Uncategorized,  Writing Prompt

Weekly Flash Fiction Contest! Write An Apples to Apples Drabble!

This is the place for a weekly flash fiction contest!

The Apples To Apples Drabble! 

The Rules: 

  1. Write a drabble. A drabble is a 100-word story, with beginning, middle and end. A drabble can be any genre. Make it exactly 100 words. You can do it. That’s what adjectives and adverbs are for.
  2. Include each of the three Apples To Apples cards in the photo. All three. Not two. Not four. ALL THREE. New cards are chosen every week.
  3. Paste your drabble into the comments below. Then share this with your friends. The more comments you get on your entry, the more likely you are to win!
  4. Absolutely no links, screen shots or salesy type of behavior in the content entry. 
  5. Winners are chosen by the amount of positive response they get. Comments like, “This is great!” or “How funny!” or “Good job!” are the kinds of things that will be counted. Negative comments like, “this contest sucks” or “the rest of the entries are losers” or “WTF?” will be unapproved. The author of this blog reserves the right to reject or block any content that is suspected of originating from trolls. In the event of a tie, winners will be chosen by this method. 
  6. Limit 3 entries per person. If you’re having fun, come back next Friday.
  7. The contest is open from 5:00 AM EST every Friday and closes down the following Sunday night at midnight.
  8. Winning entries will be announced on the 10 Minute Novelists Facebook group page the following Monday. The entry will also be published in the monthly digital newsletter, 10 Minute Novelists Insider. 
  9. All entries must contain no profanity, no graphic violence or erotica and no hate speech. Entries that do not abide by this rule will not be approved. Consistent abuse of this rule will warrant a blocked user.

This week’s cards!

Katharine Grubb is an author, poet, homeschooling mother, camping enthusiast, bread-baker, and believer in working in small increments of time. She leads 10 Minute Novelists, an international Facebook group of time-crunched writers. She lives with her family in Massachusetts.


  • Debolina Coomar

    It was a peaceful, moonlit night. He waited for her at the beach with a bottle of wine and the ring. She came. She looked mesmerizing in her mustard coloured dress.
    He poured the wine, and after a few sips, she started to pour her heart. She talked about they met, their romantic memories, their funny moments. He smiled and listened to it all. Soon, she passed away in his arms, smiling. He kept the ring back in his pocket, and a drop of tear rolled down his cheeks. She thought he was just a friend, she loved someone else.

  • Jamie Hershberger

    The girls and I were enjoying a peaceful day at the beach when he showed up. Ever the hero, he launched the girls into the water from his shoulders, and allowed them to bury him in the sand.
    Meanwhile, I struggled to turn sandwiches for three into lunch for four.
    He ran over, throwing sand onto my blanket, and grabbed a sandwich.
    “No mustard? I can’t believe you, Helen.”
    He sat, facing the water, his back to me. I looked down at the plastic knife in my hand, and struggled against the urge to jam it between his shoulder blades.

  • HJ Penrod

    “When you told me our date was a ‘tasting’, I assumed wine – not mustard!”
    He just smiled and handed her the first sample, a mild French Dijon. The specialist deli was tucked away down a quaint narrow cobbled street. They were the only customers and had the best table in the window.
    After a few increasingly spicy samples, a waitress brought a beautifully prepared antipasti platter with cheese, artisanal bread, olives and mustards. In the centre, a stunning diamond ring sparkled.
    “Still wish we were at the beach?” he asked.
    “No” she smiled, “I think a peaceful proposal is perfect!”

  • Alva Holland

    Buckets and spades – check. Fold-up chairs – check. Picnic basket – check. Tartan blanket – check.
    ‘What’s that poking out of your tote bag?’
    ‘It’s Cluedo.’
    ‘Cluedo? Who on earth brings a board game to the beach? You know we always fight over it. It’ll be murder. I’m after a peaceful day. Please leave ‘Cluedo’ behind.’
    ‘But it’s my turn to be Colonel Mustard. I wanted to play him on the beach.’
    ‘You can be Colonel Mustard the next time we play at home. Leave him.’
    The yellow Colonel and the recalcitrant teenager came to the beach. There was murder.
    Such is life.

  • Julia

    The beach was quiet. Early morning fog crept over the pebbles, peaceful and thick. The only sound was the gently rolling waves, lapping against the fallen bodies. Boats bumped into each other, bouncing away with little resistance. Up on the hill, the Lieutenant went to remove his mask.
    ‘No, don’t.’ his Captain said. ‘Not yet. Mustard gas is potent. It’s still too dangerous.’
    ‘I didn’t know. I thought they were Germans. They didn’t tell me there was a drill. I didn’t know.’
    The corpses on the beach all wore British uniform. The Lieutenant’s hands shook as he removed his mask.

  • Tina Cattane

    Tuesday morning the beach is void of people, but I wouldn’t say it is quiet. There are waves and seagulls and wind. No, it isn’t quiet, but it is peaceful, and if I try hard enough I may even be able to forget him. But grief is a funny thing, just when you start to think it may have loosened its grip, it grabs on tighter. I wipe the wetness from my face as I walk slowly up the steps onto the boardwalk.
    “Red Hots” calls a vendor. I approach, fake a smile and say,
    “Do you have any mustard?”

  • Michel Daw

    “This certainly cuts the mustard, sergeant,” the young soldier said, depositing his bag.

    “What?” grumbled the old man.

    “The beach,” the young man indicated. “Peaceful after all of that noise, don’t you think?”


    It was younger man’s turn to say what.

    “It cuts the muster, means that it’s good enough to not be inspected. Get it right.”

    The sergeant looked at the bloodied private, knowing that he didn’t look much better. “It doesn’t matter,” he continued. “Let’s enjoy it while we can.” He suspected that they wouldn’t survive the night, that the enemy would find them. He was right.

  • Kris Baker Dersch

    She wasn’t invited to my picnic.

    It was February, but the baby was fussy, the toddler was climbing, and the older one was in his “no” phase. I threw white bread, hot dogs, and mustard into the cooler and drove off, figuring we’d have the place to ourselves.

    The four-year-old saw her first, but the toddler alerted me. “Train! Train!” he called.

    This isn’t the season for whales. But she was there. Maybe she needed to escape from her children.

    She breached three times, so we knew we’d really seen her, then disappeared, leaving us alone on the peaceful beach.

  • Andra Dill

    An idyllic afternoon at the beach shared with gulls, flies, and wave chasing children. The tyrant in my wife’s arms looks so peaceful. Gently rocking the sweaty babe, she mouths “Hurry!” unnecessarily at me.

    Large brown eyes intently follow my movements as I add a stripe of mustard to his Lordship’s sandwich. His face reddens and he lunges forward. Instantly, I thrust the food into his grasping hands, granules of sand cling to his palms. My wife and I sag in relief as he maws the offering.

  • Jeffrey H. Toney

    My four-year-old daughter bolted towards the salty sea foam, a trail of tiny footprints on dry, hot sand, leaning left, then right, the beach beseeching us to leave behind daily travails. Chasing after her, paternal instincts drew me into the peaceful bobbing azure waves, my jeans darkened and gritty, sneakers bogged down, petite crustaceans exploring domains unknown, my ankles itchy and shockingly cool. Reaching out to her, a wave caressed her beaming cheek, washing away lunch’s mustard. Air drying, we packed golden sunbeam sand castles, toes tickled by wet green blades, fingertips carving arched doorways, taupe balconies holding her daydreams.

  • Bob Allen

    “What color is that?”
    “I don’t know, mustard Maybe?”
    “Nah, mustard would be much more yellow.”
    “Beach then?”
    “Are you color-blind, the color of the beach would be much paler than that.”
    George turned me and ask “what’s with those two?”
    “I don’t know, about a week ago they started coming in and arguing about the color of that wall.”
    “It’d be much more peaceful in here if they would make up their minds.” George said, as we stared at the two men facing two different color areas of the wall each wearing sunglasses and carrying a white cane.

  • betty badgett

    I could smell the sea air as I walked along the board walk in Atlantic City.
    It was evening. The sun was beginning to set for the evening as large white
    seagulls flew in large numbers over my head. I was alone for the first time
    since my husband passed. We often spent many weekends here at the beach.
    It doesn’t feel the same now. It was peaceful here, and the white sand that
    spread out as far as you could see was beautiful. I thought to myself,
    there must be a God. Who could have created all the beauty I’m beholding
    at this moment? I wipe away a lonely tear as it runs down my face and head
    to the nearest hot dog stand. “one hot dog please with mustard.” I whispered as I tried to wipe away the tears as they started to fall.

  • betty badgett

    There’s nothing like walking along the beach in Atlantic City. This is my
    first time here since my husband passed a year ago. I remember how peaceful
    it is here with the sea gulls flying over head. Vending carts align the board
    walk selling hot dogs, French fries and cotton candy. I slowly make my way
    to the nearest restaurant and order our favorite hot dog with mustard,
    relish and onions. I love this place and the memories it holds. There’s some
    thing about being by the ocean that put’s life and death in perspective.

  • Carolyn Astfalk

    There I sat, toes in the water, arse in the sand, as the song goes, enjoying a peaceful afternoon at the beach. My feet, warmed by summer sun, sunk deeper into the grainy silt with every wave.

    I unwrapped the sandwich I’d brought from home – ham and cheese with mustard and lettuce. As I opened my mouth, a screech sounded behind me. A half-second later, my meal disappeared in the beak or a filthy gull. I stared as it dropped first one slice of bread, then the other, swallowing back a hunk of meat.

    Serenity killed by a dirty bird.

  • TLC Nielsen

    I stared at a peaceful paradise picture left on the fridge and shrugged before heading into the bathroom. As I washed my sandy hands, I looked up and saw a magazine clipping of waves. I pondered the implications.

    A trip upstairs to change clothes netted me assorted pictures of palm fronds, beaches and moonlit oceans. Taking my sand stained clothes to the washer made me throw them on the floor in frustration as I discovered the basin filled with beach toys. “Mustard!” I cursed.

    The last straw was my beach towel draped car. The note left said “Daddy beach plese!”