drabbles

, ,

October 12th: Cleared

, ,
 
Three autumnal sycamore leaves, lying on an earth floor. From left to right they are yellow, orange, and green. Across the image in orange: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Cleared

Hello! Come in, do take a seat. Nine-thirty? Excellent.

Yes, please come through. Leave your belongings here, they'll be quite safe.

Oh, no. There's no electrode cap, of course not. What do you think this is, the twentieth century? Ha, yeah, I know.

Yes, just there. A little to the left? Comfortable?

Great. Hold still.

That's it, please remember to collect your things.

For our own quality control, a few questions...

Do you feel any guilt? remorse? We have video footage of the event if you need to verify your emotions.

None at all?

Excellent.

Thank you for your custom.

I thought it was time for something a bit more sci-fi. Because sci-fi is definitely not horror, right?

Vaguely terrifying post-script: someone described, recently, a conversation they’d had with their kid. It concerned something that had happened in the 80s, or "as my kids call it, the late 1900s”. Apparently the twentieth century was quite a long time ago. I don’t really understand how this occurred.

, ,

October 11th: And Tell Your Father Why There Are No Peas WIth Dinner

, ,
 
A close up of bronze, brown and yellow leaves on a bush. Across the image in yellow letters: #DRABBLETOBER
 

And Tell Your Father Why There Are No Peas WIth Dinner

"Helena!"

Uh-oh. Full name. That meant trouble.

"Helena Dean!"

Surname. Big trouble.

She peered around the garage door.

"Helena Baynham Dean, why are there ice trolls in the chest freezer?"

That didn't even seem like a difficult question. "Because if I left them on the side, they'd melt?"

"Don't get smart with me, young lady. You know perfectly well what I meant."

Oh. That.

"Because they were getting attacked by the fire lizards, and I felt really sorry for them, and they're so small..."

"Lena, I know it's hard. But we can't get involved. You put them back, right now."

Am serious horror writer. Honest.

, ,

October 10th: Shift Handover

, ,
 
A long view of English country side, very flat against the bottom of the picture, some autumunal trees in the foreground. Most of the picture is blue sky, with white clouds. Across the sky in brown: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Shift Handover

I'm strong in my domain when the terrible door slams open again.

"Hello?" she says, blearily, and my heart sinks. Now He will be here soon.

The door, I urge. It's dangerous, you're not safe. Listen!

"Hello?" she asks, again.

He taps me on the shoulder, letting me know He's ready to take over.

The door! I scream, but I'm growing weaker.

He shoulders me aside, as casually as I do Him when she falls asleep. He's ready with smooth words: it's just a shadow, there's nothing wrong, no door there. There's nothing to be afraid of.

You're awake now.

The night before last, I was abruptly woken by the door next to my bed opening. I could see it standing ajar, but not make out who was there. I, too, asked “hello?”

As my thoughts fell into place I realised several things: I was in my own bedroom. There is no door in the wall beside the headboard. There was no shadowy intruder, just the dark shape of a curtain.

Nothing to worry about.

Probably.

, ,

October 9th: We Are Sorry To Announce

, ,
 
The tips of a tree's branches with yellow, orange and green leaves bright against a blue sky. Across the image in pale blue letters: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 9 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

We Are Sorry To Announce…

Rahid glanced at the needle: not quite dangerous yet. Maybe they'd get through rush-hour.

He breathed slowly, while Steve droned on about Arsenal.

The needle swung abruptly, and Rahid's fingers flicked the emergency reset. Alarms sounded. Signals changed. Trains braked. The home-made tin-foil gauge dropped steadily back to zero.

"You... you... " Steve stammered. "You reset that on purpose! I saw you! I should report..."

Rahid turned round slowly.

"Shut up. This isn't your patch. This line has to be fed. Regularly. Commuters' frustration, anger, horror... we give it little doses. Bust signals. Minor delays.

If we don't give, it takes."

I’ve crossed London twice today, and - contrary to what you might be imagining - my journeys went extremely smoothly.

Of course, I rarely get on that line any more.

In unsolicited reading recommendation news: if you secretly like the idea that there are engineers down there with home-made magical gauges, keeping the tube lines running as well as possible, you should try Rivers of London. I don’t think that idea actually features, but it’s very much that kind of a world.

, ,

October 8th: Bubbles

, ,
 
 

Day 8 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge!

Please note that today’s drabble comes with a generalised content warning (suicide, murder, death). If that is something you don’t need today, please give this one a skip and we’ll see you tomorrow.

Here is today’s drabble:

Bubbles

The bubbles rose.

Delicate columns, from the base of the glass to the surface. His eyes lost focus.

Had the bubbles streamed from her mouth like that, as she slipped under? Notes written, choices made, closed eyes and the thin strand of her last breath, drifting upwards.

There had been a note, hadn't there?

Bubbles, always bubbles, rising in clouds through the green depths after she slipped.

Bubbles, thrashing through the lake as she fought, thumbs on her throat. Surely not his thumbs. She must have slipped. Perhaps there was a note.

Ah, barman, another. Yes. Thanks.

The bubbles rose.

I’ve been away this weekend, with some lovely friends. After everyone dispersed to various motorways and trains, I treated myself to a glass of prosecco in a hotel bar while I waited for my train.

The bubbles in the prosecco were much smaller than I think is usual, and I found myself fascinated by the way they constantly stream upwards. What causes the seemingly inexhaustible strings of minute beads? Yeah, I know: carbon dioxide escaping from the liquid and collecting at nucleation sites, such as irregularities in the glass. But somehow, knowing that doesn’t make the bubbles any less fascinating.

, ,

October 7th: It Ain't What You Do, It's The Way That You Do It

, ,
 
A mass of greenery, and red-leafed creeper, in the foreground, almost obscuring a red-brick house. Across the picture in red letters: # DRABBLETOBER.
 

Day 7 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

It Ain't What You Do, It's The Way That You Do It

Janine sighed, and contorted her hands to hold down three of the buttons while tapping another. Again.

The printer rattled, flashing all its lights a colour she'd never seen before. Janine could almost feel it ignoring her documents.

She picked up the phone.

"Hi, Rick. The printer... Yes, I remember, but... Yes. Three times already."

Fifteen minutes later, Janine glared while Rick held down buttons.

"Is that blood under your fingernails?"

"No!" he snapped.

The printer whirred smoothly to life.

In the stairwell, Rick called a number which appeared nowhere on the intranet.

"Yeah, stick another goat on the order."

My day job recently moved to a new office. The new office has new printers.

‘Nuff said.

, ,

October 6th: The Last of Grandmother's Roses

, ,
 
Overhead view of two blooming pale pink roses, blurre ground, stems and grass in the backgound. Across the image in pink text: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 6 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

The Last of Grandmother's Roses

The afternoon sun lit the falling petals. I'd watered the roses; dead-headed them, read endless plant-care articles. But by the time grandma died there was only one flower left.

Grandma always said roses needed conversation. I took my cuppa into the garden.

"Hi, Roses. I guess you know about grandma."

I didn't know what to say. I gulped tea.

"Jim says I’m stupid talking to roses. He says a lot of things are stupid, like feeding stray cats. The other day..."

Ten minutes later, I was surprised to find my mug empty. Against the wall, a tiny bud showed pearl-pink.

Anyone who followed my #drabbletober posts last year, and is particularly observant, may have noticed that I am reusing all the same images I used last year. I set up the template for this post some days ago, and wrote today’s story in my head while eating dinner in a Polish restaurant.

I didn’t realise until just now that the image matches the story rather well.

Also, Polish restaurants: bacon in everything. Cabbage? Bacon. Mashed potato? Bacon. It’s bloody brilliant.

, ,

October 5th: It Must Be Something In The Biscuits

, ,
 
 

Day 5 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

It Must Be Something In The Biscuits

Three hours into mathematics coaching, Belinda began to scream. Everyone glared.

Only two months to go until the exams and we still had so much to cover. Noone had time for Belinda's histrionics.

Which didn't stop.

Ms Margolon yelled, and Belinda fell from her chair, thrashing her head against the floor. My head ached just watching her.

Millie, next to me, looked scared. Her breathing got louder and louder, and I could almost feel her shaking. She began to scream.

My head pounded, screams sawing my nerves. When Lydia screamed behind me, I couldn't stand it any more.

I screamed.

This morning, I was catching up on an old episode of My Favorite Murder, in which they were talking about Mass Psychogenic Illness (formerly known as Mass Hysteria) and the Dancing Plagues of medieval Europe.

So on my commute today, I was reading about MPI, and the thing that struck me was that (at least in so far as I could Google on a phone, with poor signal) there are no accounts of how it feels to be caught up in an episode. Possibly because most people involved are unimpressed with the “psychogenic” diagnosis and prefer to believe they are the victims of covered-up poisonings, toxic environments, viruses etc.

Today's drabble is an exploration of how it might feel to be there at the start of an outbreak.

Oh, and hey - marketing segue - did you know I had a story about the dancing plague in an anthology last year? The anthology proposes a wide variety of fantasy and sci-fi explanations for the Dancing Plague. So if you'd like to know what it is like to be caught up in university politics, rather than MPI, you could read my story Interdisciplinary!

, ,

October 4th: A Time For Prayer

, ,
 
A display of hydrangeas varying from deep pink at the back to pale blue and green in the foreground. In lilac letters across the image: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 4 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

A Time For Prayer

It was my turn. I solemnly waited while my cousin stood beside the coffin, and then took his place on the kneeler. I bowed my head as he silently closed the door.

Then I sat back, and took an Agatha Christie from my pocket. After thirty minutes my bum had gone to sleep, so I stood up, and stretched.

"I'm not being rude, Aunty," I joked. "I just know you didn't care for this stuff."

"I know, dear."

My aunt's voice. My atheist, rationalist, scientist aunt's voice; her eyes closed, her lips not moving.

I flung myself to my knees.

Earlier this year, I went to the Ghost Story festival in Derby (it was loads of fun! if you like writing ghost stories, you should totally go! and the museum it’s held in is a fabulous venue in its own right! see https://www.ukghoststoryfestival.co.uk/ for details). As part of a writing exercise, at one point a class tutor invited us to consider what we would do if “a man in Victorian attire walked in through the wall” right then and there.

Sitting in a well-lit room full of nice people, chatting about ghosts, it seemed completely implausible that any such arrival would be scary. I imagined my first response would have been along the lines of “errr, is this some sort of prank? how is everyone else reacting? how was that effect achieved?”

In reality, if I saw something incontrovertibly ghostly, I imagine my reaction would be much less calm. I imagine most people’s would

, ,

October 3rd: Lucky Jim

, ,
 
A very late sunset, mostly covered by grey-blue clouds, over a very still sea. The faded sunset are colours are reflected in the water. Across the image in purple text: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 3 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

Lucky Jim

Lucky Jim was lightning fast.

Lucky Jim had a wicked sharp knife.

Lucky Jim cut the throats of a thousand soldiers.

Lucky Jim was never caught.

The occupying soldiers imposed curfews. They randomly searched men in the streets. They arrested half the men in the town. They never found Lucky Jim.

One day, old Mr Ephraim announced that, in his youth, he'd been Lucky Jim. No-one saw who cut his throat that night.

Under her blanket, by the fire, my grandmother nodded. "Ephraim was dying. Legends cannot be allowed to die."

My mother yawned, and stretched, and began making breakfast.

This is one of those stories where I do fear that I’ve taken out slightly too much to get it under the word limit. Let me know what you think!

, ,

October 2nd: The Thoughts of a Succession of Men at The Desk in Room 3

, ,
 
 

Day 2 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

The Thoughts of a Succession of Men at The Desk in Room 3

1895

Iron alone won't be enough; they'll need to paint ritual markings, too. Henry has spoken to the blacksmiths, and reckons they can hide the runes in a fanciful design.

1948

Thank God the bombs missed it. Henry would have been terrified it would get loose.

1999

The paint's peeling right off. We'll have to redo it, though all that gilding seems unnecessary - I suppose it'll be pretty for the Millennium. Wonder who "Henry" was.

2033

The bill was horrific thirty years ago. We can't waste taxpayers' money: clean off the worst of the rust, coat of black paint, done.

Once, long ago, in the Beforetimes, I worked in an office in Holborn. Occasionally, my lunchtime walks would stray far enough East to take me over Holborn viaduct. The viaduct is an impressive affair: dark red paint, the arms of the City of London, and a large number of painted statues of dragons.

Recently, my office (sort of same job, different company) relocated. I’m currently auditioning different commuting routes, and today saw a twenty minute stretch of walking which took me under Holborn viaduct. The viaduct is held up by beautiful stone pillars, complete with gilded capitals, and ribs that are carved into curlicues, flowers, and dragons. The red paintwork at the sides is a mass of detailed gilding, and more dragons. You can get a decent view of it on Google Streetview.

The viaduct was built slap-bang in the middle of the Victorian Twiddly period. That’s probably all there is to it.

Probably.

A couple of people have asked what the easiest way of keeping up with drabbletober’s drabbles is. There’s a few options: if you use RSS feeds (which basically no-one does if they are not over 40 and a geek), then you can get a feed of this blog. I post links on Twitter and Mastodon. Or you could visit this link at your convenience to see all the drabbles-so-far on one page.

If none of those suit you, and you trust me with your email address, drop me a line through the comment form and ask to be added to a daily mail when the day’s drabble is cooked. This will be an unofficial drabbletober-only affair, and I will forget your address and eat all the evidence on November 1st.

I do also have a proper mailing list, which obeys all the GDPR rules. That gets used for exciting news like new stories published in real magazines, so please do sign up to that if you’d like to hear such things!

, ,

October 1st: All Right Noooooooow

, ,
 
Close up of purple-blue berries, against a background of red stalks and green leaves. In dark blue type across the image: #DRABBLETOBER
 

Day 1 of my 2023 drabble-a-day challenge! Here is today’s drabble:

All Right Noooooooow

She looked him in the eye: it was make or break time.

"You might have noticed I don't usually come out at full moon."

He reached for his pint. "Why, are you a werewolf?"

"I prefer wyfwolf. Werewolf is a gendered term..."

"You think you're a werewolf? Furry paws, howling at the moon?

"Please, listen. Seriously. I'm a wyfwolf, and..."

He turned around. "Hey, Barry! Caroline's a werewolf!"

"Does she like it doggy-style once a month?" yelled his mate.

They were still laughing when they left the pub. A disappointed grey shape slipped from behind the smokers' shelter, snarling quietly.

Hat-tip to Helen Zaltzmann, of The Allusionist podcast, for informing me in a long-ago episode that the etymology of werewolf is most commonly thought to be from wer, the old English word for man. As she pointed out, there are probably some angry wyfwolves out there.

, ,

Drabbletober 2023!

, ,
A spray of brambles (blackberries), mostly ripe, some still pink, against a background of green leaves. In pink text in the foreground, "#DRABBLETOBER"

Last year, on something of a whim on the last day of September, I declared my intention of inventing drabbletober. By November 1st, I had slightly mixed feelings about whether it had been a worthwhile exercise or not. However, we are now back round to October, and I’m going to do it again.

So, you cry: what is #drabbletober? It’s a writing challenge, in which I attempt to write a drabble - a one-hundred word story - every day. And because I am broadly dreadful about sticking to things if no-one is checking up on me, I’ll post all the stories here.

My rules are:

  • one story of exactly one hundred words (not including the title)

  • written on the day

  • posted on my blog before the day ends - which is when I go to bed, not at midnight

In particular, the goal is to do some writing every day, so no writing spare drabbles at the weekend to get ahead in busy weeks. Obviously, if you choose to join in (and please do! #drabbletober for all your tagging needs!) then your rules are totally up to you.

If you follow this blog, then you might have noticed that there has been… a lack of action of late. Some might almost argue that it was January when I last posted. The past year has been somewhat full of brainweasels, and I have spent a lot of time feeling unable to settle down and get any writing done. I’m going to try and ease myself back in with a bite-sized quantity of writing every day.

In particular, I’m keen to remind myself that writing is fun, and that I actually enjoy doing it. And - even if it doesn’t necessarily help unstick any of my major projects - I definitely remember that writing drabbles was fun.

So, since today is October 1st… on with the drabble number 1!

,

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!