Thanks to you

‘If there’s no us, then there’s no point. M.’

Paul looked up. ‘Where did you find this?’

‘On the kitchen table.’

‘And Marina?’

‘I couldn’t find her,’ Sarah replied.

‘Jesus. What game is the silly cow playing now?’

‘What happened?’

‘We broke up.’

‘You mean you dumped her.’

‘It’s been over for a while.’

‘For you maybe, but not for her.’

Sarah’s phone began to ring.

‘Yes? … What? … Are you sure?’

‘What is it?’ Paul interrupted.

‘It’s over now.’

‘What?’

‘They’ve found her at the lake; seems she couldn’t live without you.’

‘She’s …?’

‘Dead. Thanks to you.’

A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.

Us?

The crows lifted off the beeches.

Jake waited at the gate, Blue panting at his feet.

Eventually a figure ambled round the bend and raised a hand.

‘I thought it might be you.’

‘How are you keeping, Jake?’ Sarah asked.

‘So-so. You?’

‘The same. Just been you, the last couple of months?’

‘And Blue and the cattle.’

‘You don’t get lonely?’

‘Some of us are meant to be alone. You know that.’

‘Sometimes I wish it were otherwise.’

‘You’re getting wistful in old age?’

‘I keep wondering if it’s too late for first love?’

‘First love?’

‘For us.’

‘Us?’

A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.

Denial

I often think about Jason. He made the mistake of confessing to his best friend. Only the friend wasn’t ready for that kind of truth. He was in denial; was afraid of what everyone else would think. How they’d react. So he’d pushed him away. Mocked him. Got drunk and outed him. It only took four weeks from when the bullying started. A nine-year-old boy found him hanging from a tree; the same place he’d confessed. The boy’s probably scarred for life. I guess that’s better than no life. I still struggle with the guilt. And I’m still in denial.

 

A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.

That's all I'll pay for

‘Are you sure you want to do this, Jack?’

‘God knows the truth. He’ll judge me accordingly. It’s the living that need it now.’

‘Then I’ll hear your confession,’ the priest said, taking the dying man’s hand.

‘I killed Jane. I didn’t mean … it just … I lost it. Her clothes are in the woodshed. The knife is in the septic tank.’

‘And Terry Macleod?’

‘He was her lover. He got what he deserved.’

‘He’s in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.’

‘I only regret Jane. That’s all I’ll pay for.’

‘You don’t get to decide that, Jack.’

A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.