Drabbles are stories that are exactly one hundred words long. Recently, I’ve been having fun experimenting with these.
I find a lot of inspiration in music. Like writing, it can reach the part of you that appreciates beauty and art in all its forms. What better way to honor the arts than combining a love of music with the love of writing? The drabbles below are just bits of fun (if a little dark)–a break in the heavier and longer writing projects that are ever-present these days.
I hope you enjoy! If you’re not familiar with the songs, do yourself a favor and search for them on YouTube. (I’d link them here but the video thumbnails are obnoxious)
Do you experiment with drabbles? Post a link in the comments, I’d love to read them!
“Boots of Spanish Leather”– Mandolin Orange (Dylan cover)
Chords stretch themselves over oceans, lodging inside me. I allow the possession, the swelling of the strings as they expand–retract, push–pull. I think of your skin, the simplicity of your smile. Your chipped tooth. My eyes are closed but I see you beside me, inhale your spirit as you bend, strawberry hair brushing the floor. You infect me, fill me from afar.
Strains of longing rise and fall as I stare at the slot in the door, wondering. Waiting.
I can still smell the sharpness, the animal, leathery scent of the boots you slipped on. Boots that carried you away.
“Blame”– Bastille
The woman hangs back, searching for her youth. It’s a familiar scene: bodies packed tightly, arms raised in a metronomic “hell yeah” trance. She rocks at the edges of her soul but sobriety intrudes, slowing the percussive persuasion of thousands of feet.
Checks her watch. Only ten.
Lines in the bathroom, another memory, she pauses–considers. Her younger self stares from the mirror but in the end, she’s dead. Lines of all kinds mark her past, but this is one she can’t cross. Not anymore.
With aching feet and nostalgia weeping, the woman turns. Walks into the silence of the city.
“Ain’t No Sunshine”– Bill Withers
I draw the blinds but they defiantly leak horizontal slits of sunshine. I find this offensive, and punch the wall to the side, regretting it instantly. My knuckles burn.
“Shit!”
Turning away from the window and its obnoxious yellow smiles, I grab the nearest bottle and collapse on the couch. The bourbon is smooth, comforting. The house feels cold, hostile. Grey walls, the color of sadness, stare accusingly at me.
I shouldn’t have said those things to you. Done those things. I know that now.
I sip, heat filling my chest, nourishing the place that’s empty now because of you.
KJ Hunter 