On a Gravestone in Ireland: Died of Disappointment

By Sandra Arnold

It’s time to face the truth. Your story is abysmal. It’s trite. Overblown. It’s full of mixed metaphors and sloppy syntax. The characters are one-dimensional. The plot’s missing. There’s no beginning. No middle. No proper ending. Who on earth would publish it? It will never win awards. Bookshops won’t stock it. The critics will crucify you. They will say it reveals a lot about the kind of person you are. Take our advice and burn it. Think of the pain you’ll be spared. No need to thank us. This is the whole point of our Writers’ Support Group. Who’s next?

      
Sandra Arnold is a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee. Her third novel, Ash, will be published by Mākaro Press (NZ) in 2019.

I Cannot Write!

By Dianne Moritz

I cannot write; not here, not there.
I cannot write most anywhere.
Would I? Could I? In a car?
I cannot, cannot in a car;
Not even in my corner bar.
Would I? Could I? On a train?
I cannot, cannot on a train;
Nor like Hemingway in Spain.
I cannot write.
I am not Seuss,
Beatrix Potter, or Mother Goose.
I cannot write.
I’m feeling blue.
Alas, this verse will have to do!

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“Sometimes I write just for fun, but still dream of collecting my drabble in a book.” – the writer

The Perils Of The 100-Word Limit

By Andrew Atkinson

Dear Mr. Spencer,
We are replying to your drabble request of earlier today. It sounds very much as if you do indeed have an unexploded bomb in your garden. The description indicates a V62 model; several have been unearthed in recent years as building work has intensified. To de-activate the device please follow the following instructions very carefully. Unscrew the outer shell and put to one side. You will see three coloured wires. It is essential that you cut these in a specific order. Failure to do so could risk personal injury. Carefully separate the wires and then cut the…

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“I write just for the fun of it.” – the writer

Muse

By Cassandra O’Sullivan Sachar

I courted her; I wanted her, but she’s so demanding.

For ages, despite my beckoning, my desperation and writer’s block, she eluded me. I begged her to come and inspire.

But now she’s here, and it’s nearly a possession.

She fills me with words I must write, locks me to my laptop. I have laundry to do, papers to grade, bills to pay, a dog to walk, but she doesn’t care.

“Write,” she says. “Create.”

And I do. I’ve been dormant so long, a Mt. St. Helens writer. But now I erupt, spewing words like lava.

Still, I need balance.

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“I write to free the words trapped inside of me, gnawing their way out through my fingertips.” – the writer

100 Words Is All You Get

Andrew Atkinson

My name is ‘Pinky’ Rutherford-Gilbert. That’s not my real name; I’m a character in a drabble story, therefore I’m reliant on the author for, well, everything.

Pinky straightened his bow tie in the hall mirror and checked his central parting. Replacing his monocle he addressed his host, “I say, Old Thing, what time do we attach the nose bags?”

Good grief! I’m an imbecile; an upper-class twit in a story that P.G. Wodehouse could have written. Get me out of here, fast!

Clutching his chest, Pinky collapsed at his host’s feet. Dead as a proverbial—

Not that quickly, please author.

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“I’ve been writing drabbles for several years following a lengthy career writing and editing technical and professional reports, which were a great deal less fun.” – the writer

Writing is Like a Diet

By Linda Chandanais

My day off – before I’m out of bed I’ve formed a plan. I’ll alternate writing with life in 2-hour chunks to get something done besides writing.

7 am – write.
9 am – laundry, dishes, make beds.
11 am – write.
1 pm – lunch, vacuum, walk the dog.
3 pm – write, timer sounds, reset, write some more.
5 pm – pee, make coffee, write some more.
6 pm – throw a haphazard meal together for the family while listening to a writer’s podcast.
7 pm – leave dishes in the sink, turn the timer off, write.
Midnight – “Yes I’m coming to bed.” Soon.

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“I write for joy.” – the writer

Writing the Write Stuff

By Sandra Arnold

“Stan says you’re a writer.”
“Yep.”
“Nice job. Sitting on your bum all day waiting for inspiration.”
“Well …”
“What name do you write under?”
“My own.”
“Never heard of you. I like to read that crime guy whatsisname and the wife likes that romance authoress whatserface. Maybe try your hand at that, eh?”
“Probably not.”
“So what do you write?”
“Literary fiction.”
“Yeah? Whatsisname is a millionaire. Worth giving that a go, if you ask me.”
“Ah well.”
“I won a couple of writing competitions in primary school. Might take it up again when I retire. Bit of extra money.”

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“I write to create imaginary worlds that readers can relate to.” – the writer

Stream of Consciousness

By Bruce Levine

Brian Denby opened his computer and started writing. He didn’t know why he was writing or what words were actually ending up on the page. His fingers kept moving across the keyboard and the words kept filling up the page. He knew he had to be careful and not cross the 100-word threshold or his story wouldn’t be published. After about 10 minutes he looked at the word count and saw that there were 101 words. Rather than bothering to read the content of the story he looked for a single word to cut.

Cut.

100 words.

Submit.

Bruce Levine writes, he says, “because he simply wants to share with his readers.”

What If I Leave the Dog Out?

By John L. Malone

What if I leave the dog out?
You can’t leave the dog out. It’s hilarious.
How about the two phone calls?
Necessary to the plot.
But it’s got to be less than 100 words. What if I leave out the storm descriptors?
Then, excuse the pun, you destroy the atmosphere.
How about the phrases I worked hard at?
Like ‘masochistic glee’?
Yes.
Those frilly phrases? Use the scythe. Kill your darlings.
So what do I do?
Regroup. You can fit anything into 100 words.
War and Peace?
Yes, even War and Peace.

John Malone is “learning to love the restrictions of the 100-word format.”

So What is a Drabble?

By Toni G.

And in the end, it’s just letters
Arranged into subjective words,
Scribbled onto the pulp of a dead tree
Which would have preferred that humans
Only communicated verbally so that it would
Still be alive standing tall, soaking in the
Sun’s brilliant light.

           
“I write to share what I can with others.” – the writer