Uncategorized,  Writing Prompt

This Week’s Apples To Apples Drabble Contest!

This is the place for a weekly flash fiction contest!

The Apples To Apples Drabble!

The Rules!

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.

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.

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!

Absolutely no links, screen shots or salesy type of behavior in the content entry. 

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.

Limit 3 entries per person. If you’re having fun, come back next Friday.

The contest is open from 5:00 AM EST every Friday and closes down the following Sunday night at midnight.

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. 

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.


  • Jean Johnson

    Milan, lean and hungry, stared across the bumpy waves of the Pacific Ocean. He stood on the old weathered dock, waiting for his next hauling job, when suddenly a huge burly man stepped out from one of the many dark alleys across from the wharf and loomed menacingly above him. “Give me your money,” bellowed the man, with an evil frown on his face. Milan ran, fast and faster, onto a ship, until he found a hidey-hole inside of a ship’s cargo hold. Safe at last, with money intact. He would have hated to have lost a whole week’s pay.

  • Rebecca Dempsey

    Dribbling sewage snaked squarely between the stained cobblestones, heading down to the bay. She watched it: yet another escapee from the city’s metallic air. If she didn’t have work she’d have time to be envious. Her hollow laugh echoed in the lane.

    With her back to the steely Pacific, she kept going, head down. Further up the hill, she heaved open the door of Dark Alleys. The publican didn’t move from his crossword. She sighed amid the clinking glasses. This job was a bumpy cobble in her way, before she too meandered, like tears down cheeks, towards something vaster.

  • Michel Daw

    She stared at the Pacific Ocean through the cabin window, felt the bumpy handle of the pistol as she gripped it tightly, smelled the salty tang of the air, heard the gulls cry, capturing all of it one last time. Turning to her prisoner, tied firmly to a chair, gag in his mouth. Both their eyes widened as she raised the gun and pulled the trigger. He slumped, and so did she. There was one less serial rapist haunting the dark alleys of her city, and one newly minted murderer. She placed the gun on a table and called 911.

  • Michel Daw

    “Now these ones,” he indicated a particularly bumpy sea grass, “are good to eat.”

    “Yes, dad.”

    “Not everything is the Pacific Ocean is going to be safe, OK?”

    “Yes, dad.”

    “Try to avoid dark alleys of seaweed or coral. That’s where the predators hide.”

    “Yes, dad.”

    “Don’t swim alone. Use the buddy system, ok?

    “Yes, dad.”

    “Nemo, are you listening?”

    “Yes, dad!,” the tiny clownfish swam back to his father, his little fin working twice as hard. “Bumpy seaweed is good, dark alleys are bad, swim with friends! Can I go now? I am going to be late for school!”

  • Michel Daw

    Her eyes glowed with the deep azure of the Pacific Ocean in moonlight as she rose silently from the waters. Her hair was of the finest sea-silk, her skin of pearl. She reached her arms to him. He stepped into the frigid waters, his skin rising in bumpy goose-flesh. Her siren song called to him silently, echoing in the dark alleys of his mind. She was a dream fabricated of sea-foam and desire, and he knew that she was the harbinger of his doom. But he had lost everything when he lost her, and so he joined her in oblivion.

  • Lora Laffan

    “Jibe ho!” Casey yelled over the howling, intensifying winds. The crew ducked and yanked on the winches. This bumpy ride had given them much more than they planned for and it wasn’t letting up anytime soon.
    The trip started as a lark; Casey said she could Captain the boat as well as her older brother and the challenge was on. They threw off the lines at Dana Point marina and sailed out into the Pacific Ocean. Sunshine and gentle swells gave rise to thrashing waves, squalls, and wet dark alleys. What started as a challenge was now a survival game.

  • Becca MacLean Lyman

    The newsboy emerged from his hiding place behind the tavern, tripping over the bumpy cobblestones that made up the dark alleys of San Francisco. He took off his cap and dusted himself off, particles of concrete and fallen buildings floating and covering his knickers and jacket. Peering through the destruction, he could make out the Pacific Ocean, like a streak of blue sky on a stormy day, at the bottom of the hill. He clutched some newspapers under his arm, which he had used to protect his head. It was, and would remain, the longest forty-six seconds of his life.

  • Rachelle M. N. Shaw

    I’d been in dark alleys before, alone at night. But this time prickles trailed up my neck and spine, my breaths hitching as I ran my fingers along the bumpy walls of the apartment building next to me. Dim light from the top floor filtered through the narrow passage, glinting off my red dress and stiletto heels. I closed my eyes and inhaled, the scent of rotting food and urine filling my nostrils. I swallowed hard. The Pacific Ocean salmon had been a mistake—the whole dinner had.

    When his footsteps resonated behind me, I stiffened.

    “Happy Valentine’s Day, darling.”

  • Clari Gosling

    The horse and cart slowed down over the bumpy cobblestones. As they neared the town centre the dark alleys on either side got smaller and gloomier. No-one else was traveling the road. And the people they passed glowered at them. Or stared out of their grimy windows.
    Sven shifted to get closer to his dad who was driving. They looked at each other and wordlessly carried on driving straight through. After a couple of miles they came upon some water.
    “We’ve made it Dad, the Pacific,” Sven’s eyes were wide open.
    “Huh? Nope, just a pond. We’re still days away.”

  • Geeta C Yadav

    John was to soar over the Pacific Ocean with his love, co-pilot Mona. The fighter aircraft roared with pride on the runway.
    John whispered, ‘Mona, as the waves rise to meet us, we choose to scale the mighty sky; do we fear the deep ocean or are we in love with the pompous heights?’
    Suddenly the bumpy aircraft nosedived with a jittery gait and the humble depths rose to the occasion.
    ‘We cannot eject, the instrument panel has failed!’ croaked Mona.
    The lovers held hands to tread the dark alleys of death only to be eternally united in divine light.

  • Carol S

    “The bumpy road was not an improvement over the dark alleys she had left behind…”

    Scritch, scratch. Carol’s writing attempt was interrupted by an exasperating sound. Her Houdini hen was enjoying herself in the front yard after jumping the fence…again.

    Toss the hen back in the chicken yard. Wash hands. Resume writing attempt.

    “She frantically searched for the Pacific Ocean Trading Company. She must deliver that package before dawn, or…”

    Ting! Ting, ting, ting! Messages from Carol’s serial texting teenaged daughter lit up her phone.

    Carol sighed and put down her pen. Oh, well. The dishes needed washing anyway