A while back I started going to an informal writers’ group here in Hamburg.
One evening someone mentioned the drabble, a story form I’d never heard of.
The word itself at first glance seems too close to dabble to take very seriously, though once you start on one you’ll see how difficult it is to do.
A drabble is supposed to test the writer’s ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space. These ones are all true stories on the same theme, each as close as possible to 100 words long.
Con artist escape
He approached me at my table, sat down, and soon was calling me friend.
We will have a good time at the party tomorrow night, he said.
Just let me call my mechanic to see if my car is ready.
Bad news, he said. It needs a new clutch, and I’m short of cash. Will you lend me $80 until tomorrow?
It sounds like a great time, I said, but I have to go back to my hotel to get the money. Will you wait for me?
It would have been fun to go that party, had there been one.
Lies at the office
We don’t pay overtime here, the boss said.
Little did he know I knew where they kept the bills.
Sure enough, he’d sent the client an invoice for overtime he didn’t pay us.
He was lying to us, lying to the client, and pocketing the difference.
I was so pissed off, I gave notice the next day.
Telling colleagues the score gave mixed results.
Two more quit like I did, but others resented me.
I guess some would prefer not to know.
Lies all the time
I asked my married friend why she never wore a wedding ring.
Because I lost it, can’t find it, and my flute playing! It gets in the way.
She went rigid telling me, eyes fixed, voice robotic.
This from someone who’d told me she was a good liar.
The ride back was filled with meaningless words.
When she left I said: I don’t know when I’ll see you again.
I did my best to make sure I never did, and it worked.
Do I miss her? In the way a recovered cancer patient misses his tumour.