Until the Game is Over

Cedric wiped the blood from his stiletto onto one of the few patches of his ragged cape not already caked with pixelated gore. He closed his eyes. It would be a couple of turns before the enemy reinforcements caught up with him.

“I’m still alive, you know,” said Kyra, huddled in the corner of the small, nondescript room.

“And you have, what, one point of health left? I’m all out of potions.”

“Step away from the door. I can still eliminate a few of them before she stops beating herself up for making a bad play and starts the game back up.”

Cedric laughed. “What’s the point? Even if they eliminate us both, she’s going to reset the game eventually, and maybe not the next time, but at some point she’s bound to get us through this chapter alive.”

“You know, she’ll win the game soon,” said Kyra, sighing. “There are only four chapters left. When we reach the end and get to live out our virtual lives in virtual peace, I don’t want to have to remember myself dying without a fight a billion more times.”

“How do you know you’ll even make it to the end?” Cedric said. He heard shouting from beyond the short hallway where his Lord unit had recently fallen, causing the “Game Over” for the player.

“She always resets when someone’s eliminated.”

“In Easy and Normal modes, yes. But this is Hard mode. She may not be so willing to reset the game from now on without Lady Rosa being taken down.”

“Do you really think she’ll quit after this round?” Kyra asked. “Last time, when she waited a month to start playing on Hard mode, I’d thought maybe, just maybe she’d let us be without coming back for the final challenge.”

Cedric shrugged his shoulders. “Look on the bright side, if she goes for round two and you’re lost during this playthrough, you’ll be revived.”

“True.” Kyra shuddered. “Have you ever talked to Barlo about what it was like, being gone—totally wiped from existence—until she switched game modes, after his sudden but inevitable betrayal?”

“Serves Barlo right, betraying us again and again.” Cedric tried to sound serious, but he couldn’t help but put up a half-smile. It wasn’t like Barlo could do anything about the game’s storyline. He had to betray them, every time.

“It’s scary, being slaves to the game, you know, Cedric?”

The duo’s pursuers dashed into view, unwieldy lances swinging. “We don’t want to kill you,” one said.

“Neither do I,” said Kyra. She frowned as she gripped her Electricity tome in one hand and forced its energy out of her other hand twice, reducing the first enemy soldier to three points of health.

Cedric drew a dagger and jabbed it into the weakened man’s chest. He disappeared.

The first of the surviving enemies stepped up and thrust his lance where Cedric’s lightly-armored torso had been just before he’d deftly leapt aside. He stabbed at the soldier in return a couple of times with his dagger. The other enemies stepped forward, waiting their turn to face off against the Level 7 Rogue.

“I should level up this time,” said Kyra. She switched out her Electricity tome for a Blaze tome and eliminated the wounded Level 15 soldier with a lofted fireball. “Yep.”

“What did you get?” asked Cedric. He switched his dagger out for his stiletto and hurled it at the enemy two squares away. It appeared back in his hand, virtually bloodied.

“Just Magic and Skill. I’m a little disappointed, but I won’t get to keep them anyway.”

The Voice of the Game boomed from on high: “Nope, sorry. But she just turned the game back on, so you might have a chance at better stat changes. You two appear in the first cut-scene in 3…2…1…”

Kyra and Cedric shook hands as the world faded to black.

As Tar and Soot

It's been a while. Yeah. College got pretty busy, and the blog was one of the first things to go this time around, unfortunately. I'm back today with one last link from my Planetside Literary project. Here is my sci-fi flash fic "As Tar and Soot." I'll hopefully have some new content for this blog in the near future. Maybe. We'll see.

Around the Galaxy in 450 Sol Days

Today I'm direct-linking to my story "Around the Galaxy in 450 Sol Days" from my Planetside Literary solo magazine project of the last semester. You can listen to me reading the story here. You can read the text here.

Until Dawn

[Note: This story was originally an entry in the 66th round of the weekly Microcosms flash fiction contest. It was written based upon these three prompts: Jazz singer, Steve Jobs' garage, Tragedy. This is one of my odder stories structurally, but I've been fond of it since its penning a little over a year ago.]

            Duke hadn’t known that he was in Steve Job’s garage until long after he’d died. Or perhaps it’d been just a few minutes following. It didn’t matter much to a ghost, even if he did come out to haunt from time to time, crooning in his fetid bass.

            Whiskey Sunshines until dawn had always felt classy to Duke, even as they slipped down his throat. He’d liked to think they loosened his vibrato. It’d always helped him with the blues, that much was for sure.

            Jobs was dead, of course, years before Duke had broken into the genius’ garage. He talked to him sometimes. Jobs was a pleasant ghost, if a bit uneducated.

            There hadn’t been a moment’s hesitation. The girl had shot him, and he had crumpled to the ground: clutching, then dying.

            Dying is like alcohol. It makes you feel loose, but you always regret it the next day, even if you don’t.

            Duke remembered the look in her eyes. She’d hit a note and belted: cawing, then noticing it was dearly, horribly wrong. Duke spoke with her ghost too, from time to time.

            She always began with an apology and ended with a drink.

Planetside Literary

First, I will point out that I finally updated my Blogger photo. Yes, I know that Blogger crunched it and it's blurry, but I kind of like it like that, so it'll stay that way for at least a little while, haha. I was a senior in high school when my old photo was taken, and I just finished my junior year of undergrad the day before this photo was taken (which also happens to be today!).

It's probably a questionable decision to release so much of my unpublished work at once, through the link which will be following soon, but I feel good about it. I'm willing to give up on the chance of publishing these pieces elsewhere in order to have some excellent content on here.

Without further ado, I present to you my solo magazine that I created for my Digital Magazine Production class this semester: Planetside Literary. The only previously-published written content in the "magazine" is my story "The Last Photo of Humanity," which can be read a few different places on the web, both in its original contest entry form and in its revised Digital Portfolio form.

Since I don't expect anyone to read everything I've published here all at once, I'll be suggesting certain pieces to read every once in a while over the next month or two. The first piece up is my sci-fi flash fiction piece "As Tar and Soot." I don't know that this story ever found its full potential, but it's one of my personal favorites, and I'd love to know what y'all think about it. And by "y'all," of course, I mean the two or so people who currently read my blog, haha. Anyway, peace out, good friends. More suggestions from my web magazine to come. (Though you can read ahead if you really want to.)

Not a Herald, Just a Boy

[Note: It's been quite a while since I last posted a story here, so I've decided to let this one slip from the slush-pile parade, to reside here forever.]

            My comforter suddenly felt very heavy at my feet. I turned over. By the age of eighty you have gotten used to such nighttime oddities.

            A chill sprung up on the back of my neck. I tugged my blanket up over it. The cold came again, penetrating straight to the bone. My body went rigid.

            “Wake up, and face your end.” It was a young voice, but gurgled, as if spoken through a mouthful of water.

            I burrowed into my pillow. Nighttime oddities.

            “Don’t be afraid,” said the voice. I felt a hand on my back. It was warm, in stark contrast to the frigid breath pouring down on me.

            I reached up for my spectacles. The moon let a thin pool of light in through my window, just enough to see the silhouette. Despite the darkness, the form owning that awful voice was distinct. Its cloak was black, so black it glowed. Its face was chalky. And familiar.

            The Grim Reaper smiled. He held no weapon, so far as I could see. But his sea-green eyes sent terror into my heart. “Hello, Grandpa.”

            “Thomas.” I shut my eyes and begged for this dream to end.

            “Put your hand on my chest. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. I just want you to feel something.”

            His breathing did not cease. I placed my shaking hand out to touch his ribs. Then the bone fell away. My hand went damp.

            “I was so excited to finally go fishing with you grandpa. My parents were worried at first. What made this time different, that you finally gave in to my pleading? They were only a little surprised when they received the news that I had drowned. An accident, of course.”

            “Wake up. Wake up now,” I muttered.

            “I gave you a year grandpa. To atone. To feel a single shred of guilt.” I felt his hand on my chest.

            “You are the Reaper, Thomas? Herald of the Dead?”

            “I am your Reaper, grandpa. Not a herald, just a boy.”

            My chest softened. I fought to breath. But it did no good. My lungs were sandbags full of the water.

Under Bendel's Sway

Unfortunately, I can't figure out a way to link directly to the story, but if you scroll through these comments a bit, you'll find my entry in the 80th iteration of the Microcosms flash fiction contest.  It's titled "Under Bendel's Sway," it's 300 words in length, and it can be variously labeled as thriller, horror, or fantasy. Find it here.

(Added Note: I got 2nd-place out of the 16 entries!)

I'll Take This Over Suffocation

[Note: This story started out as a drabble--a story numbering exactly 100 words--some time in late 2014.  I later expanded it to a bit over 500 words, submitted it to a few places that rejected it, then used it in the March 2015 issue of my high school's newspaper as my fiction story for the issue.  I read it over again a few days ago, and I really liked it, so I'm gonna give it some new life here.]

            There is no wind on Edelraa.  Its trees never bend nor bow.  Its birds never ride a gale nor battle a gust.  And so they fall, for they have not grown strong like those of Earth.  Edelraa is perishing.

            I cannot change the course of our little colony ship, barreling through space toward the third planet in the system of the red dwarf Drake VII.  There isn’t enough fuel to turn back for home.  We must land on Edelraa, to survive there or be snuffed out like a candle; not a flame gently blown out, but one smothered under a glass bell.

            The first settlers on Edelraa were dying of starvation and suffocation at the time of their last transmission to our colony ship.  That was three months ago.  They have not responded to our replies.

            There are five hundred and thirty “people” aboard Sterling.  I’ll explain the quotes later.  We come from forty-seven nations across four planets, not counting the fifty children born aboard during our five years of travel.  The animals in our pen are multiplying, so much so that we’ve been eating steak every night for the past week.  The greenhouse is laden with green vegetables and healthy fruits, grown in designed soils.  Until this morning, I thought we might be able to throw our mission aside and live out of our tiny ship, without need to descend onto the deoxygenating surface of Edelraa.

            Two significant events occurred between the Earth-time hours of 05:00 and 07:00 today.  The first was an eerie transmission we received from the planet.  When it came in, I threw down everything I was doing and listened, believing it to be from my husband, the leader of the planet’s sole settlement.  As it turns out, there is a much larger power on Edelraa.  It calls itself the “Wind God.”  Apparently it is angry with us.  That explains quite a lot.

            The second event is just as supernatural and a bit more terrifying.  One of my crew woke up this morning dead.  Yes, she died, and then she woke up.  I had the brilliant idea to put on “Monster Mash” and see what would happen, but it only slowed her down.  She would be the “running kind” of zombie, except we’re in low-gravity, so the pursuit occurs in slow-motion.  Isn’t that how everyone dreams of having their brain devoured by a zombie?  So far she’s eaten two brains, killed three passengers with her plasma sidearm, and infected five other people.  Unarmed zombies are one thing, but pistol-toting zombies are a whole ‘nother story.  They give you a choice.  You can run away and get shot, try to fight and get your brain munched upon, or sit there and accept zombification as a new stage in your existence.

            I don’t feel a whole lot different as a zombie.  In fact, maybe there isn’t a problem here at all.  Since I don’t need to breathe, there’s no reason to not just form the colony on Edelraa as planned.  What’s the Wind God going to do, kill us?  I’ll take this over suffocation.

Lights Weren't Enough to Escape Darkness

A photograph: "Monongahela River from Mount Washington" by W. Eugene Smith

(The title to this drabble was stolen from @KiriMcCoy's tweet for #cmoa6words.  I decided to experiment with this story, both with narrative structure and physical structure.  The W. Eugene Smith photograph above served as the inspiration.)

At night, the city grins at me with glittering teeth, but its jaws do naught but taunt me.

*   *   *

I duck into an alley, and I remember. I retched here last Tuesday. Or was it Friday, before the fish-fry? I had a bottle, my last one, and I almost smashed it. I didn’t have the heart.

*   *   *

It came as a rolling tide against the sands of my sanity, that bleakness where she was but is no more. I saw her, last Monday—or maybe Sunday—but I now a beggar, she gave me naught a glance.

*   *   *

I find a liquor shop.

Rivulets

(I linked to this story soon after I wrote it, but I rediscovered it today, and I wanted to post the actual text of the story on this blog.  You can find the details of the contest it was an entry for here.)

            Rivulets of blood streamed down my fist.  “What have I done?” I muttered again, falling to my knees.  The tears slipped off my chin.  The blood ran cold down my palm.

            “You made a mistake.”

            I turned to face an ageless man, his linen robes cinched with a golden belt.  He seemed to be shining, but I figured it had to be from the crying.  “I hurt her.”

            “You did, son, but it’s over now.  You’ve learned.”

            “Who are you?”  My throat burned.  I cleared the dampness from my eyes and saw that he was glowing with fourteen rays of light.

            “Your guardian angel.”  The man smiled.

            I crinkled my forehead.  “Why are you here?”

            “I am always here.”

            “Where?”

            “Wherever you are.  Standing in a place beyond belief between your realm and mine.”

            I stood and wrapped my hand with a handkerchief, thankfully clean.  “Between Earth and Heaven?”

            “Sort of.  We understand it about as well as you do.  Only God knows.”

            “Why are you showing yourself to me?”

            “It’s been months, Rickard.  You need to move past it and remember.”

            I shuddered.  “Remember?  I remember.  I remember all of it.”

            “Not that.”  The angel shook his head.  “I’m here to make you remember what you learned when you were young.  Remember that you are not alone and that you are forgiven when you repent.”

            “I guess it’s true then.”  I chuckled, looking down at my shoes.  “Unless I’m just finally going insane.”

            “It is quite unusual, being given the green light to show myself, but I could see you suffer no longer.  You’ve always believed, son.  You had only forgotten what it meant.”

            “And what does it mean?”  I tried to look the angel in the eyes, but they were too bright.

            “It means that you will always be given another chance so long as you continue to believe in Him and that He will be with you always, to conquer all.”

            In that moment the grace of God poured down upon me in rivulets.  And I remembered.  I blinked and the angel was gone.
            No, not gone.  Just there in his little place beyond belief once more.

Best in Town

(Note: This story was my entry in the 31st round of the Microcosms contest.  My prompts were: Ice Cream Vendor [character], Thunderstorm [setting], and Mystery [genre].)

            The sky octopi were doing their dirty work as the line began to form.  A few raindrops fell to the sidewalk beside my cart.

            I counted each of the women as they approached.  Ten.  Twenty.  Thirty.  They were all gorgeous, and almost all of them ordered vanilla ice cream in a waffle cone.

            Lightning split the skyline, but none of the customers bothered to look.  They kept their eyes locked on my face.  I shivered.  Crowds attract crowds, right? I thought.

When the storm opened up, I expected my line to rush away in a frenzy; instead, the women all pulled umbrellas from behind their backs, opened them, and resumed their staring.  I adjusted my waxed mustache.

            A few of the women ordered novelty items or chocolate cones, just frequently enough to keep me in stock of vanilla while my wife brought over two more tubs from our apartment down the block.

            “What is going on?” my wife whispered to me, leaning in close.  She smiled at the growing tendril of patrons.

            “I really wish that I knew.”  I turned to my next customer.  “And what can I get for you today, ma’am?”

            The woman took a small brass statue out of her jacket and set it on my cart.  It was shaped like an ice cream cone.  “I would like to congratulate you.”

            Some of the tension left my shoulders.  “What is this?” I asked.

            “It’s an award,” said the woman.  “Your homemade vanilla ice cream has been voted the Best Ice Cream in Portland by the Portland Coven.”

            “By the Cov—”  I coughed.  Witches.  Huh.  “Thank you very much.”

            The witch set a second, smaller statue in front of me.  “And this one is for Best-Looking Cart Vendor.”  Fifty witches winked at me in unison.  I blushed.

The Rejuvenation Potion of Antioch

        The viscous green fluid in Cassandra’s cauldron flashed white as she dropped a pig’s ear into her brew.  Her hands trembled.  She groped the table behind her for a handful of newt eyes.  She didn’t turn.  There wasn’t time.
        Rat tail.  Molasses.  Three extra-large pepperoni pizzas—though anchovy would have been better.
        Cassandra wafted her potion, eyes watering.  Not right.  What was she missing?  She yanked the phone from her pocket.
        “Joey.  Urgent.  Last ingredient in the rejuvenation potion of Antioch?”
        “Of Antioch?  Well—”
        “Please, Joey.  My dog is about to keel over.”
        “The feather of a hawk.  It must be from the—”
        Cassandra knocked her supply table nearly clean.  Her right hand brushed a tiny stack of feathers.  She plucked a brown one up, tossed it in the pot, stirred her mixture, and dipped an ancient bucket down into it.  She plopped it down before her shepherd, then hoisted her head into the potion.
        Gulp.  Gulp.  Thud.
        Cassandra’s phone rang.  She let it ring.  “From the tail,” he was about to say.  A feather from anywhere else will make a poison.
        Her dog.  Poisoned.  Twice.  By her.

Out of the Metal Cage

       She got out of the car.  She really did it.  Left him.  It’s over, she thought.  It’s really over.

       At first she ran, down Eisenhower Street toward Market Avenue with her purse flowing out beside her clamped with one hand to her shoulder.  She looked to the road.  He wasn’t following her.  She decided to walk.
       It’s for the best.  From her wallet she pulled two 20’s and a 5, with her gift card for Chili’s.  Phone.
       Thank the Lord, still 20% battery.  “Uncle Jim,” she said.  “I’m in Carlsville, at the intersection of Eisenhower and Market.  Could you come pick me up?”
       “Well sure,” he replied in his soft-but-gritty vocal fry.  She hung up.
       The headline on the Carlsville Monitor declared “The War On Mars Is Over!”  She crinkled her bow, looking at it through the glass.  After a few lines, it was clear that the headline was just the usual media bait.  The war between the U.S.A. and China was still very much blazing on the Red Planet.
       What an age it is, she thought.  The wars on Earth had virtually ceased after the obliteration of the American East Coast and various parts of the other world superpowers.  Yet despite the peace on our home soil, humanity decided it could not survive without the taste of blood in its mouth.
       Isn’t that what I’ve been doing all along?  Giving up on Stephen just to go and date a bunch of low-lifes?  But I never needed any of them, did I?

Four Years Two Days Ago

Into the Ravenous Maw had its fourth blogiversary on the 15th.  I was still a freshman in high school when I started this blog.  My writing skills have improved greatly over the last few years.  Though I won't denounce my early posts, I definitely feel that my more recent posts have been some of my best.

I'm still not back into any sort of regular pattern of blogging.  I'd like to post more often than I had been before April, and I have to time to do it until college starts back up at the end of August.  One post a week would suffice, I think.  I would like to focus on quality of posts over quantity, of course, but quantities hovering around zero have their weaknesses regardless of quality.  There may be some TV show reviews or analyses coming in the near future.  I've been spending a good bit of time watching shows on Netflix, time that I hope will both aid me as a writer and give me some blogging ideas.

My rate of writing is low as always.  I need to work on that.  I've been absorbing a good bit of writing lately though, which is great.  There's also some editing to do and stories that need to be sent out yet again.  I've had no luck in recent months besides the poems published in my college's literary magazine (and a win in the--sadly--final round--at least for the time being--of the Finish That Thought contest back in mid-January; you can read that story here).

All things considered, it's been a pretty good year.  I graduated from high school and slogged through two semesters of college (all with 4.0 GPAs) in the last blogging year.  I turned eighteen.  I wrote some good flash fiction and managed to pull off a few good poems.  I filled the pulpit at my church for three regular services and one contemporary service.  And so on.  The next year will prove even better, I pray.  I hope it goes well for all of you too.

Safe Flight

I noted in my last post that I plan on posting every Thursday in 2016, and I plan on delivering on that statement.  Below is a link to a 242-word story that I wrote for the Year 1, 22nd edition of the Cracked Flash Fiction Competition.  I was declared one of two honorable mentions for the competition (essentially a tie for third out of eight or nine entries, depending upon whether they considered one story that was a few minutes late or not).

"Safe Flight"

Biggest Flash Fic Contest Win Yet

Head on over to the results page for the Year 1, Week 18 round of the Cracked Flash Fiction Competition to read my winning story "Special."  It's only 299 words, so right in my wheelhouse for flash.  It's not exactly my best story though.  I won't tell you the genre because it's a surprise (though you could just look at the label for this post; shhh).  This win over six other entries breaks my record by one entry.  This is also my first 3rd-person story to win a contest (and all of my published stories were written in 1st-person too).

Some Contest Entry Stories

"Usually the Arsenic Works" (Contemporary Fantasy; Special Challenge Runner Up that week)
"Two For Hell" (Horror)
"Rivulets" (Christian)

Just Your Average Berserking Family Man

And here it is, my new blog background, courtesy of my cousin Zachary Shenal (you can find his info at the bottom of the blog page), along with the story I have written to accompany it.  If you like the photo, please visit Zach's current Indiegogo campaign page.

            Edward stooped down to the cool, wet grass and examined the patch of fungi his elder son had run home to tell him about.  They appeared to be the correct shape: thin stalk, tall head with a moderate brim.  The regal purple of the heads looked poised against the glowing white of the stalks.  Not the most potent, Edward decided, but they would work.

            He placed the mushrooms in a sack and jogged back toward his home.  When he returned, his sons were already putting on their armor.  He smiled.

            “The water is boiling,” said Edward’s wife from inside the house.

            Edward dumped the mushrooms into the pot straight from his sack.  “How long?” he asked his daughter, who was sharpening his sword.

            “A quarter hour,” she replied.  She handed him his padded leather gloves.

            “Thank you, Mara.”  He slipped them on and flexed his fingers.

            Jonathan, the elder son, stepped through the threshold.  “Father, Michael is a little nervous.  He can’t hold his axe steady.”

            “I will talk to him, thank you.  I know you just honed it, but give your sword a few extra swipes with the whetstone.”  Edward strode out the door and put a hand on the shoulder of his shaking younger son.

            “What if they kill you, Father?”

            Edward chuckled.  “Oh, is that your worry, boy?”

            “There are ten of them and only three of us.  And you aren’t even wearing armor.”

            “You’re old enough now, I suppose.”

            “For what?”

            Edward opened his shirt to show his chest.  A dozen long, thick scars covered the surface.

            “Father…”  Michael went pale.  “Are you an Unbreakable?”

            “A more ancient Order, son.  My father wanted me to be an Unbreakable when I was a lad, but Unbreakables cannot have children.  I am an Ironheart, the last in this hill country.  That is why they have come to kill me.  The foreigners fear the Orders more than anything else.”

            “Will they fight me, father?”

            “Don’t you worry, son.  Hold your axe firm, but do not be afraid.  This battle is mine.  And if I am slain, it is your brother’s.”

            “I love you, Father.”  Michael wrapped his powerful young arms around his father’s blessed chest.

            “I love you too, son.”

            Edward’s wife handed him a wooden bowl.  “Fight hard.”

            Edward gave his wife a kiss.  Then he turned away and drank.  A party of men crested a hill near the old tree stump where he had gathered his shrooms.

            The world became blood and Edward’s heart became iron.  He growled and his sons joined him in battle.

What is a Drabble and How Do You Craft One?

It's nearly impossible to write a drabble.  Why?  Well, a drabble is a story built from exactly 100 words.  Crafting a drabble is therefore difficult, but altogether doable.  Trying to write a drabble is a lot more difficult.  Allow me to explain.

If you'd like to experiment with the literary form that is the drabble, my first advice to you is to not try to write a drabble.  Taking an idea and drafting it in exactly 100 words is a highly restrictive task that compromises the fabric of the story you are trying to tell.  The first step in crafting a drabble is to find an idea that you believe can terminate in 100 words.  This may take some practice.  If you aren't familiar with writing flash fiction, you may find yourself taking your story idea and turning it into something many times longer than a drabble.  That's perfectly fine, if your goal is simply to write a story and to have fun doing so.  Coming up with a drabble idea is quite difficult and not fully predictable.

The second step in crafting a drabble is to write a story based upon your idea.  If you want to make an outline you can, but for something this small, an outline only compresses the freedom of your writing.  It doesn't matter how long your first draft ends up, though any longer than 200 words and you'll have your work cut out for you.

After you have your first draft of your story, which probably isn't a drabble, but could be, the next step is to add or cut words until the story is within a few words of your goal of 100.  So far as I remember, I've only actually finished a story in less than 100 words while attempting to craft a drabble on a single occasion.  Normally, you will end up with more than 100 words and have to cut.  For the rest of this post, I will use my story "One Test Remains" as an example.

I wrote "One Test Remains" at a musical practice one day, with a pencil in a notebook.  It finished out at 124 words, not all that bad.  The same notebook contains the first drafts to two of my other stories, "Once and For All" and "An Ancient Beverage."  Those stories finished at 139 words and 127 words respectively.  When I went to type up "One Test Remains," I tried to get it as close to 100 words with basic cuts as possible.  (For "An Ancient Beverage," I actually rewrote the story to 106 words directly in my notebook.)

Here is what the first draft of "One Test Remains" looked like:

     Phillip dropped to his knees.  The iron head of a throwing ax arced over his skull, rending a patch of thin grey hair from his scalp.

     “Good work,” Commander Jean said.  He strode past Phillip and pulled his ax from the grass.

    “Am I a sage yet?” Phillip asked.  His wrinkled cheeks rippled.

     Jean consulted a long sheet of oiled calfskin.  “One test remains.”

     “And that is?”

     An ancient man, his skin dripping from bony limbs, hobbled onto the green from the barrack.  A green orb was etched below his right eye.

     “Him,” Jean said.  He frowned.  “You must kill the Elder in order to become a sage.”

     Phillip’s mouth went arid.  “Father.”  A sphere of blue flame erupted from his palm.  “Forgive me.”

It's a pretty tight first draft.  However, when you write a drabble, you have to cut everything that can be assumed and every adjective that doesn't matter to the story.

This is what the final draft looks like:

     A throwing ax arced over Phillip’s skull, rending a patch of thin hair from his scalp.

     “Good dodgery,” Commander Jean said.  He strode to his ax.

    Phillip’s weathered cheeks rippled.  “Am I a sage yet?”

     Jean consulted a sheet of oiled parchment.  “One test remains.”

     “And that is?”

     An ancient man, skin dripping from bony limbs, hobbled onto the green from the barrack.  An orb was etched below his right eye.

     Jean frowned.  “You must kill the Elder in order to become a sage.”

     Phillip’s mouth went arid.  “Father.”  A sphere of blue flame erupted from his palm.  “Forgive me.”

As you can see, they're quite similar, the second one just has as few descriptive words as possible.  You get all of the story and its associated flavor but almost nothing else.  That's what drabbles are for.  They allow you to infer a huge story through the reading of a microscopic story.  Most adjectives can be deleted.  An action can be replaced by a change in dialogue.  Any word that isn't required by the story can be removed.

I don't have an intermediate step to show, but often when writing a drabble one round of editing won't get the story to exactly 100 words.  In that case, give the story a second pass and really focus on exactly what the story is trying to do.  Often, the essence of the story is at the very end, for drabbles.  In this case, it's the reveal that to become a sage, Phillip must kill his father and that he is willing to do so.  This implies a larger story, one set in a world in which patricide is not nearly as taboo as it is in ours.  It also allows readers to wonder what sort of person Phillip is.  The 84 words leading up to the final paragraph allow the final 16 words to have an impact.

Crafting drabbles isn't easy and crafting good drabbles is even harder.  I've written about nineteen drabbles, three of which I expanded beyond 100 words (such as "Thought He Looked Familiar").  Of the sixteen stories that remain drabbles, I only consider nine of them to be good, as compared to my full pool of work.  Three of them were published by SpeckLit.com, where I was paid the minimum professional rate of the time.  If you'd like to read some drabbles before you attempt to craft them, I definitely recommend reading some of those to be found at SpeckLit.com.

Once and For All

     Darkness swallowed the horizon in one ravenous gulp.  Swathes of firmament submitted to the torrent of premature night.

     Mathos shivered.  His heart was a lump of ice.  Bile rose in his throat, sludgy as the blackness above.

     “Mathos,” cried Elle.  “You see that?”  Her voice quavered.

     A staff appeared in Mathos’ fist.  His eyes burned.  “Yes, my wife.  This time I must vanquish the Dark One once and for all.”

     Elle leapt at him, a silent scream on her lips.  Her fingers sunk in a pool of light.

     Mathos soared, bearing the shape of a dove, and entered the darkness.