By His Royal Heinous

The bride wanted a photo in front of a backdrop of sunflowers.

Years later, the groom lost his job and spent days scowling at his laptop screen, trying to look busy.

HER: “I’m never alone. You’re always here.”

She was right.

While she was at work, he planted sunflower seeds. Their yard became a jungle of yellow-maned monsters.

HER:  “Why so many?”

“I planted them for you.”

“It looks like crazy people live here.”

“Well, that’s sorta true.”

By morning, sunflower stalks were piled like cordwood by the curb, waiting for the trashman to carry them away.

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The Ink


By Rebecca Lee

I opened a book and its words flew out amid a cold and windy gust. I caught the surprise on my face in a storefront reflection. Inky fine print flew from the page. Jumbled. Tossed. Mixed like salad.

I tried to gather them up fast. But their shapes, their letters, their voices proved too slippery. Rubbery ink wet the streets with sayings; sentences bounced against pedestrian ears.

“Love I’m sorry lost stopwatch.”

I followed a stray sentence down the block, but the words were tangled: Their letters loose, their punctuation damned. I squinted, but their meaning was lost.



It was such a warm day. Tom didn’t usually mind the heath but something felt different today, he thought when he noticed the dead black raven in front of him. Suddenly, a distant memory popped up in his head.

It happened on a day as warm as this one. She was old and looked terrible.
Unexpectedly, she clutched Tom’s hand, looked him straight in the eye and said:

“The world as we know it will soon come to an end.”

And now he could swear he saw a dead black raven in her hands.

Lost at Sea


By Sandy Wilson

Our fourteen-year voyage has ended in this hospice. You are at peace.
I  imagine that I am standing on the deck of a sailing ship that has passed through a great storm. The masts have fallen; the sails and rigging float in the now-still sea. You, our navigator, have gone, the charts mapping our future blown away, our dreams scattered in the winds.

There are no stars above; nor land in sight. I am lost in this vast, endless, sea. But I must move on to my first port of call: To tell our daughter her mother has died.

15 Best Drabbles of 2015


To celebrate the conclusion of the first calendar year of our existence, Drabble editors (both of us) have compiled a list of some our favorite posts of 2015.

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.

It was a difficult task, as there were so many great pieces; but here (in no particular order) are 15 drabbles we truly loved:

Beach Day by Susan Durham

Daydream by Kazz

A Fresh Angle by Nick Dunster

Snap Shot by Rebecca Lee

Leaves #2  by Moshe K.

An Impossible Certainty by Author Unknown

An Expected Goodbye by Karla Dia

Anything that CAN happen WILL by Enos the Space Monkey

Tomorrow Never Comes by By Shyamala Sathiaseelan

Try Not to Slip by Craig Towsley

The Novelist’s Kingdom by Daniel Boshoff

I Can’t Sleep by Azul Serena

Walking the Writer’s Plank by Noshin

Coming Out by Emma

Adrift by Tom H.

Happy drabbling in 2016! And don’t forget to submit! Oh, and please consider following us on twitter @the_drabble



By Tom Fegan

A friend regaled his recent visit to Wal-Mart to me. He witnessed a carload of teenage boys and girls bounce out of a car parked in a handicap space. The vehicle had a handicap sticker on the back window and notations on the license plates. They gabbed and laughed outside the store as he approached, “My condolences.”

They stared at him puzzled. “That your car is handicapped,” he pointed.

The driver, a girl giggled, “It’s my grandma’s car.”

My friend nodded, “Thoughtlessness can be a handicap.” He sighed and walked pass them.

His Passing

By I. Horsburgh
Grandfather did not think much of the modern world. He found it tawdry. He left the undertaker strict instructions.
“I will be drawn to my grave by two black horses crowned with plumes. So-called ‘mourners’ in bright clothing will be turned away from the church.There will be dignity, solemn music, not some frightful popular anthem intended to be uplifting.  I do not want anyone uplifted, except for myself.”
We watched him drawn to his grave by two black horses, crowned with plumes.
“I had assumed,” I said to Mother, “that there would be a coffin?”
“And a hearse,” she said.

Memory Trip


By Sandy Wilson

The train is slowing down through the leafy cutting, the foliage fragmenting the sunlight, a strobe light effect inside the carriage.

You are standing at the crossing gate as my train rumbles slowly over the uneven rails.

The turbulence created by the passing of the carriages ruffles your blond hair, wraps the fabric of your dress around your slender legs. You are pretty, attractive.

You, a stranger, now travel with me, recorded in my memory, for the rest of my journey.

The train slows, stops at the platform. My wife steps forward, kisses me.

“Seen anything interesting?” She asks.

The Jar

Object Relations


I like to call it my glass pocket. The jar that holds scraps of paper, twisted, bent and floating to the top. Crinkled memories saved. Sketches of celebrities doing novel things in far off places. A picture of David Duchovny eating McDonalds on the Coney Island ferris wheel twirls in place. Diana Ross singing Stop In The Name Of Love to Isis.

Put a lid on it, they say.

But I can’t close my pocket. Its memories might shatter.

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