By Alanna Pass
from my pencil
anchor me to this earth
like a kite on a string.
form words on these pages
giving shape to my thoughts
running wild in my head.
These lines that form words
are lassoed into sentences, then paragraphs
a calm order brought from the spiraling chaos.
My soul is tamed
At least for a while
From the simple act of writing.
By Jade M. Wong
A chilly breeze plucked a white petal off the tulip sitting at the open window.
He loves me.
A second plucked petal floated with the breeze before coming to a rest on the damp soil.
He loves me not.
The flowerpot trembled as a stronger wind blew in, sending petals fluttering in the air.
He broke my heart.
A giant gust rushed in, flinging the flowerpot across the room, shattering the clay and showering the floor with soil.
So I’ll break everything he’s got.
By José Cañusí
They say at the core of every man lay an empty vessel.
Pedro fills his with money. José fills his with religion. Ernesto pours alcohol into his.
Claudio stuffs his core with self-admiration.
Turns out Pedro’s vessel is too small to hold all his money, so he gives his leftover cash to José, who always exudes the type of inner peace Pedro so covets. (Plus, he can get a tax write-off.)
José secretly craves Ernesto’s decadence.
Meanwhile, Claudio assumes they all envy him. (He’s right, of course.)
By Robert Krenzel
This Lady has lost her way.
She is an immigrant: a French girl, originally.
She welcomed others, lighting the way to a better life.
She watched, twice, with pride as the boys sailed off to rescue her homeland. She counted them back; too many never returned.
She wept as she watched the towers burn and fall. They were immigrants, like her. How could they?
She grew angry and suspicious.
Lately she has lost her way. The light has gone dark. She no longer welcomes the wretched refuse.
Only for a time. Maybe just for a few years. Maybe just four.
Bio: Bob Krenzel writes historical fiction in his spare time. A 24-year Army veteran, he served in the Balkans, Iraq, and Afghanistan.
By the High Guru of Haiku
phones in our pockets
sweatshop blood on our fingers
Siri, don’t you care?
To celebrate the conclusion of the second calendar year of our existence, Drabble editors (both of us) have compiled a list of some our favorite posts of 2016.
While we are grateful to every Drabble reader and writer for helping to make this small corner of the Internet such an unexpected success, we wanted to call out a few pieces that we feel truly accomplished what we were setting out to do when we began this blog back in March 2015.
Here (in no particular order) are ten drabbles we truly loved in 2016, enjoy:
Writing Advice by Jamie Thunder
Dear Me by Anonymous
Goodbye by Mentalist at Work
The Field by Ali Grimshaw
Vesuvius by T.N. Haynes
The Haunted Mirror by Rufus Woodward
Her Blank Page by Isabelle Andres
Q & A by Nick Dunster
The Color of Poppies by S.S. Hicks
Run by Vidur Sahdev
You will fall in love with words and writing, and in the process, you’ll hear this a lot: “Don’t write like a victim.”
Don’t listen! Don’t let anyone else tell you how to express your truth.
Someday soon you will come to realize the Universe is arbitrary. Things will happen that are outside of your control, and some of those things will be painful. Yet, somehow you will make it through, I promise.
I’ve written this because I love you, and I don’t want you to ever forget that.
Your future self