Source: 11/9, America
By T.N. Haynes They say the aftershocks shook paint from chapel walls, For days Rendered pillars into powder, They say a triturate of promises/ /oaths unmet/ …
This is good.
Poem? Story? Brain vomit? A snapshot? A representation of a thought, idea, feeling or emotion? An entry point for thought or feeling? Drabble can be all those things. Drabble is a form, not a formula. Just as a haiku or sonnet has rules, so too does drabble:
Words. 100 or fewer. Drabble is a form that requires concision.
Is it even possible to write a good story in fewer than 100 words?
Yes, but it’s not easy.
Most modern narrative art adheres in some way to Shakespeare’s three-act structure (i.e., conflict, rising action/crisis, resolution;); whilst presenting a clear theme.
Must all these elements be present to tell a good story?
In his Brevity essay, “Writing with Gaps,” Grant Faulkner says, “I think the best 100-word stories move with the escalation any story has. They have a beginning, middle, and end—a telling pivot, an emotional velocity.”
The old writing workshop trope…
View original post 435 more words
By T. N. Haynes Packed my life and moved out West. Grew a beard, like the rest Numbed myself with wine and weed; Got paranoid watching TV. Alone, dark, I created bad art Forced rhymes, strummed gui…
Source: A Hipster’s Lament
Source: Silent Treatment
Righteous, my submission was posted on The Drabble.
As a child, the ads mesmerized: all smiling faces, pink-white sands, steel-drum music, and that vivid turquoise water. The Bahamas seemed like an exclusive haven for the luckiest people. I was not so lucky. My mom had cancer.
The Bahamas – even the name seemed exotic, a warm embrace of “ahs.”
Ba, as in “bath” – warm, comforting.
Ha – like laughter.
And, of course, Ma – mom.
Dad finally took me there the Summer after mom died. We went snorkeling.
I hovered with the sun on my back above a phosphorescent universe, blissful and sad – the warm salty water indistinguishable from my tears.
Let me be the first to admit that the naked truth about me is to the naked truth about Salvador Dali as an old ukelele in the attic is to a piano in a tree, and I mean a piano with breasts.
— James Thurber