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A Horrible Haiku

Happy birthday, bro.
You are now a grown-ass man.
When did that happen?




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Cartoons: A drabble

She lay with her head in his lap, watching him as he watched the TV.  It was mostly quiet in the house.

“There are times when I see these little parts of you that make me sad you don’t want to be a father,” She said.

He moved to touch her face with his hand, his eyes still on the TV screen.  There was a pause. She wondered if he’d heard her.

“Because I like cartoons?” He asked after a while.

“No, you ass.”

He grinned and leaned down to kiss her. She smiled.  He knew exactly what she’d meant.


drabble is a short work of fiction of one hundred words in length¹.

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Disconnect: A Drabble

“Here,” She handed him a folded piece of paper.

He lifted an eyebrow, “What’s this?”

“Try reading it,” She said with a smirk and a hand on her hip.

He unfolded the page and skimmed over the short note written in her familiar handwriting.

He furrowed his brow, “Okay…”

“What?” She looked at him, waiting for him to connect the dots.

“It has an emotional disconnect.”

“No,” She disagreed.

“What’s it supposed to mean?”

She took a deep breath and let it out quickly, “Nevermind.”

She took the paper from him, crumpled it and tossed it in the rubbish bin.


drabble is a short work of fiction of one hundred words in length¹.

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Quick: A drabble

She was waiting for him by the door, her eyes found him the second he stepped into the room. She grabbed his arm as he walked by and leaned in to whisper in his ear. He glanced at her casually, but she knew he’d heard her.

Five minutes later, he’d caught up with her, slipping silently into the room. She closed the door behind him and locked it. The next second, hands were everywhere. His lips brushed hers, they were peeling clothing off each other.

“I’m not good at these,” he muttered.

She smiled, “I’ll be the judge of that.”

drabble is a short work of fiction of one hundred words in length¹.

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Times Change; A Drabble

“Weekends were never so short before you,” She said.  She tumbled out of bed, reached for a discarded shirt, any shirt.

“You’re so melodramatic,” He turned away from her, “Time is time, it passes just the same, it never changes.”

“Times change!  The way I feel changes over time,” she finished buttoning the shirt, his shirt, and scrambled to finish dressing. “Someday, you’ll look back on this moment and know I was right.”

He rolled onto his back and looked at her. “Hey, you’re wearing my shirt.”

She shrugged, “This time, yes.  But times change.”

He smiled.  “No, they don’t.”

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