A Post for The Drabble

“The Drabble” is a popular blog and many people take part in it. Recently, they liked one of my posts/stories as they have, before (“The Story of Mathias Wizandar”). The seemingly most important rule behind a Drabble is to write¬† a story in one hundred words or less. For us lovers of poetry and flash fiction, it is one of those exciting ways/places we can express ourselves efficiently as writers, and prove that it is not so difficult, after all, to write a story that meets literary qualifications in so few words.

I have never submitted a Drabble until now (send one here ūüôā ). I sent the last one-hundred word story I crafted to¬†“Reader’s Digest”. It was not accepted for publication, yet I thought others might find it humorous. It was about a time when I accidentally felt the leg of a woman who I thought was my girlfriend; it was her sister. At any rate, here is a photo of a candle (please, pardon my amateur photography) and a kind of summary of “The Story of Mathias Wizandar” in the form of a semi-poetic Drabble.

To Light A Candle

As a Christian, Mathias endured thoughts of the use of magic for decades. Dedicated to his work, he stayed single yet happened upon a young woman in a bookstore while dreaming of fantastic, goldenly magical, shadowed forest glades. He read a spell book she sold to him and considered its prose, held his hands above a candle while speaking a spell to watch the heat of its light dissipate surrounding shadows.

The rhyming may have seemed cheesy, yet I think the summary was there, and it was fun to do something spur-of-the-whim. “Goldenly” was a quick neologism, I cannot imagine how many words may have been better, yet I sometimes dream of dark forests with trees that drip glowing gold from their leaves and attribute those ideas largely to H. P. Lovecraft, especially if there is a big tomb there with a man reading about fantastic worlds besides a casket.

I usually like to craft a good plot with an outline and re-think it to a more valuable idea, write out a draft and revise it, then polish it until I think an editor somewhere may want it. That all takes time, yet we, as writers, have our hopes and goals. Thank you for reading this post; I hope you enjoyed it. ūüôā



A Man at the Bank

There once was a beautiful teller at a bank. She was always presentable and, without a doubt, totally attractive to many. Her name? Forea. Of course, people always asked of the origins of her name; she usually said it was Nordic.

Forea kept considerable track of her customers, not always for her own curiosity, but usually to provide the best banking services for them. Mentioning new account types and investment possibilities usually meant increases in pay for her. These things were routine.

Most of Forea’s customers were overly presentable and cleanly with their fashion. Each with a highly unusual character, they often seemed to her to be what Grammy award winners might look like in person. There was one customer; however, he came in once a month, always on the twentieth.

Mr. Murphy was his name. He often came into the bank in a white, green, dark green, or black suit. If not a suit, he, at least, dressed above “business casual.” She knew he had red hair and pale skin, totally unique attributes that would qualify him for one of her oil painting attempts.

Despite his unique attire, there was one thing that Forea simply could not figure out. All of her customers wore unique attire. Mr. Murphy, however, usually came to the bank for one reason, and that was to trade five golden coins into his USD account. This way his monthly transaction was to convert gold coins to cash. Forea wanted to know why.

She decided to ask him one day. It was the twentieth, she woke up early and got ready for work early and made it on time, as always. About mid-morning, to know surprise, Mr. Murphy walked through the huge glass doors installed in the front of the bank with a white shirt and green silk tie.

Forea gladly accepted the five gold coins and completed the transaction, as always. Barely having the time and the nerve to ask Mr. Murphy a question upon his departure, said Forea, “May I ask you something?” “Well, sure,” replied Mr. Murphy with a grin. There was no aspect of Forea that was not beautiful. “Why do you always come in on the twentieth to change in exactly five golden coins?” she asked. Said Mr. Murphy, “Well, for one, I am a leprechaun.”


A Drabble…

The paragraphs below depict a micro-story I wrote for a blog I found recently. ¬†Interestingly enough, it is always fun to include classic literary devices within a ‘word-filtered’ sentence combination. ¬†I enjoyed editing the story; the original was over 300 words, over 200 words of their submission requirement. ¬†My final submission was 98 words. ¬†Due to the differences of the two drafts, I included both of them, here. ¬†By request I will remove the actual submission.
Sam and Sam
Both car doors closed close to the same time. ¬†A teenage school girl named Samantha and her male friend named Sam both exited their parents’ vehicles in front of the local bookstore known for its darkstout coffee. ¬†“How goes it?” she asked. ¬†“Great,” he said. ¬†They went in to order a coffee. ¬†They both liked cold house coffee; it was cheaper than the more extravagant lattes. ¬†“I will take a house coffee on ice,” said Sam, attempting to hand the cashier with crimson red-blonde hair a five. She then heard Sam say, “I will have the same, however I will pay for both.” ¬†She said thank you and Sam handed the cashier a ten.
After receiving their coffees they explored the store. ¬†There were a great many exciting books and periodicals. ¬†They both loved to read and did well in school. ¬†After noticing how much the bestsellers cost, they visited the music section. ¬†Sam and Sam liked most music, however they loved rock and dance the most. ¬†“Check it out!” said Sam, and Samantha ran over to him. ¬†It was a newly released greatest hits live recording by “nin”.
“Let’s put our money together and we can listen to it later,” said Samantha, too excited to wonder about teenage puppy love. ¬†“Okay,” said Sam – their parents would be back anytime. ¬†Their hour was nearing its death. ¬†They made it to the checkout line and it seemed to be keeping the pace of a sprinting post-storm snail.
Samantha gave Sam her five and it was their turn. ¬†There existed a man behind them deep in thought, holding a book titled, “On Living Well”. ¬†The new C.D. was listed for $11.89; the teller said, “Your total is twelve ninety-six.” ¬†“We are short seventy-six cents,” said Sam on accident. ¬†Samantha was confused; the man behind them said, “Keep your money. ¬†I will buy that disc for you.” ¬†“Wow,” said Sam, “What is your name?” ¬†“Atticus.”
Sam and Sam, by J. C. Martin, III
They exited their parents’ vehicles in front of a bookstore known for¬†darkstout coffee. ¬†“Howdy,” she said. ¬†“Hi,” went inside.
Cold house coffee,” requested Samantha, tried paying. ¬†Sam said, “I will have the same,” paid for both. ¬†“Thank you.
They explored. ¬†“Check it out!” exclaimed¬†Sam, seeing a new release by “nin“. ¬†“Let’s listen to it later.” ¬†“Okay.
Their hour dwindled.  Checkout kept the pace of a sprinting poststorm snail.  Samantha gave Sam her five.
A man held a book, “On Well Living”. ¬†“$12.96.” ¬†“We’re short.” ¬†“I’ll buy it.” ¬†“Okay.” ¬†“What is your name?” ¬†“Atticus.