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Time for another drabble already? Concoct your own 100 word story, and tag it with “friday drabble”.  Link to it in the comments and/or on Twitter with the hashtag #fridaydrabble. Happy Drabbling!

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Did you ever want to run away and live in a museum?

Not me! Although I enjoyed “From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler” as much as the next kid, the MoMA always seemed like an impractical choice for a stowaway.

No, I’d run away to THE MALL.

Picture it: Spend all night playing the arcade games, stuffing yourself silly in the food court, reading in the bookstores until your eyes crossed, and finally, crashing on a Serta mattress.

What do you mean “You’d get caught”?

Why do you think I took this job as a night watchman?

Must be about time for another drabble! Dig deep within your brain for your own 100 word story, and tag it with “friday drabble”.  Share by linking to it in the comments and/or on Twitter with the hashtag #fridaydrabble. Happy Drabbling!

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They say you can’t go home again.

They’re wrong.

In fact, with that D-Hopper you’re holding there, sliding through dimensions is as easy as falling off a log. Easier even, given how hard it would be to find a— no, strike that. You still have trees, here.

I could go home at any time. Back to the thick, choking air, noxious and burning in your lungs. Back to the toxic swamps under blood red skies. Back to the cancer that awaits, creeping inside you with every breath.

Yes, I can go home again. But why would I ever want to?

If it’s Friday, it’s a drabble. Concoct your own 100 word story, and tag it with “friday drabble”.  Link to it in the comments and/or on Twitter with the hashtag #fridaydrabble. Happy Drabbling!

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When she was seven, she made a sandcastle on the beach.

The boy next door helped her shape turrets. A courtyard. A moat.

After they finished, he fashioned a tiny paper flag and planted it, the flimsy pennant fluttering in the salt-laden breeze.

When she awoke, the castle was gone, erased by the whispering tide.

The boy and his family had left before dawn.

Now she helps her son place his flag atop a crumbling sandcastle, notes the rush of the incoming sea, and pulls the boy into her arms for an embrace she does not ever want to end.

It’s Friday, so it must be time for another drabble, the 100-word stories that force you to make it short (but not necessarily sweet).  Join in with your own 100 word stories on Fridays, and tag them with “friday drabble”.  Link to them in the comments and/or on Twitter with the hashtag #fridaydrabble.

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Arms pumping, legs churning, he sprinted toward the finish line. The broken pavement beneath his running shoes tried to trip him up, and only sheer luck kept him vertical, and in the lead.

He flipped a glance over his shoulder, gauging how far back the others were. Could he make it before they caught up to him? Lungs and body burning, he prayed silently that it would be so.

He crossed over the line barely ahead of the pack, and collapsed under their weight.

For the zombies, you see, it was never about the race, but only about the finish.

Gentlemen: building a proper “Man Cave” requires a lot of forethought and planning. Yes, your new space will be a refuge from everyone and everything – that’s a given. But what specifically will you need?

• Soundproofing?
• A big screen TV and built-in surround sound system?
• A mini refrigerator stocked with beer and a cupboard full of snacks?
• La-Z-Boy recliners designed for napping?

Unfortunately, most men forget the number one requirement for a properly designed man cave. Without this, you’re screwed from the get go. What, may you ask, is this oh-so-important item?

Permission from the Missus. Without that, you’re toast!

Time for a special Halloween-themed Friday Drabble!  Join in with your own 100 word stories on Fridays, and tag them with “friday drabble”.  Link to them in the comments and/or on Twitter with the hashtag #fridaydrabble.

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George loathed Halloween. He planned to lay low while the neighborhood kids made their rounds, begging treats from strange adults.

“WAAAAH!” he screamed, spying the man in the corner.

Floating.

Above the ground.

“Friendly neighborhood poltergeist here,” the apparition moaned. “I’m supposed to give you a heads’ up about the new Participation Law. Any folks that don’t hand out candy get haunted until next Halloween.”

As George shuffled down the candy aisle, a young man caught his eye.

“It’s gotta be a trick, right?”

George shrugged, and sighed. He was NOT looking forward to the Easter Bunny’s visit next spring.