Elise dragged her chair to the window and turned her gaze to the sky. By the sickly glow of the dying streetlight, she looked younger than her eight years, and when she closed her eyes and clasped her hands together in prayer, Michael’s heart broke for his daughter.
When a man loves something with all his heart, he lives it, and it consumes him.
Fox came upon a family of crows circling an old oak tree. Head cocked, he barked up to them, “Crows, why are you circling around up there?”
One micey. Two micey. Three micey. Four—
He stopped, stock still, on the gleaming barbed wire fence. The fourth spike was empty. Where was four micey?
Adorned with a crown of jewels, she sat regal on her throne, watching the comings and goings of her subjects below.
I like to think of drabble as the baby brother (or sister) of flash fiction. Where a flash fiction may run from a few hundred to a couple of thousand words, a drabble offers a more concise style of telling a story: 100 words or less.
She felt it before she saw the first clouds shadowing the horizon. The gentle breeze changed swiftly, picking up speed, gusting through her feathers, urging her, fly! fly!
In the depths of the forest he toiled for hours, sweeping his stage of errant leaves and broken twigs, preening each magnificent tail-feather to perfection.
“I don’t date people I work with,” she said. “It’s too awkward when it ends.”
Last year was lean-times. Plentiful rain and warming sun nourished verdant fields of rice and millet and sugarcane. Herds of sacred cows and droves of goats grew fat with wheat and calf and kid.