Thoughts on Drabbletober

 
A grey squirrel, with a chestnut in its mouth, standing on its hind legs among long grass and dead leaves. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober"
 

On the last day of September I decided, on something of a whim, that I would write and post a drabble (a short story of exactly one hundred words) every day. The game was to write one, from scratch, every day - so no stocking up at weekends, or when I had spare time.

As of October 31st, I can triumphantly say that I managed to do just that (click on #drabbletober22 to visit the tag’s page if you want to read them all). Here are some of the things I learned along the way.

100 Words A Day Isn’t Much

A drabble is a surprisingly small chunk of text. OK, so writing a story isn’t the same as writing one hundred words. As I said a while back, the key (for me) to writing drabbles is to write a still-short-but-longer-than-that story and then try and remove words until I hit the century.

However, it’s surprising how quickly a drabble can be turned out - and they can be fun and satisfying. Yay, I wrote and shared a story! Look at me doing all this writing! If you want to feel productive, drabbles is the way to go.

100 Words A Day Is A Lot

Some days I didn’t have any good ideas. Some days I ran out of time. Some days there was quite a lot of fighting with the unfamiliar mobile interface for posting to my blog, because I was trying to write a drabble from a train.

However, there is a lot to be said for the accountability of posting things publicly, and the desire to keep up the streak kept me at it. I’m proud to have posted thirty-one tiny stories, even if I’m aware that some of them are… less strong than others.

It is, of course, infuriating that the drabbles people have told me they liked have invariably been the ones on which I was able to spend a lot of thought and time.

100 Words A Day Isn’t Useful

A couple of people asked me if I knew many good markets for drabbles - to which the answer, sadly, is no. I’ve sent pieces to Drabble Harvest in the past, and others suggested Deadly Drabble Tuesdays or The Drabble. Venues like Briefly Zine or Interstellar Lit are not drabble-specific, but do take very short pieces.

However, the list is fairly short (do you know of others? let me know!) Of course, all my October drabbles are now out in the world, and thus unlikely to be eligible for submission to most markets.

I think it’s also fair to say that I have made comparatively little progress with any other writing projects during October. I have spent some time writing each and every day, but I don’t think it’s done much to nudge me towards an actual daily writing practice. I’m sure that writing tiny stories every day is a better practice than not writing at all, but in the grand scheme of things I could probably use my time more profitably.

100 Words A Day Is Great PractiCe

Yesterday evening, I noticed (just as I was going to bed) that the fabulous Weird Christmas flash fiction competition (which I won last year! you can read my story - and a bunch of other cool stuff - here!) was closing. Yesterday. I had somehow completely missed the announcement (in July!) of the deadline.

So, I set on and scribbled out a story in my head. Then I blurted out a first version into text form, ready to be trimmed down to the requisite 350 words.

The first draft came out as 282 words.

Now, I’m not saying I didn’t do a spot of editing. (Only a spot. Deadlines!) But I do remember, last year, fighting to get my story down under the word count. This year? No worries. 350 words? That’s loads.

100 Words A Day Drives Engagement

I only have the most basic of analytics set up on this site, but I note that this month I have had approximately four times as many visits as previous months. It’s almost like posting new content every day is a viable strategy for luring people to your site.

I was interested to note, though, that despite tweeting links to my stories every day, most of the tweets got no reactions at all, and very few of my site visitors came via Twitter. I suspect that most of the traffic was made up of a few supportive friends who rocked up to my blog every day looking for the most recent story. I have, however, had some fun conversations on Twitter about drabbles, and have even got to read a few other people’s tiny stories as a result.

Despite record numbers of visits to my site, however, I gained exactly zero new subscribers to my mailing list. Which was not an end in itself, of course. But had that been my motivation, the whole thing would be a definite failure.

100 Words A Day Leaves A Gap

A somewhat unexpected bonus is the surprising sense of space and time I’ve experienced since November 1st. I don’t have a deadline every day! I have an hour spare at the end of the evening, and I can spend it doing whatever I want!

I can get on with that big editing job! (Am I? No, of course not, I’m writing a blog post instead. The plan isn’t foolproof.)

I’ve accrued some ideas over the month; a few times I started something, decided it was just too big to fit into a drabble, and set it aside for another day. I’ve honed my pruning skills, which is always useful for those days when you see a call for 2K stories and have a perfect fit at 3.5K words.

I’ve actually… missed the story that I was getting cross with a month ago, because it wouldn’t do what I want. We’ve had some time apart, and I’m ready to get together again.

On the whole, I feel pretty positive about #drabbletober. I enjoyed it, and now I’m enjoying not doing it! Next year? Who knows!

October 31st: It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

 
In a dark room, a turnip lantern sits on a shiny table (from which its candlelight is reflected). The lantern has pointy teeth, and is looking to its right. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 31 - the final day - of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night

"You get forty miles even after the light comes on. It's only twenty across the moor. We'll be fine."

Alex peered out the window. "Uh... risking it on a dark moor? in a storm? on Halloween? Isn't that asking for trouble?"

Robin laughed. "Don't worry. If there's one thing the gods of narrative hate, it's a cliché."

"You know them personally?"

"I'm an author. Practically on first name terms."

They pressed on, driving between wild, wet streaks of lightning. A tree crashed across the road. The engine died.

The one thing the gods of narrative really hate is a smartarse.

It is a dark and stormy night.

I mean, it’s dark (obviously, it’s nearly midnight) and it’s windy and it’s chucking it down. No thunder or lightning, though we do have a Met Office “yellow warning” for rain.

But it’s Halloween, and there are certain traditions to be observed.

It is a dark and stormy night.

October 30th: Immersive Theatre

 
 

Day 30 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Immersive Theatre

The actors were impressive. Four of them, matched in height, stripped to the waist and moving in perfect unison. They swayed right, left, right up the staircase. The bound, gagged figure they carried, draped in white silk, was barely noticeable.

They held her aloft, lights strobing, and blood ran realistically down their arms.

I pressed on, through rooms dressed as bedsits. An actor reached out and, breathless, I took his hand. He led me past the pushing, envious crowds and through an unmarked door.

His arm curled round my shoulders, pinning me down. A white dress waited on a hanger.

This afternoon, I schlepped to Woolwich (which, if you live in West London, is all the way over there) to go to Punchdrunk Theatre's latest immersive production, The Burnt City.

Based on the myths of the Trojan War, it was very murdery. As an extreme, free-range promenade production, some of the set piece scenes were played out multiple times. Every so often, a cast member would hold out a hand and lead an audience member away.

The rest of us carried on to the next room, trying to avoid all the fake blood.

I'm pretty sure it was fake blood.

October 29th: Moving With The Times

 
A tree branch, with red leaves and huge clusters of red berries. In the background, a suburban house. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 29 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Moving With The Times

The coven met every full moon in St Matthew's church hall. They weren't church-goers, but the rent was very reasonable.

Janet had known That New One would be trouble, ever since she'd insisted there was no need to render fat from a child's corpse. Instead, she'd made them use the liquid from a can of chickpeas.

The flying ointment had come out perfectly fine, but that wasn't the point.

Then there'd been the eye of newt debacle.

Now That New One stood protectively in front of the black rabbit Janet had brought for sacrifice, arms out, determination in her eyes.

This story is for Jen. As well as being very supportive of my writing endeavours, Jen is a reliable source of excellent homemade cake. The cake (though you'd never know) is always vegan, and frequently involves quite improbable-sounding substitutions.

Now, I'm not saying Jen is a cakewitch. But I'm pretty sure any coven would not sacrifice bunnies on her watch.

October 28th: Halloween Is Coming

 
A tree whose leaves are entirely yellow, forming a pear-shaped silhouette against the sky. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 28 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Halloween Is Coming

"Mummy, there's a pumpkin climbing up my arm!"

I force my eyes open, trying to make sense of what Ellie is saying.

"Look!"

She points. It's a ladybird, but it's orange, not red. The black spots on its back form a grinning face, just like a Jack-o'-lantern.

The train jolts to a halt. Again.

"It's pretty."

She seems happy. I slump against the grubby seat-back.

When she next says "Mummy" it sounds like her mouth is full.

All I can manage is "hmmm?" and she doesn't reply.

The train sways on, and Ellie's round, orange head lolls against my shoulder.

Sharing my seat in this train (London to Bristol, delayed departure, overcrowded carriages, defective track West of Didcot) is a small, orange ladybird. The black spots do - if you have an overactive imagination and squint a bit - look slightly like a lantern.

The train is about twenty minutes late but really, it's fine. In a situation where there were not enough seats to go round, reservations that weren't properly displayed, lots of bulky luggage and some overtired children… rarely have I seen so many people being so extraordinarily nice and helpful to strangers. Well done, people.

October 27: Yesterday's Cabaret

 
Bright red stalks of leaves against a background of green foliage. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 27 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Yesterday's Cabaret

Helene swoops onto the stage, her cape fluttering around her. Its silken shimmer lights her face, and lends a glow to her hair. She looks - almost - young.

Helene sings, and the crowd adores her. She slides between the tables, her hands trailing delicately along sleeves and shoulders, straightening collars, caressing hair.

No-one sees the tiny filaments that cling to her fingers as she strokes each beautiful, youthful face. No-one sees her spool them up, and tuck them safely away.

When the club is dark and quiet, she unwraps the miniature spindle, and spins new threads to weave into her cape.

There are some concepts that appear to have become, in my head, quite divorced from reality.

One of them is the nightclub. A nightclub is, surely, a place of glamour and sophistication. Singers weave around tables (possibly the tables are lit by candles) giving performances of heart-breaking intimacy. People are probably wearing slinky dresses. Cigarette holders may be implicated.

Needless to say, this image bears absolutely zero relation to any nightclub I've ever actually been to. Clubs are, on the whole, grimy, sticky places that you really wouldn't want to see in the daylight.

Perhaps I just go to the wrong clubs…

October 26th: The Hairdresser of Dreams

 
Fallen, yellow leaves on black asphalt. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 26 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

The Hairdresser of Dreams

"They got me a new job."

"Maybe they made you look smarter, feel more confident. But you got yourself the job."

"They got Charlie a record deal."

"No, they make his hair look good when he was headbanging onstage."

"Try."

She went, she sat in their chair.

"Haircuts won't fix anything."

They asked anyway.

"I want to be free. I don't want to be part of this unfair system."

When she left, the wind lifted the ticklish new ends of her hair. She ran into it, and the tickles ran right down her arms, faster and faster, until she flew.

I have never bought into the idea that a haircut can be transformative.

I have long, straight hair which can be trimmed by any moderately competent human in around five minutes. Like many long-haired people, I have found hairdressers to be scissor-happy menaces who are best avoided.

October 25th: Backstage Pass

 
Red- and green-leafed creeper growing through a lattice fence. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 25 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Backstage Pass

Gary spotted her before she spoke: glossy lips, cheeks pinker than rouge, eyes sparkling like the stage lights.

"Sebastian invited me," she whispered, the gold chain wrapped around her finger.

At least she looked sixteen. He opened the door, and she hurried towards the dressing room where Seb waited.

Go home, Gary wanted to say. Forget it. Sometimes he tried. They never listened.

"Excuse me?" A girl no older than his daughter looked up at him. "Sebastian invited me backstage."

She held out the chain and heart-shaped token that Seb handed someone every night.

Behind him, a gunshot exploded.

This was one of the stories that was quite hard to squash into a hundred words - I feel like it could have been a lot better with just a little more context. I’m never sure if I’ve taken out so many words that what’s left doesn’t quite make sense any more.

Still, if a completely arbitrary challenge is worth doing, it’s worth doing by the rules!

October 24th: Space and Time

 
A close-up of a fuchsia: green leaves and a mass of pink and purple flowers. Overlaid text: #drabbletober.
 

Day 24 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Space and Time

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't arrange that."

"What? I wanna be right there for the action! I thought your new cloaking technology was perfect!"

"It is, sir," the clerk stammered. "The machines are invisible to anyone more than an armslength away."

The man slammed his hand down on the desk. "What's the problem? Book me right in!"

"I'm afraid you're too late."

"Late? How can I be late with a time machine?"

"Even when invisible, the machines still occupy physical space."

"So what?" he snapped, his face redder than ever.

"I'm afraid, sir, that the grassy knoll is already full.”

I’ve always wondered how a time-travel agency would arrange bookings. Surely space is finite, and popular events will be full of time machines. Unless, of course, you can use your machine to travel back and get your booking in first? I’m pretty sure that would end badly… Let’s hope there’s a system for dealing with that.

October 23rd: Amateur Dramatics

 
A bare bush, with a few rosehips at the end of some stalks. At least, I think they're rosehips. Their appearance is not unlike cherry tomatoes. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 23 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Amateur Dramatics

The curtain fell, the crowd roared their approval. Later, in the bar, everyone clustered round the cast.

"That was amazing!"

"You were so good!"

"That scene in act two..."

Everyone agreed that it was the best production the company had ever done. The scenery, the costumes, the lighting... Everything had been perfect.

"I must admit," said Jim from behind the bar, "I was a bit worried at the start of the month. But it's amazing how it always comes together in time."

"Oh, Caroline always comes up trumps!"

"She lives for this place."

Backstage, Caroline slumped into a chair, exhausted.

Today, I’ve been down at my local amateur theatre all day, building the set for the upcoming production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. For the avoidance of doubt, I should state that I am 100% not the Caroline of this story - I am very much an occasional volunteer.

Whenever I go to help with a “get in” (setting up the stage and set for an upcoming production), I am staggered by the amount of work that goes into each show. I’m also usually vaguely terrified that it won’t all get done in time. Today, we built the basic outline of the set from flats - but there is more building to do, and one of the doors doesn’t currently fit in the doorframe, and nothing has been painted, and someone has to improvise some extra backing because the cyc* isn’t quite wide enough, and build a custom block to fill in that odd shape where the set extends off the stage, and locate some more 2-by-8s to fill in the gap above the French doors, and dress the doors with… I dunno, something, because they look a bit stark…

Caroline** will sort it all out. Somehow.

And this is all against the backdrop of leaks. During the pandemic, the theatre roof went from “we should probably…” to “we really should…” to “drop everything now, new roof!” It has been extremely wet in London this weekend, and despite professional roofers having already done quite a lot of work to make everything watertight, we are still at the “holy shit, more buckets” stage.

Now is not a great time for arts funding. Support your local theatre. Hell, if you don’t have one, support my local theatre. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof opens on 4th November.

*if nothing else, hanging out in theatres is great for your vocabulary. Todays’ new word: cyclorama.

**names changed to protect the guilty

October 22nd: Spirit Levels

 
Close-up a some tree braches absolutely laden with bunches of bright red berries. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 22 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Spirit Levels

Joey read it again. And again. He was new to the industry. When Appendix E got mentioned on the trade forum, he'd assumed it was a joke.

"Malc, are you familiar with this?"

Malc fished for his reading glasses.

"Oh, aye, that's been in the book a while. One in a hundred, is it now?"

Joey tried to keep his voice steady.

"And how do I arrange that?"

"Contractors. Call Mrs Allpress, offer her a grand and a bottle of gin."

Joey shook his head. Why on earth did building regulations insist one percent of new-builds must be haunted?

I thought it was about time we had a drabble that sat a little further along the silly spectrum. I know it’s the time of year for ghosties and ghoulies, but no one wants a building inspector coming round to check you’ve installed them correctly.

October 21st: Jack B. Not Greate

 
Fuzzy foliage, turning autumnal brown, against a blue sky. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 21 of my drabble-a-day challenge. Here is today’s drabble:

Jack B. Not Greate

"I bumped into Jack yesterday."

"How's he doing?"

"We need to practise. Let's play Lightning Nation again."

"He's doing well, seems really happy."

"The new band's working out well?"

"Yeah, he's..."

"C'mon. Jack's wasting his life in his dad's covers band. We've got work to do."

"He's making good money."

"He's spaffing his life away playing the three-chord trick for drunk punters at weddings."

"That's not fair! The bassline for Johnny B. Goode..."

"Yeah, that's..."

"Guys! There's nothing creative in old songs. Jack missed his chance. This is fun. We're going to go places. Lighting Nation, one more time."

Well, that’s the first time I’ve attempted a super-short story entirely as a multi-person dialogue. Let me know how you think it went!

This evening, due to an unfortunate series of circumstances, I missed a play at my local theatre. Had I made it, I would have seen something celebrating the heyday of The Ealing Club in the 1960s. It’s a short play, so they’ve got a band on after every showing - and I just squeaked down in time to snaffle the pint that had kindly been bought for me and watch an absolutely blistering set from The Hornets.

I mean, honestly, the bassline from Johnny B. Goode really is amazing. And tonight was also the first time I’ve ever seen a live band perform Wipeout. Let’s just say… their drummer is up to the job. And then some.

October 20th: The Puzzle Club

 
 

Day 20 of my drabble-a-day challenge. Here is today's drabble.

The Puzzle Club

They grabbed me and bundled me off the street and into a pitch black room.

Again.

Gas light hissed on, showing a figure in front of a book shelf: curly blonde hair, green suit, a ridged brown-leather corset over an impossibly narrow torso.

Her artificial voice hummed in my ears.

"Welcome..."

"Sophie, I want out."

She smiled. "I don't."

It had sounded fun, an antidote to life's mundanity. I'd signed up immediately, wanting to be plunged into a world of adventure and mystery. Intrigue. Immersive, high-stakes games.

"I lost two fingers last week!"

"I know."

The door slammed behind me.

I love the idea of bargains made, and regretted. Deals sealed before you realise they were a terrible idea. Contracts that must be honoured, even though they are now unwelcome.

When I say “love”, I do of course mean for narrative purpose. They're a right old nightmare in real life!

October 19th: Saccades

 
A tree trunk with a few dry orange leaves clinging to spindly branches. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 19 of my drabble-a-day challenge. Here is today’s drabble:

Saccades

You do know the human eye can't see in video, don't you? No? It can't. Your eyes jump rapidly from one point to another, sending still images so your brain can build up a picture.

Did you think you saw something from the corner of your eye? By the time you look there, it's gone.

Anything that can movely quickly can slip right past you. It could be close enough to touch you, close enough to steal your breath, but you'd never see it.

Saw something in the corner of your eye?

By the time you look, I'm gone.

Today’s drabble has been a massive fight. There was a lot of staring blankly at a screen. The I wrote a story that was… what is the writer’s technical term again? Ah, yes. It was rubbish.

So here is take two, on a totally different topic. Saccades are a real thing, by the way.

A useful - but dangerous - mechanism for hunting down a story is to search for something cool and interesting (in today’s case, what is the effect that makes your face look distorted in a darkened mirror) and then following links around until inspiration strikes. The downside is, of course, that you can get horribly distracted…

(I think the effect I was after was Troxler’s fading, but boy are there some…. hysterical forum posts out there about perceived facial distortion.)

October 18th: Johnny

 
Close-up of a tree, whose green leaves are just beginning to turn yellow. A couple of prominent leaves have made it to bright pink. Overlaid text: "#drabbletober"
 

Day 18 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Johnny

I used to come here every Friday.

I was sixteen, he was twenty. I drank Pernod and black, thinking it made me look sophisticated. I listened to his stories, and hoped he'd ask me to go home with him. He never did.

A figure hunches over the bar, just like he did, leaning forwards on his elbows. Beside him, a girl clutches an Aperol Spritz.

It's him. Still the same, still twenty, despite the decades.

I pause, and rub my eyes until he's no longer there.

The girl laughs, and flicks her hair, as if she's listening to a story.

When I was 18, I moved away from the town I’d grown up in. Many of my friends did the same. For a few years we’d all be back over the summer, or at Christmas, but slowly people built up lives elsewhere.

My favourite teenage haunt is no longer hauntable (it’s in the process of being converted into flats). Pubs we used to frequent have changed hands, changed decor, or just changed.

Occasionally I’ll see someone, and think: is that….? And no, it usually isn’t. It’s just someone of the same height or build, but twenty-five years younger.

October 17th: The Fallen Angel

 
A collection of small, ornamental bushes trimmed into rounded shapes, in a concrete-edged flowerbed. Most of the trees are green; a few are a dead-looking yellow. Overlaid along the road alongside: green text reading "#drabbletober".
 

Day 17 of my drabble-a-day challenge. Here is today’s drabble:

The Fallen Angel

Denzil said there was a fallen angel on the school playing field. Denzil was always saying stuff like that.

"No, really! You have to see it!"

He shuffled his feet in agitation.

Everyone rolled their eyes, and turned away. I knew it would have to be me. Again.

"All right, Denzil. Let's see it."

There was a pile of feathers on the grass. Probably pigeon.

He pressed one into my hand. "Keep it, it'll bless you." There were tears in his eyes as he stared at his angel.

Years later, I still find the feather unexpectedly in my coat pocket.

During autumn, I am an incurable picker-up of oddments. I find it incredibly difficult to walk past shiny conkers without picking one or two up and putting them in my pockets.

Often, when I put on a different coat, it will have a conker or an acorn in the pocket. Even when I’m convinced that I cleared them all out.

October 16th: There's Always One

 
Green leaves, with clusters of bright orange-red berries. Overlaid orange-red text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 16 of my drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

There’s Always One

As kids we were told never to open the chest. Opening it would unleash something terrible.

That was all our father ever said. It says lot about him, and our relationship with him, that we never so much as touched it.

Even now, with our parents dead, and the house condemned by subsidence, we stand - grown women in our forties - and can't bring ourselves to lift the lid.

Jackson breezes in, laughing. "You superstitious pussycats! It's empty. I looked a couple of years ago.

Helena gasps. "Two years ago?"

"Around the time Mum got ill?"

"And the house started cracking?"

Day 16 means I’ve officially passed the halfway point!

You may be interested to know that, until thirty seconds ago, it was a wooden chest. Then I realised that I’d straight up missed a word out of a sentence earlier, and in order to restore sense I needed to lose a word. Hence the chest now being of non-specific material. I mean, really… what are chests ever made of, other than wood?

October 15th: Literature

 
Reddish acer leaves silhouetted against a cloudy blue sky. Up one side of the picture is the text "#drabbletober".
 

Day 15 of my drabble-a-day challenge. Here is today's drabble:

Literature

It was beautiful: blue leather binding, shiny gold edges. I'd never read Dickens - never wanted to - but I said thank you, nicely, and set it on the shelf.

Did I imagine that it drew its pages in, to avoid touching the other books?

The next day, my copy of Obama's memoir was missing. Surely it was right there? Did the Dickens look... fatter?

I moved the blue book, wedging it between worn paperbacks.

The following day was carnage. Katie Fforde had pages missing, Brother Cadfael was crushed sideways, John Wyndham was on the floor...

Literature was clearly not for me.

Good evening! Today appears to be a tour of my psyche.

Firstly: I do not shelve my books coherently. They are all wedged in anyhow, based on size, order of acquisition, and whimsy. I sometimes worry that the spontaneous hatred engendered by shelving (say) Dennis Wheatley next to Oliver Sacks, or Anthony à Wood next to a book of Matt Pritchett’s cartoons, might cause some sort of explosion. (Yes, they are real examples from my shelves.) I worry about it a lot.

Secondly: I am not that fond of Dickens. He and I met under unfortunate circumstances in school. I have, I concede, since read and enjoyed A Tale of Two Cities, and can deal with A Christmas Carol at an appropriate season. I don’t mind a dated writing style (I wellied cheerfully through Harrison Ainsworth and H. V Morton as a teenager), but I find Dickens very hard going as a rule. He can write a funny line, but boy do you have to wade through the pages to find them.

Thirdly: I have quite a bee in my bonnet about the idea of some books being more worthy than others. Katie Fforde, Ellis Peters and John Wyndham are all up there as authors I have read and re-read, but who don’t necessarily command respect. But they are every bit as welcome to their shelf-space, here, as anyone with a perma-place on the national curriculum.

October 14th: Just Like Cats

 
 

Day 14 of my drabble-a-day challenge. Here is today’s drabble:

Just Like Cats

Martha's dining room was unbelievable: huge fireplace, minstrels’ gallery, ancestral portraits, the lot. After dinner, an unholy wailing started up outside. Martha rolled her eyes, and opened the window.

"Come on, then. Either come in, or stay out. Make your mind up."

A grey shape slid in. Human, with wild hair and staring eyes.

Martha shrugged. "Banshees are like cats."

"Aren't they omens of death?"

The banshee grew taller, and showed its teeth.

"You have to define your own reality, dear," said Martha. "They're just like cats."

The banshee closed its mouth, and went to curl up on the hearthrug.

I don’t know why I have a persistent desire to make banshees unscary, but apparently I do. I find something very enjoyable in the idea of a spectral being that can be a screaming terror, but can also be kind of domestic and friendly.

October 13th: The Lovers' Ring

 
Sparse grass, dead leaves, and a luxuriant crop of mushrooms (or maybe toadstools). Overlaid text: "#drabbletober".
 

Day 13 of my drabble-a-day challenge. Here is today’s drabble:

The Lovers’ Ring

Nick and I always felt like two halves of a whole. We thought the same, felt the same. No-one noticed that we loved each other.

We found a gold ring, once. We couldn't marry, but we spoke our vows and hid the ring under a stone behind the church.

That was before the war.

I don't know where Nick is, now, and we need money. I told the guys I'd fetch the ring, and sell it. Nick would understand, I knew he would.

When I moved the stone, I found a crumpled scrap of paper.

"I know you'll understand, N"

I don’t have a good origin story for this. There I was, sitting innocently in a pub with a pint of beer, listening to a nice acoustic set from Pete Green, and the idea just popped into my head.

I had expected that today’s drabble might be about music, and community, and old friends long unseen… but apparently not.