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Recent Drabbles

The Power of Words

He says, “Don’t you have other things to do?”

With effort, I pull myself from the story and think, “Yeah, I really should get stuff done!” Then I turn the page. It’s not like I'm addicted. Just one more chapter.

He leaves for the early morning train. I have the whole day ahead of me for housework.

The key turns in the front door.

“Honey?” The door clicks shut. He’s home early. “Nothing’s done. Are you ill?”

I check my watch. Blow it! It’s evening!

He says, “Books or me?”

Sometimes I remember him when I'm buying a new book.

New Year Resolution

It’s New Year. Again. Time to discipline myself, stop waiting for inspiration and do some more writing. I make this resolution every year. It’s no good staring at a blank screen then going out shopping to distract myself. Or watching Corrie on catch-up. I must get busy on that keyboard. Behave like a writer.

What about a drabble? That shouldn’t be hard. Only 100 words. I tap out a sentence. Oh, what to write next?

The dog wants to play. Maybe I should visit Tracy. Oh, Eastenders is on. I’ll write some more of that drabble tomorrow. I promise.

Problems Of The 100-Word Limit: No. 2

Dear Mr Jenkins

We are replying by drabble to the similarly delivered message received from your colleagues. Here at Hancock’s Novelty Goods we want all our customers to be 100% satisfied. We understand that your stag party was somewhat riotous and that said colleagues left you locked in a pair of our Fun Handcuffs. It must be uncomfortable lying in a bath chained to the cold tap. And you will obviously be concerned about getting to the church on time.

To business. You need the security code to get out of this predicament. The seven-digit code is nine, two, five…

Andrew Atkinson Merits

8 most prolific4 most esteemed


As I stood in front of my old home, the years spun back. I was in my youth. My mother, fresh and full of life, laughed as she tickled my sister. I could almost smell a bonfire in the distance on this cold winter’s night. A huddle of carol singers sung at every door, and were received joyfully. I heard the familiar scraping of the old metal spade as my father filled the coal bucket. The squeaky sound of my brother’s bike suddenly reminded me of how much I missed him.

My family had all left me, with my memories.

Please Nannie?

“Nannie, please, please can I buy that book?”

“I'm sorry, sweetie, I don't think you can. It's really meant for grown-ups.”

“But Nannie, I'm eight years old now. I've read lots of books, and I heard all about it on Newsround.”

“Yes I know, darling, but this one isn't meant for children."

“But Nannie…”

“Anyway, you would find it boring, and ‘Five Go to Brexit Island’ is probably out of date now.”

“But Nannie, I could send it to Mrs May and Mr Corbyn. It could really help them."

“I'll pay the postage," said Nannie, looking for her purse.

Then, One Foggy...

“It’s foggy,” Prancer said simply. “He needs you, Rudy.”

In his lonely corner, Rudolph bit into his carrot. “Me? Old ‘Cancersnout’?”

Donner trotted over, her harness tinkling. “We weren’t picking on you...”

“When I asked to play Buckaroo, you said ‘Piss off, Bigfoot’s Bellend’!”

“We were protecting you. We knew this day would come. You’ll need that resilience.”

Sudden scratching at the door startled the reindeer. “Oh, Rudolph,” a reedy voice wailed, “with your nose so bright…”

Donner stared into Rudolph’s pained eyes, over his bulbous nasal beacon. “You can do this. Become the legend you were born to be.”

December Blues


Always such a stressful month, what with buying presents, sorting out who will go to whose home for Christmas and New Year, what to do about the pets, preparing food, etc.

All this on top of Christmas work parties, sorting out the Secret Santa and finishing off end-of-year stuff.

Just this last thing to do. Pull the switch on this murderer. So many bodies found buried in his garden. Shame. I hear he was lightning fast with his pen.

Oops! Power cuts announced all over the city.

That’s saved me having to put up the Christmas lights.

It's A Hard Life

It's a hard life being a suspected psychopath.

People cross the street to avoid me and kids run away screaming for their daddies. Only my dog loves me, but then again he really is a serial killer. Mostly squirrels, but also a nice juicy postman.

I never get any visitors, except for the police. I seem to be the usual suspect whenever there is a petty murder in the village. I suppose they’ll be round again shortly, what with that nice Annelisa Christensen next door having gone missing.

Not to worry though. They'll never find where I put the body.

Ghost Writer

Where am I?

It’s so dark and cold.

Something is pulling me.

The world shimmers back in around me.

The pulling is annoying, there doesn’t seem to be anything there... yet there is.

I look around and see…

Oh my, no!

NO! What has he done?

Something has distracted him. He’s heading towards the fence.


I yell to tell her to run, but she cannot hear me.

The pulling is getting stronger. I shove it off again, but it is getting more persistent.

He's raising the shovel!

The pulling is dragging me away!




I was startled, but the intruder was harmless, only an acorn.

I held it like a baby and imagined its little heart beating rapidly, distressed by its adventure.

I nurtured it through the shortening days of autumn, and it grew taller.

Sounds invaded my home, as Carnelian started to babble.

Tears of joy filled my eyes when she uttered her first words: “You’ll be safe.”

She begged me to keep her secret, until she was ready to find her friends.

Days grew longer, and Carnelian grew stronger.

Carnelian kept her promise.

Today, human domination ceased, and the Quercusian age begins.

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