death (19)
Love and Relationships (108)
Miscellaneous (4)
New York City (6)
The Resistance (14)
Authors
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)
Accidents
by Anonymous
When he called her a dyke for wanting her own motorcycle instead of riding on the back of his, she hit him hard enough to break his nose. That had been an accident.
The hitting. Not the breaking.
There's still blood on her knuckles when she sticks out her thumb and hitches a ride out of Friendship (a ridiculous name for a city) on her way to Polk County (ridiculous too but for different reasons).
In the passenger's seat of the 1987 Dodge Dakota, she empties herself on the dash.
She's drunk. Angry.
Frightened by how often these things coincide.
Selfish
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.