Drabble Contest,  Uncategorized

Write A 100-Word Story! Tell Your Friends! Win A Prize!

This is the place for a weekly flash fiction contest!

Can you write a story in 100 words?

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. And you can ignore the small words that explain it clearer. We just want the big three.
  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 ignore 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. This contest is open from 5:00 AM EST every Friday and closes down the following Sunday night at midnight. Comments are welcome throughout the week, but no more entries are allowed. 
  8. 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.
  9. Winning entries will be announced on the 10 Minute Novelists Facebook group page the following Friday. The entry will also be published in the monthly digital newsletter, 10 Minute Novelists Insider. You can sign up for this here! 
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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.


  • Michel Daw

    He tapped at the keyboard, busy with the code and concentration. This part of the spell was always a little tricky. Technomancy is very precise. He carefully finished the last line.
    His finger hesitated over the Enter key. This was going to hurt, but he had to help his friend. He touched the key and the magic flowed immediately. He winced as the bruises that Janine’s father had given her transferred to his own arms and neck. He was glad she didn’t have chicken pox. That would have been harder to explain to his parents than a story about bullies.

  • Michel Daw

    “Well son,” the doctor said, “it’s chicken pox.”

    “But what about the bruises? I thought it just caused rashes!”

    “It’s not common, but some cases do present with a haemorrhagic rash where the blisters bleed under the skin.”

    “I can’t have chicken pox! I’m 46 for pity’s sake! I have a business!”

    “It should run its course in about a week. ‘Til then, stay away from others.”

    “This is ridiculous! I’m 46 with a childhood illness!”

    You’re acting like a child, the doctor thought but smiled graciously. “You should also watch for shingles.”

    “What are shingles!?”

    “Worse,” replied the doctor.

  • Michel Daw

    Johnny had a secret. It was a weapon that would guarantee him a week’s peace. He would use it the next time the Barclay brothers decided his bruises needed freshening up. It turned out, it was the very day he’d learned about his weapon but went to school anyway. After the beating, Johnny smiled, knowing that his chicken pox would be passed on to the two brothers, keeping them out for at least a week. But a week, then two went by and they didn’t return. The principle announced at the busy assembly that the brothers had died. Johnny wept.

  • Laura

    Great. Chicken pox. That’s all I needed after a week like this. I lay on the sofa, nursing the bruises on my left arm with a cold pack while my mom slathered calamine lotion all over my face. Those blisters itched like anything.
    Just then the doorbell rang.

    “Don’t let anyone in!” I almost screamed as mom went for the door.

    If any of my friends saw me like this, well … I couldn’t stand the thought. It was worse than acne after eating a pint of ice cream.

    “Just tell them I’m busy. Or not at home. Or … dead. Anything!”

  • Katharine Grubb

    This is Carol Conlogue’s entry:

    The arrogant old rooster was proud of controlling his hen harem, that is, until a new chick moved in.

    Immediately, he strutted over and said, “I tell every chick what to do around here. What’s your name?”

    “Chicken Pox.”

    I expect my ladies to stay busy laying eggs every day!”

    “Really…no one tells me what to do, ever!”

    “A wise guy, eh?” He pecked her on the head and left two bruises.

    The next day, the farmer said at supper, “Yeah, he was a tough old bird.”

    Ms. Pox had shared a lesson: “How to Grow More Feministic Feathers.”

  • Katharine Grubb

    This is also Carol Conlogue’s entry:

    Warning: If you don’t like your doctor, never let your child know it.

    “How did I get chicken pox? I don’t live near chickens” asked bewildered little Billy.

    The busy doctor said, “It comes from germs, not chickens.”

    “But I don’t live near germ mans, neither!”

    “I said “germs” not Germans, son.”

    “Don’t worry, pox are like bruises…they will all go away soon. Back to school next Monday!”

    Billy hung his head and thought for a moment, “chicken pox, bruises, germs, school. Doctor, all you have is bad news!”

    “Mom, Dad’s right! Don’t pay him, he’s a quack!”

  • Katharine Grubb

    This is from Elaine Bayless

    So, you don’t remember if Marc had chicken pox?” I asked my mother-in-law.
    She hunched her shoulders over the sink, busy with the dishes. “It was either Marc or Gabe. I don’t know which.”
    I sighed. Golden Gabe, the boy who died; the brother who always overshadowed Marc, the boy who lived. I didn’t know if he could handle any more emotional bruises today.
    Scratching my elbow, I texted my husband. “Babe, it was Gabe, not you. Go ahead and get the chicken pox vaccine.” Either way, he needed the shot. Adult chicken pox were almost as bad as shingles.

  • Joseph S. Pete

    The anti-vaccer proudly wore a T-shirt proclaiming his ignorance.
    Matt had bid adieu to a departing friend at work, been cut off in traffic by a squirrely-haired lout who went on to gratuitously and spitefully block him from turning at an intersection, and just learned via text of an errand he was tasked before returning home. He’d had enough.
    He started shouting at the guy.
    “Do you want polio? Chicken pox? Influenza? What the hell is wrong with you?”
    “Hey man, I’m busy,” the anti-vaccer claimed, keeping his head down.
    “Do you want bruises?”
    Matt glared, knowing it was futile.