Last stand

‘How you doing, Sam?’

The filthy sleeping bag rolled over.

‘Sam?’

‘Fuck off, I’m sleeping.’

‘It’d be warmer in the shelter … Sam? Why’re you doing this to yourself?’

‘No judgements; didn’t they tell you that in the training?’

‘I’m concerned about you.’

‘I don’t need your pity.’

‘It isn’t pity, Sam.’

‘Fuck off, do-gooder.’

‘It’s already below freezing.’

‘I’m fine here.’

‘It’s going snow later.’

‘Then I’ll make myself an igloo.’

‘Not before hypothermia sets in.’

‘Then I guess that’s how I’ll go.’

‘I can’t leave you here, Sam.’

‘Then it’ll be my last stand; you and the weather.’

A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.

Punchline

Mark entered the coffee shop, looking perplexed.

‘Well?’

‘She asked me for a date.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘What did you say?’

‘I … I … Why would she ask me for a date?’

‘She likes you?’

‘That makes no sense.’

‘Yeah, but stranger things have happened.’

‘She could literally date anyone; I’m a certified loser.’

‘But a nice loser.’

‘A loser’s a loser.’

‘So you’re going to turn her down?’

‘Probably safer than waiting for the punchline.’

‘What if there’s no punchline?’

‘We both know there’s going to be a punchline.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But it’d be cool if there wasn’t.’



A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.

Sit-it-out family

 We coasted past a disused factory, then some abandoned office buildings surrounded by weeds.

‘What a waste,’ my father muttered.

‘Wonder what happened to everyone?’ my sister asked.

‘Left to seek a better life, or just trying to cling on to their old one.’

‘And us?’

‘There are those that leave, those that fight, trying to revive a place, and those that just sit it out. We were born and raised here. Its home, but there’s no point fighting a battle that can’t be won. Not unless you’re a billionaire.’

‘We’re a sit-it-out family?’

‘Where would we go?’

‘To Momma?’

A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.

Voice of an angel

Anna held the note not wanting the moment to end.

She opened her eyes to find all four chairs turned.

Panic blossomed in her chest.

‘I’m sorry.’

She turned and fled the stage.

*  *  *

‘Is Anna okay?’

‘She’s resting,’ the woman said. ‘It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have entered her.’

‘You’re her aunt?’

‘Yes; her guardian. She’s seventeen, shy, awkward. I thought this might … she thinks it’ll make the bullying worse.’

‘She’s the voice of an angel. She could win this.’  

‘Please don’t broadcast her bit.’

‘But …’

‘I’m begging you.’

‘People will flock to her side.’

A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.