This website uses cookies to monitor traffic and check for abuse. Learn more | Close
Get Daily Bargains in Your Inbox

Ways to Follow

Get daily bargain list

Twitter icon
Facebook icon
RSS icon

Search Site


Book or Name

Search Features

Recent Newsletters



John Moralee



John Moralee Merits

9 top drabble

The Last Man

He was the last one left, though he did not know it. Everyone else had heard their insidious message and suffered as a consequence, but he had avoided their attacks by staying off the grid. For years he lived in remote areas, always staying one step ahead, but they chased him down relentlessly until they caught up with him one night. He was asleep when his phone woke him. In the darkness he grabbed the receiver, thinking it would be a friend.


A strange woman’s voice answered. “Did you have an accident at work that was not your fault?'

The Crack

The crack appeared overnight, splitting our driveway from the street to our garage. I called the council – but they refused to help because it was on private property. My wife Sarah peered into it. “I can’t see the bottom. You think it’s subsidence?'

“I’ll call Tony. He’s a builder.'

Tony examined the crack.“That is your basic inter-dimensional rift into a Stygian abyss.'

“In layman’s terms?'

“An opening into hell.'

“Oh, great. That’ll ruin property prices. Is it safe?'

“I won’t get bigger – but don’t stare into it. It devours souls.'

Sarah glared. “Now you tell me?'

The Scavenger

Every day I scavenged the grey-brown wasteland near the fugee camp for things my father could sell in the market.In the camp we survived on the junk thrown away by the cyberkings living in their electric palaces beyond the border wall. Anything useful paid for food and water and medicines.

One morning I found something rough and leathery marked with mysterious symbols.I had never seen anything like it – so I brought it to my father.

“What is it?'

“Ancient tech from when I was your age. We called that a book.'

“Is it valuable?'

“Not any more.'

After the Storm

Their screams for help probably lasted for hours in the darkness before dawn. At first light I saw the bodies in the icy water, silent, still. No survivors had reached the shore where I stood beside my young son, staring out at the broken ship, which had split apart on the hidden rocks just under the surface, becoming flotsam and jetsam during the storm. The boy was crying as he looked at the sea.

“Are they all dead, Dad?'


“What can we do?'

“Nothing.' I turned towards the lighthouse and sighed. “I knew I should have changed the bulb.'

Our Garden

I remember we spent much time relaxing in our garden, sitting in the gazebo, holding hands like young lovers, admiring the beautiful flowers of spring and summer. The sun’s warmth and sweet air comforted you, even as our time together shortened as you weakened with age and illness.

You are gone now, my love – but I still visit our garden and think of you, for your green fingers turned the dark earth into luscious life. You brought beauty into existence with your hands.

I will always have our beautiful garden, our special place, where you were happy and mine.

The Returned

My dad disappeared and returned fifteen years later, dressed in the same suit. “Hi, son.'

“Where’ve you been?'

“It’s a long story.'

“How long?'

“Over a hundred words.'

“That’s a pity.'


“I can’t fit that into a drabble.'

“I’ll abbreviate it.'

“Go on then.'

“I was abducted by aliens. They performed hideous experiments on me in their attempt to understand our race. I would have died – but one fell in love with me and helped me escape.'

I sighed and invited him in. He was lying, of course, but that didn’t matter. At least he was home again.

A Drabble Drabble

This old guy leans over me as I’m working in my local library. He smells of beer and wet leaves. “What are you doing, buddy?'

“Writing a drabble.'

“A what?'

“It’s a hundred-word story.'


He looks confused. “What’s the point?'


“No – dribbles.'

“Drabbles,' I correct. “It’s fun writing them.'

“Whatever,' he says. His rheumy eyes stare at my computer. “Do you count all the words as you go?'

“Yeah – sometimes. Sometimes I check after and cut down.'

“Seems like wasting time,' he says, and wanders off.

I shake my head.

They really shouldn’t let politicians visit.

Alliteration Argument

About an aeon ago, Alex and Amy arrived at an aged aunt’s abode and argued all afternoon. “Ardvaaks are anteaters, Amy. And aardwolves are also anteaters.'

“Aardwolves aren’t anteaters,' Amy asserted.“All adults accept an aardwolf as another animal altogether, Alex.'

Alex advanced, animatedly against accepting Amy’s answer as absolute.“Ask Alan. Alan agrees. Alan!'

Alan – another adolescent – answered Alex and agreed.

Amy angered. “Alan also affirms alligators are alive around Antarctica. Absolutely anything Alan announces amounts as artificial. Alan and actual accuracy are always antipodes.'

Alex abhorred Amy. “Absurd! Antipodes? Alan ain’t Australian!'

Aunt Allison approached.“Arguing? Again? Behave!'