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.
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Glass Heart
by Huruma
"One more, pretty please?" Pippa turns a page in the book of folktales Huruma has between them. Bundled under blankets, her mouth widens with a peeping yawn.
"You should be sleeping, malalany…" Huruma gently guides the book away.
"Huruma?" Blue eyes peek past the quilt that the dark woman has started tucking in, hands going to the heavy cat that flops in beside.
"Yes?"
"I love you. Goodnight."
Simple words, gripping her like nothing else. A shimmer moves to shadowed eyes, and she leans in to place a kiss to blonde curls, caught in a smile.
"I love you too."
Right Side Of History
by Huruma
Typically popular releases collect at Prufrock's, yet there are titles which find themselves pooled at the Red Hook Market jumble. Huruma prefers this adventure of looking among the rows of used books under lamplight.
Now, it includes stumbling upon a stack of crisp books in white, black, and red. She picks a copy from the pile, peering back at the cover. Pages flip open, brushing soft over the pad of her thumb. Movement stops at 'Madagascar', dark fingers against paper. There are a few photos.
One day, she will shove this in the face of the people who abandoned her.
Vanili Senja
by Huruma
It was hard enough to admit it to myself. Harder to tell someone. Nearly impossible to tell him. I'm sure he knows by now.
I'm not so sure that he understands how difficult it was. Is. How awkwardly painful that it is to look at people and know them, and you look at yourself and see something so foreign that it speaks a language all its own.
He's smart, but he's only a man-
-and I've learned to not give them too much credit. Still, such credit is deserved where it is deserved. Of anyone I know, I think he deserves it most.
Ikhayaenaba
by Huruma
To feel at home. I am not sure that I know what home is. I do not think that I ever did. I had no childhood on which to develop a concept of what is home.
I see these people gathering together, I see them as families. I do not quite understand, though I seem to be getting the chance myself. But I still cannot tell if I am home.
I once heard that home is a place where there is love overflowing.
I do not think that I have that place yet. And will I ever have that place?
Little King
by Huruma
It was never personal. The two of them finally cornered me in Angola. Between a rock and a hard place, the only way to break free is through.
The second man- I never say his name from respect- He was not the first to lock horns with me, but I could tell that he was doing it because in his heart he thought it was Right. I can respect moral duty, if not practice it duly myself.
Benjamin does it for his obligation to man, as well.
I do not regret making an example of his partner for his sake.
Munhango, Bie
by Huruma
Huruma was never partial to staying in coastal countries. She was never one for the seaside. Being in Angola during the heart of the civil war was purely luck.
The marines were always in and out. Something about Savimbi.
Only a few of them seemed remotely invested, only one interesting. Huruma had seen him several times before, though only spoke to him once before she appeared in the camp that night to raise an alarm.
Such a sweet name for a man so ruthless. She loves to say it, and he probably still hates when she does. Emile, Emile, Emile
Lindelani
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.
Test
by Huruma
She had been feeling ill for days. The nurse said it was nothing important, that she had probably gotten food poisoning and that she would be fine on Thursday morning. Come Thursday, her head was still throbbing and her brow still beaded with unnatural sweat. They made her go to class anyway.
It was test day, after all.
It was test day, and she hadn't studied because she was sick. And still was. So she watched the girl in front of her, weary eyes on the back of her head.
Something was humming.
Humming, like a stomach full of butterflies.
Abandoned
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.