They argue over everything, especially when it comes to packing the car.
Her approach is to plan ahead and pack methodically, whereas he grabs items on sight and packs with brute force.
One morning she challenges him to prove that his method is more efficient. He spends the rest of the morning squeezing everything they own into the back of the car, determined to prove her wrong.
Once finished, he brings her outside to inspect his work.
Thank you she says, before getting into the car and driving away forever, happy to have conceded their final argument together.
By Deb Whittam
It was a well-worn path; she had walked it a thousand times. When the sun shone she had meandered down its length, enjoying the warmth as she admired the flowers blooms. She had cursed when the rain came teeming down, hurrying down this treacherous path clutching her precious load to her chest as she slipped on the uneven cobblestones.
Sometimes in her more philosophical moments she believed that this daily walk encompassed her whole existence. It was the measure of her joy, heartache, despair, even resignation but then reality forced her to concede she was only hanging out the washing.
A weathered vine
through an accident of ice
in the wintry wind.
By J. Hardy Carroll
Her expression is wrong. And her hair. For the first time, he is glad she is dead. This would have upset her.
He goes to the bathroom to wash his hands. They smell like the funeral director’s oily aftershave – flowers and death. He washes them twice, sniffs his fingers. The smell won’t go away.
He never should’ve shaken the man’s hand, but there really wasn’t a choice.
He wants to change the arrangements, go closed casket. His shoes sink into the red carpet, making no noise.
Through the closed walnut door he hears the funeral director call him “the bereaved.”
By Brad Rose
Out here, you get more stucco for your money. I’m on autopilot, the steering wheel barely necessary. You don’t need a telescope to discover the bad planets, although a thing must be lost before it’s found.
Somewhere in my head, I’m swimming away from a blue boat, a warm, salt wind blowing toward a distant coast. And overhead, invisible in the dreamy daylight, stars so old they’re dead.
Like an insomniac’s sleep, I’m gone.
The radio’s music becomes a single note, the lawns acquiesce, the children belong to no one.
As I pull into the driveway, a body washes ashore.
By M. Irene Hill
Jake wraps his arms around my waist and kisses the top of my head. Nuzzles my neck and inhales my scent.
“The best part of my day is coming home to you.”
Guilt wraps its hands around my shriveled heart when he says that. Gives a tight squeeze.
I indulge guilt’s painful grip a moment. Then acknowledge the thought that pesters like a neglected child: The absolute best part of my day is when he leaves for work in the morning.
Not ready to say those words yet, I kiss him.
To celebrate the conclusion of the third calendar year of our existence, we have compiled a list of some our favorite posts of 2017.
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 want to recognize a few pieces that accomplished what we were setting out to do when we began this blog almost three years ago. Here (in no particular order) are a few drabbles we truly loved in 2017, enjoy:
Split Custody by Rachel Doherty
This Lady Has Lost Her Way by Robert Krenzel
Butt Dialed by Barry Basden
White Petals by Jade M. Wong
Delete by Bill Diamond
Of Artistic Temperament by Sophie Flynn
Empty Vessels by José Cañusí
Say It with Flowers by Hombrehompson
I Want to be a Crayon Today by czvasser
Spiders Don’t Write Poetry by James Blevins
Where I’m From by Nacklo