Nav Logan's Blog - Posts Tagged "drabbles"
Pending Book Release
I submitted the compilation of Drabbles and Poems today to the publisher. I hope to have the Author's draft for the final checks in the next week or so,
Here is the blurb off the back cover
Flash Fiction tells us a story in a limited number of words. Poetry and drabbles are both forms of flash fiction. They tell us a story. They convey an idea, or an image, and bring it to life. Each has its own criteria. A poem might have rhyme or rhythm, whereas a drabble has limitations in size, but they are essentially the same thing. In fact, a poem might also be a drabble.
Every day, my world is filled with ideas, images, concepts, and whacky thoughts. It might be a picture I see on social media that triggers it, or a walk in the country. It might be an advert on TV, or a play on words. My poems and drabbles are these little words, and the ideas inside my head that are screaming to get out are my Big Worlds.
Here is a micro-drabble (50 words) to whet your appetite:
Writers Block
After some discussion with my agent, we came across a solution to help me overcome my writers block. I was to try and write using a different format. I put the laptop away and sharpened some pencils, opting to go Olde-Worlde. I soon got bored. Now I’m using alphabet spaghetti.
Here is the blurb off the back cover
Flash Fiction tells us a story in a limited number of words. Poetry and drabbles are both forms of flash fiction. They tell us a story. They convey an idea, or an image, and bring it to life. Each has its own criteria. A poem might have rhyme or rhythm, whereas a drabble has limitations in size, but they are essentially the same thing. In fact, a poem might also be a drabble.
Every day, my world is filled with ideas, images, concepts, and whacky thoughts. It might be a picture I see on social media that triggers it, or a walk in the country. It might be an advert on TV, or a play on words. My poems and drabbles are these little words, and the ideas inside my head that are screaming to get out are my Big Worlds.
Here is a micro-drabble (50 words) to whet your appetite:
Writers Block
After some discussion with my agent, we came across a solution to help me overcome my writers block. I was to try and write using a different format. I put the laptop away and sharpened some pencils, opting to go Olde-Worlde. I soon got bored. Now I’m using alphabet spaghetti.
The Murder Raps
The Murder Rap (1)
They broke into the house at 4a.m. Blue lights flashing to wake the neighbours and sirens blaring. I will never live down the shame. Handcuffed, I was driven away for questioning.
“Why am I being arrested?” I asked continuously.
Finally, they told me. “We have a confession you made about murdering you’re wife. You might as well come clean and make it easy on yourself.”
“Murdering my wife! What’re you on about? I never murdered my wife?”
“Oh really,” the detective sneered, “Where is she then?”
“She’s at my mother-in-laws, for crying out loud. I never wrote any bloody any confession.”
The Murder Rap (2)
“Mr. Logan, I’m sure you’ve heard of the wiki-leaks scandals …”
“What about them?”
“Well, the bit about the police forces monitoring your phone calls and internet use … that bits true, though that’s off the record.”
“What’s that got to do with me murdering my wife?”
“You posted a confession on a social medium page,” explained the detective.
“Social media, Sarge.”
“That’s what I said …!”
The constable did not correct his superior officer a second time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I advised.
“You did write this hundred word story, did you not?”
The Murder Rap (3)
I stared in disbelief at the print out the Detective held out. It was a story I had posted on facebook.
“That’s just a drabble I wrote. I’m an author, you know.”
“That looks like a signed confession to me,” gloated the detective.
“What do you mean, signed confession? It’s a screen print! There’s no signature on it.”
“Ah! That’s the wonders of modern technology, ya see. This here is what we in the business call a digital signature. You see, when you post on the internet, we can trace it back to your P.I . address,”
“I.P.” corrected the constable.
They broke into the house at 4a.m. Blue lights flashing to wake the neighbours and sirens blaring. I will never live down the shame. Handcuffed, I was driven away for questioning.
“Why am I being arrested?” I asked continuously.
Finally, they told me. “We have a confession you made about murdering you’re wife. You might as well come clean and make it easy on yourself.”
“Murdering my wife! What’re you on about? I never murdered my wife?”
“Oh really,” the detective sneered, “Where is she then?”
“She’s at my mother-in-laws, for crying out loud. I never wrote any bloody any confession.”
The Murder Rap (2)
“Mr. Logan, I’m sure you’ve heard of the wiki-leaks scandals …”
“What about them?”
“Well, the bit about the police forces monitoring your phone calls and internet use … that bits true, though that’s off the record.”
“What’s that got to do with me murdering my wife?”
“You posted a confession on a social medium page,” explained the detective.
“Social media, Sarge.”
“That’s what I said …!”
The constable did not correct his superior officer a second time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I advised.
“You did write this hundred word story, did you not?”
The Murder Rap (3)
I stared in disbelief at the print out the Detective held out. It was a story I had posted on facebook.
“That’s just a drabble I wrote. I’m an author, you know.”
“That looks like a signed confession to me,” gloated the detective.
“What do you mean, signed confession? It’s a screen print! There’s no signature on it.”
“Ah! That’s the wonders of modern technology, ya see. This here is what we in the business call a digital signature. You see, when you post on the internet, we can trace it back to your P.I . address,”
“I.P.” corrected the constable.
Mr Wentworth’s Zombie Attack
The zombies battered against the shutters of the greengrocers, where Samuel Wentworth, and his wife Celia, hid amidst the crates of fruit and vegetables.
The shutters creaked, groaned, and gave way under the combined weight of the horde. Slowly, almost hesitantly, the undead stumbled into the store.
Grunting and sniffing loudly, they sought out their prey.
Soon, one of the undead raised his club and brought it down with a hollow thud.
His fellows gathered around and soon they were all feasting.
Grimy hands dipped into the shattered husk and gobbled up the red sticky goo. Apparently, zombies love watermelons.
The shutters creaked, groaned, and gave way under the combined weight of the horde. Slowly, almost hesitantly, the undead stumbled into the store.
Grunting and sniffing loudly, they sought out their prey.
Soon, one of the undead raised his club and brought it down with a hollow thud.
His fellows gathered around and soon they were all feasting.
Grimy hands dipped into the shattered husk and gobbled up the red sticky goo. Apparently, zombies love watermelons.
Positive negative
A double drabble for you.
Positive
Frances peered out of the window, noticing the rainbow that crested the grey skies above.
Putting on her coat, she headed off to the bus stop, skipping through the puddles.
She turned the corner to see the bus pulling away. Shrugging, she sat down to wait, knowing another would arrive eventually.
A car pulled up against the kerb and the window rolled down. It was Anthony from the office, offering her a lift. He was a little older than her, but a real gentleman, so she smiled her thanks and hopped in.
And that was how their budding romance blossomed.
Negative
Francis peered out of the window, cursing at the rain that fell from the miserable grey skies.
Putting on his coat, he hurried off to the bus stop, carefully avoiding the many puddles.
Francis turned the corner as the bus pulled away. He raced after it, but was ignored. Fuming, he decided to walk.
A car pulled up alongside and the window rolled down. It was Antoinette, from work, offering him a lift.
She was such a loser. He’d rather walk than have his mates see him in her car.
And that was how their budding romance failed to blossom.
Positive
Frances peered out of the window, noticing the rainbow that crested the grey skies above.
Putting on her coat, she headed off to the bus stop, skipping through the puddles.
She turned the corner to see the bus pulling away. Shrugging, she sat down to wait, knowing another would arrive eventually.
A car pulled up against the kerb and the window rolled down. It was Anthony from the office, offering her a lift. He was a little older than her, but a real gentleman, so she smiled her thanks and hopped in.
And that was how their budding romance blossomed.
Negative
Francis peered out of the window, cursing at the rain that fell from the miserable grey skies.
Putting on his coat, he hurried off to the bus stop, carefully avoiding the many puddles.
Francis turned the corner as the bus pulled away. He raced after it, but was ignored. Fuming, he decided to walk.
A car pulled up alongside and the window rolled down. It was Antoinette, from work, offering him a lift.
She was such a loser. He’d rather walk than have his mates see him in her car.
And that was how their budding romance failed to blossom.
