A selection of drabbles (stories of exactly 100 words). Some published and some not.
Bounty
‘Wanted Dead or Alive’. That’s what the poster said. The Denton Gang; three brothers with quite the reputation. I spent all day in the saloon with them: drinking, gambling and observing. Vernon was quick, Charlie was calm and collected, and Tom was strong but slow. By the end of the night I knew my picking order and executed matters to perfection. Vernon, taken off guard, was my first target, followed quickly by his brother, Charlie. Tom had barely processed the events when I emptied my remaining bullets into him. The smoke cleared, saloon folk re-emerged, and I became a legend.
Flopsy
Star-covered sleeve pulled up to his armpit, Marvelous Malcolm delves deep within a comically oversized top hat. His face burns crimson as he rummages, to no avail.
A yawn breaks the silence as thirty children fidget, growing more and more impatient. The teacher’s smile disappears and she looks at her watch.
Malcolm frustratingly pulls multicoloured hankies, metal rings, balloons and artificial flowers from his foldout stage and tosses them aside; then, scratching his head, gives an awkward smile at the unimpressed teacher.
In the corridor, Emily sits quietly unnoticed, gently stroking the fluffy white fur of her recently discovered friend.
Front Page
My name is Alan Stitch and I’m a paperboy in a town called Time Springs. A quiet little town; well, quiet until that scorching August morning. A disposable lighter left on a windowsill was the fire’s source, and the curtains were ablaze in seconds. The Baxters were a big family… mum, dad and seven kids. All were sleeping when I saw the fire, and acting quickly, broke in and battled through the smoke. Alerting the parents first, we got all the children and escaped before the house turned into an inferno.
The headline read – A Stitch In Time Saves Nine.
Gift
“Twenty-five feet tall. How did you miss it?”
“I’m sorry, captain. I heard noises, but it was dark and…”
“You left your post.”
“No sir. We watched from the wall, and it seemed to just appear.”
“The same story from every guard. We’ll look into your failings later.”
“What is it, sir? A peace offering?”
“Is it not obvious? The craftsmanship is beyond mortal hands. This great beast is the emblem of Troy and must be a reward from the gods.”
“Shall I organise having it wheeled it into the city?”
“Yes. Only a fool would ignore such a gift.”
Greeting
“Hello Son.” Dad looked pleasantly surprised.
“Hello Dad. How are you?”
“Good, thanks.”
He put his arm around me and gave a friendly squeeze. “So good to see you. I thought I was being called because of your mother.”
I shook my head. “Are Nan and Grandad here?”
“Yes. They’re all here. Oh, I forgot to ask. Silly me. How did it happen?”
Ashamed, I looked down at my shoes. “Crossing the road. Hit by a car.”
“Never mind. It happens.”
He kept his arm around me as we walked out of reception.
“Come on. I’ll show you the sights.”
Hunted
My heart pounds in my ears at an alarming rate. Can he hear it? Will it give me away? He paces through the house, room by room, focused and unrelenting; the predator enjoys making his presence known. Painfully uncomfortable, I keep quiet and still, curled up in sweaty darkness, eyes screwed tightly shut. Maybe he’ll give up. Maybe he’ll move on and… no, he’s in my room now; I can hear him. Doomed, I hold my breath and wait for the inevitable. The wardrobe door flies open and light blinds me.
“Found you, Dad!” Ben giggles. “Your turn to count!”
I’m Not A Ghost
The woman appeared in the bedroom again, standing in the corner, watching Martha sleep. But she wasn’t sleeping. How could she, with a spirit from the afterlife staring at her?
“I’m not a ghost.” The chilling voice stretched and echoed. Martha was terrified.
First there was the miracle of photography, then video cameras, and now we have time projection; the greatest way to relive memories or see loved ones from yesteryear. I enjoy visiting my great-grandmother, Martha when she was seven, sleeping in her bedroom… but can she see me? She looks afraid.
I whisper reassuringly, “I’m not a ghost.”
Kids
You’re always wrong. They’re always right. It was always the other who started the fight. They hold secret meetings. They plan ahead. If they can’t persuade one parent, they’ll try the other instead. Confident and loud, they’re an all-round performer; except the school play, where they’re quiet in the corner. Food they loved, they suddenly hate; a secret best kept until the food’s on the plate. Say something five times, and they still can’t hear; but whisper discretely, and they heard that quite clear. Each day of parenting, the same thing again. Without wine or gin, we’d all go insane.
Last Orders
After three exhausting months of blood, mud, and constant rain, General Varund ended the siege. His army ceased the relentless bombardment that very night and moved south to the coast. His captains were instructed to organise the retreat, for he had personal matters to attend. Never question the general’s orders.
The night before, three hooded figures had found their way to General Varund’s personal latrine and taken him by surprise. They knew he’d never call off the attack, so there was only one thing for it. An actor stepped in for a one-night performance, and the general was carefully skinned.
Lovestruck
Mustering confidence, I stride into the hall where thirty women sit at various tables whilst an assortment of nerdy me-a-likes stick names to shirts. I’m reminded of my inner coward and urgently need the loo. A hasty retreat meets with immediate resistance from the unseen beauty behind; we collide, fall, and are the spotlight attraction for sixty nervous singles.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumble through a fat lipped grimace as she pops her glasses’ lens back in. “Can I, err, make amends and, maybe, buy you a coffee?”
She beams the warmest smile and nods. Cupid’s arrow hits the bullseye.
Masterpiece
The brilliant yet undiscovered artist, Sebastian Thellor, had dedicated his life to painting in all styles, and his work was rich in variety.
Finally, the day came when he had painted everything he’d ever imagined and hoped to create. But one last masterpiece remained. His final piece. His greatest work.
He prepared a large golden frame with canvas over board, signed and hung it on his gallery wall, and titled the plaque underneath, ‘Brains’.
Completing his life’s work, he smiled, stuck a gun in his mouth and squeezed the trigger, blowing the back of his head all over the canvas.
Penalty
“Don’t move the ball off the spot, Grandad!”
“Okay boy, this isn’t my first penalty.”
Not the man I once was, I stood back and considered my approach. Where to put it? The tricky top corner, or play it safe, go low and powerful?
My grandson waited, punching gloved hands together, crouched, and staring me in the eyes. The professional stance acquired from watching many a match.
A quick run, I kicked hard and missed the ball completely; my shoe loosening itself from my foot and finding its mark… straight into my grandson’s face.
The ball never left its spot.
Pork
Little Jack Horner sat in the corner, eating a Christmas pie. He put in his thumb, and popped out a tongue, then slurped up a mouth-filling eye.
The thirties were a time of poverty, and cupboards were always bare. Too many mouths crying out for food, which simply wasn’t there. But Jack’s father had a clever way of solving problems. He’d invite the desperate home to dine with his family.
Jack was nimble, Jack was quick. Into the spine, with a long sharp stick.
Ignoring the midnight screams, neighbours were rewarded with bags of minced meat and thinly sliced pork.
Prisoner
Caged like a bird, I long to break free and explore the world. The bars taunt me, showing life beyond my grasp. How long must I suffer alone, waiting for a voice, a face, something to stimulate the eyes and mind? Food is my only common interaction; always the same bland slop. I scream and cry, but they’re too busy to answer my call. Don’t they understand? I need to get out! I spit and shout at the top of my lungs for their attention. Nothing!
Defeated, I collapse and drive my forehead to the ground. ‘Hey, there’s my rattle!’
Quest
“It looked like an old battered bowl, so I threw it out. Sorry.”
“Dad, it’s my Viking drinking cup for the school play tomorrow.”
“Don’t panic. I’ll get you another.”
The promise wasn’t easy to keep. Nothing in the town’s market or antique shop, and I didn’t have time for anything online. Fortunately, $2 purchased a wooden cup from a local yard sale. A little small, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Such a plain thing. Who knew that drinking from it would cure infections and diseases? The Holy Grail was a fluke discovery which now fetches me $500 a sip.
Responsible
Luck, love, and wealth, I had it all. I was lucky to have survived the horrors of war, met the right woman, and found love which filled us both for many decades; blessed with the love of our children and their children. I’d amassed an abundance of wealth: gold, silver, diamonds, art, and other treasures discretely collected through the dark years of the forties.
I died aged ninety-seven, peacefully in my sleep, surrounded by my nearest and dearest. The great curtain lifted and my collectors arrived. Forty-six thousand faces stared and glared. The children of Auschwitz had come for me.
Shamble Man
Here you come, the shamble man. Dark desire draws me in, offering power from beyond. I embrace it. I need it.
Your hiss carries on chill winds, compelling me; guiding hands pushing me to greatness. Dark angel, thy will be done. My flesh is yours, and I know what pleases. The blade is my brush and canvasses are plenty. I will paint the night red with offerings, and you will rejoice in my art. We shall scream and dance together.
Linger in the gloom and wait, master of shadow, for tonight and all the nights which follow… I am death.
Spectre Spectacular
We came to town at night. Cries of wild steeds broke the silence as a line of covered wagons brought hidden mysteries for a special performance. Word spread fast, and with the black tent erected, guests lined up for the evening’s show.
Spectre Spectacular. This was no ordinary circus, and if anyone told you they’d seen its kind before… they lied.
Twisted mimes danced through the waiting audience and set a tone of terror. Uncomfortable laughter stopped, a chill rolled in, and dark shapes leapt from the shadows.
Through the cacophony of screams and panic, the demons drank their fill.
The Chamber
Had I a tongue, I might beg for mercy. But I know my fate; there would be no second chance. My room stinks of blood and sweat, and had I eyes to see, the dancing candlelight would show the shadowy form of my keeper. He who scrubs the rack clean as I fumble in the darkness. My waist chained tight, forcing me to stand, and pain stabbing with every shallow breath. I paw with broken fingers, feeling the cold metal walls of my upright coffin. Eagerly, he approaches and the door before me slams shut. I succumb to the maiden.
The Meaning
God looked down upon the earth and inhabited it. He walked the plains, hills, rivers and vast mountains; yet he was bored. To enjoy the world fully required many unique flavours, and to fulfill God’s needs, life was created. He encountered all, born into each and every one. All living souls were a strand of God’s experience. He lived through us. His pleasure. His gift. Trillions of interlocking emotions experienced simultaneously over thousands of years, and God was bored no longer.
And upon death, man, woman and beast are born anew. Continuous, until the end of time… we are God.
Thief
Who’s going to miss you? Did you tell anyone where you were going, or what you were doing? I think not. A man’s home is his castle, and this castle is always well defended. At night, I keep a baseball bat close to hand.
You wake, cracked head, a little dazed, gagged and tied to a chair. Come to take what’s mine? Oh, how I despise a thief. You moan and wriggle when you see my toys. An impressive collection of antique medical equipment displayed before you.
“We’re in for a long night,” I say, and pick up a scalpel.
Three Blind Mice
Sick of running from the farmer’s wife, the three blind mice devised a cunning plan.
Whilst the farmer was away at market for the weekend, and his wife slept, the mice dragged a bag of rat poison to her bed. No small feat, but determination is a wonderful thing. They gently dabbed small amounts on her lips and inner cheeks. The event took four hours to take effect. She never woke.
Vengeance served, the three mice found her tail-cutting carving knife, and with precision, stripped her to the bone.
Her flesh was stashed away, feeding all the mice throughout winter.
Tis But A Scratch
As the rider drew ever closer, Tristan let another arrow fly. The first shaft had buried deep in the man’s thigh, but he thundered on. This shot thumped into the horse, throwing him. Standing, and holding a broken arm, he limped forward. Tristan loosed another, which found its mark in the oncoming man’s shoulder. He span, cried out, yet pressed on. Staggering to the tower door, he was finally dropped by an arrow to the chest.
Tristan looked down in amazement as the bloody and broken man dragged himself to his feet.
“Corporal Tristan, your wife has gone into labour.”
Worship Me!
Delicious contempt served with every step from door to bed. Graceful and superior. To sleep the stretched sleep of selfishness. My bed. Your problem. A belly to entice, but touch and you’ll feel the kicking claws of destruction. I match your screams with ears back and cold staring death. Bleed later, minion, for now I wish to feed. Then into wild suburbia once more, to show dominance over unoccupied driveways and rooftops. The agility of a ballerina, as I lick my tail atop a narrow wall. Felinus Purrfectus, with nine lives to spite lesser mortals. Who would be anything else?
James Hancock: Author 