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DRABBLE. A story of exactly 100 words, no more, no less. Up to 15 words extra are allowed for the title. Hyphenated-words-are-argued-about. The drabble craze started in British SF fandom in the late 1980s, and the term originates from a Monty Python skit: "Drabble. A word game for 2 to 4 players. The four players sit from left to right and the first person to write a novel wins." However to be playable, the 'novel' had to be cut short. Brian Aldiss became enthusiastic about mini-sagas of 50 words, and one writer even advocated 8 words, but eventually the Birmingham University SF Society decided on 100 words. Many respected SF writers joined in the The Drabble Project and the resulting collections were sold, all proceeds going to charity. Lately, drabbles have been drawing attention again, beginning in Doctor Who fanfic and then other bigger fandoms like Trek. Variants of 150, 200, or 350 words have appeared. However, the most common form is still the 100 word drabble.
I'll not put many restrictions on the content, just make sure it is not a hate filled rampage or illegal. I reserve the right to remove any content I deem unacceptable. NC-17, Fan fiction, Real Person fiction (RPF of celebrities) or just general fiction are allowable as long as it is not defamitory. Poetry is acceptable. If you choose to write adult content, please make sure to put NC-17 or a rating in the header for your post so that others will know BEFORE reading it. (Not everyone likes to read that, and if they are warned, well, they read it at their own risk.)
Please note that I am making no money off of this. I just enjoy the challenges and constraints and have found it a useful tool in my own writing, and I wanted to share the fun with others. I will not tolerate flaming or disrespect on this blog. You are reading the content here at your own risk, so to speak, so if you come across something that upsets or offends you, please do not rage about it here. This is not the place.
You may post your drabble directly as a comment, or place a perma-link to your own blog in the comment box. Either way is perfectly acceptable, since we are dealing with a limited word count for the posts.
I'll not put many restrictions on the content, just make sure it is not a hate filled rampage or illegal. I reserve the right to remove any content I deem unacceptable. NC-17, Fan fiction, Real Person fiction (RPF of celebrities) or just general fiction are allowable as long as it is not defamitory. Poetry is acceptable. If you choose to write adult content, please make sure to put NC-17 or a rating in the header for your post so that others will know BEFORE reading it. (Not everyone likes to read that, and if they are warned, well, they read it at their own risk.)
Please note that I am making no money off of this. I just enjoy the challenges and constraints and have found it a useful tool in my own writing, and I wanted to share the fun with others. I will not tolerate flaming or disrespect on this blog. You are reading the content here at your own risk, so to speak, so if you come across something that upsets or offends you, please do not rage about it here. This is not the place.
You may post your drabble directly as a comment, or place a perma-link to your own blog in the comment box. Either way is perfectly acceptable, since we are dealing with a limited word count for the posts.
4 comments:
Jamie knew something good was coming her way, she could feel it, that warm glow rising up from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head. A broad smile lit up her face. She had found that four-leaved clover a couple of days ago and although she didn’t believe in superstition, she had kept it, pressed flat in her favourite book. She couldn’t believe her fortune this time, nothing good ever happened to her, always to others. She used to say the only luck she got was bad luck. She looked at the Lotto numbers once again.
Please note that this is NC-17 for adult situations, actions, and language.
FILM: Once Upon a Time in Mexico
A.N. It will be helpful to know that “los mariposas” are “the butterflies” and that “que pincha” means that they bite.
TITLE: A Brief Study of Auto-Erotic Pain Management Options and Procedures With Various Resolutions Proposed
I. OPTIONS
“It’s not working.”
“I don’t care. Don’t touch me.”
He was testy, but really, who could blame him? It was obvious that the prospect sickened him.
“I have to. It’s supposed to be every three hours. It’s been four.”
His mood had turned foul, his lips pressed tight again.
The mindfuck of instant replays with the dressing changes was bad enough, but nature never intended these private spaces to be made public. To Sands, these invasions were abomination.
“Vicodin?”
“Can’t. There’s only nine left and you had two an hour ago.”
“Tequila?”
“No. What about distraction?”
“Do you have them?”
II. APPLICATION
“Get them.”
He tracked her movements.
Zipper, long. Rummage, shuffle.
Zipper, short.
Tiny, silvery tinkle.
His nasty mood retreated.
Wrinkly, sweet pea seeds, dormant, awaiting warmth and moisture.
Full bloom requires scarification.
She bent to her work. Hot breath, softening.
Blowing cool now, they rise. Gliding tongue circles and burrows. Lips nip, and suck. Teeth bite and hold. Now.
Los mariposas que pincha are ready to land.
Seize the swollen seeds and hold on tight.
Never let go. Cannot let go.
See him sink, seeking another place, within.
Second butterfly alights, gripping with its powerful jaw.
Watch him fall away.
III. DISTRACTION
Surfacing, he squirmed and complained,
“Hey, I can’t reach. You said I’d control things.”
It’s true.
The little silvery chain was too far away from where his hands were fastened.
Gun holster's anchoring strings. Snip.
His “fuck you” growl, ignored.
Rawhide thong looped through chain was passed to finger tips.
“Don’t drop it, I’m busy.”
And she turned to her task.
Swaddling cloth compression bandage comes off. Save it, there is no more. Release the paper tape and remove the gauzy wadding. White, scarlet and cordovan. Too scarlet. Still.
She watched the butterflies flicking, supping at their nectar.
Yes, pain.
IV. DESENSITIZATION
The merciful mariposas.
The more you tug, the tighter they grip.
Renowned among the nether worlds for agonies meted out.
Their task tonight? To pull the mind away.
Tricking the brain, counteracting pain with pain; a sound medical principle. Too many neurons fighting amongst themselves along the narrow spinal path. Canceling each other out, the pain, still there, goes unnoticed.
That’s the theory anyway.
Blossoms have opened, blooming plummy reds and violent, violet blues.
"Sheldon, stop! Too much! You're going to make yourself bleed."
He began to laugh, "Too late, angel."
Still one final anguish.
“Coming off, it's a motherfucker.”
V. MINISTRATIONS
“Piece of cake.”
After the saline (tug).
After the staining betadine (tug).
After the drying (tug).
After more cotton had been wadded and placed, gently as possible, (tug) into unspeakable places (tug).
After the windings had been re-bound (tug).
Another growl, “I feel like a fucking sock monkey” (tug).
After the long shuddering exhalation, and the bitten lower lip, and the expletives delivered, and the warning, “Don’t touch me there!”, he came back.
Back to the bed. Back to the room. Back to her. Back to himself. For another three hours or so.
"Good boy."
"Want my angelfuck now."
VI. RESOLUTIONS
Three emotions rode shotgun.
Sadness and anger, unseen.
Lest it wither, arousal, the evanescent one, required action now.
She’d spied on him as she’d worked.
But really, who could blame her?
Watching him fend off his demons had made her quite wet.
And another feeling glimmered, from their past.
* * * * *
Revisiting that wintry day in Tokyo, just before Mexico, when she’d spied the green Clover logo in the fabric shop window.
How she’d said, "Wait there!", and flown inside. Returning, ripping the careful wrappings, to show him the biting trinkets tied within.
Remembering his puzzled eyes, and then, the dawning smile.
Can't leave these things alone. This one is NC-17 for content:
White clover. I walked the horse out and holding the reins I climbed on, feeling his sharp hairs biting my bare legs. I wore boots but no socks and nothing under my short skirt. The sun was sliding down the horizon and the air cooling fast, blue mist in the clover and along the road. My legs were cold. I saw him standing under the horse chestnut tree, his white stallion tied to a low branch. He helped me down running his hand up my leg, his fingers all the way in. He had me as my horse ate clover.
“Why hide? Share your joy!”
The words echoed on through the waxing days of the summer. As she searched the clover for a four leaf, she thought back. The celebration for the night was the actual opening of the center, something she had fought hard for. It had overwhelmed her as presentations were made and she took to her desk to keep from appearing a gloater. He was looking for a restroom and found her.
“Share my joy?”
“When something brings you happiness, you shouldn’t keep it hidden away. Turn it out to the world, set it free.”
“It’ll die.”
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