This Week’s Flash Fiction Contest! Write a Drabble & Win!

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!

33 thoughts on “This Week’s Flash Fiction Contest! Write a Drabble & Win!

  1. “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, … he will separate them one from another, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.”

    There would be no charming my way out this time. I would not win a crown of glory. Instead, my reward would be the consequences of everyone of my informed choices. Each deliberate decision to turn my soul from Him meant a turn to something, or someone, else.

    I stood, knowing that this had been coming all along, knowing the Truth and not caring enough to change. And fire rained down from the sky.

    1. I’m so impressed that you are able to come up with not just one terrific idea, but three! Of the three, I think this is my favorite, mostly because I find myself not thinking about the prompt anymore but the moment. Nicely done!

  2. A sea of applicants milled around, quietly chatting and comparing devices, each of them bearded and bunned, reminding me goats, each with a crown of his very own. They wore charming smiles, glanced with sparkling eyes. Some were secretly snapping pics of me. Were they checking me out?

    I looked down at the applications again. A flash of white caught my eye. Stupid uniform, the button at my chest popped open again, showing my bra. I sighed, buttoned up and called out “If you’re applying for the barista position, follow me!” In my mind, I’d already fired half of them.

  3. He slouched upon the skins, a crown of goats’ horns sitting heavily on his brow. The chilled air did nothing to cool his anger as he watched the Fool frozen in fear before him. The charming entertainer had overstepped the line, insulting one of the king’s wives. That the Fool didn’t know she was a queen was irrelevant. She wore no finery, no jewels, only furs. That she was large with child, perhaps even a male heir, was all that mattered. The future king could not be mocked, even in the womb, without consequence. The king signaled the Fool’s death.

  4. The storms of three springs cleansed anew these fields once baptized in the blood of men and horses. Today, the fields are a maiden’s shortcut home after charming the mother goats of their milk. A gilded glint gives the maiden pause. Kneeling, digging, she unearths a broken filigreed crown.

    Should she give it to the leaders, to have this royal remnant interred with its rightful king, secretly buried in Leicester village? Or worse, given to the Welsh usurper as a trophy?

    No. Kings, dead nor living, need no artifacts that could feed her family for many stormy springs to come.

    1. Love this! I don’t know anything about the history behind it, but it really evokes a stunning image. I feel like I can see the milk maid, the crown, the sheep and goats–everything! Great job.

  5. Fear crawled up my spine. I shivered. How could this be happening? “Are you sure?” I asked.

    “Oh, yes, most definitely,” he replied with a charming smile. “It won’t hurt a bit. I promise.”

    Yeah, I’m sure you won’t feel a thing. I took a deep breath. The gas smelled like dirty goats but smoothed the rough edges. “Fine,” I said, “let’s get this over with.”

    I squeezed my eyes closed. He moved the light closer. The inside of my eyelids blazed brilliant red. He leaned closer. Every muscle tensed in resistance.
    “Relax,” the dentist said. “It’s only a crown.”

  6. The crown kept slipping. She tried to be regal.

    “There’s been a mistake-”

    “You’re a princess. What more could you want?” Was she keeping this genie from something?

    “There aren’t any people here. All I see is…goats. There are, um, goats living inside the castle.” She should have checked references on this genie.

    “Your kingdom is small and poor, but it needs a princess. Your subjects are busy. Goats don’t raise themselves, you know.” The genie gave her a half-smile.

    “What was that for? Is this a joke?”

    “I just wish I could be here when you meet Prince Charming.”

  7. Liv stared at the field of goats, wondering if she was being made a fool of. Thirty of them, in all, and not one wore a crown. Old Mab must be crazy, sending me here to find the prince. She eyed the dirty herder, who stared at her openly.

    She took a breath, threw back her shoulders, and marched toward the next unruly creature. Kneeling, she pulled his bearded face close, planting her lips on his soft ones.


    She opened her eyes. The prince stood before her, charming. She gasped.

    “Maa,” he said.

    She’d rather deal with the herder.

  8. “Can’t I have him?” she pleads, “I’ll name him Prince Charming, and make him a crown out of paper mache.”
    “Sofia, he’d just eat it”, I say, holding my nose.
    “Meh!” The goat blurts, in a voice so loud, I start. The kid has a booming, strangulated voice. Sofia and I laugh, and the goat hollers again. Tears stream down my face and I realize this is the first time we’ve laughed together since Bob died.
    “That means, ‘I love you,’ in goat language,” Sofia says.
    “Well then,” I say, “who am I to stand in the way of love?”

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