Author: Mike

This week: a Santa you don’t cross, a war with no survivors, and a wardrobe that isn’t empty.

Three drabbles, exactly 100 words each,  and this week they’re not messing about. A Christmas legend turns interrogator, a soldier narrates the unnarratable, and a child learns their wardrobe remembers where it’s been. Read all three in under two minutes, if you dare.

Toyshop Secrets

The plastic ties dug deep into Freddy’s hands and feet. The room was dark except for three bright lights shining in his face.

“Such a shame it should come to this Frederick,” said Santa. 

“You, my chief Elf, selling our toyshop secrets to the opposition. Such a silly thing to do. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?  Belkins here has orders to inflict a little more pain, then hang you up outside the workshop where the other Elves can see what happens to people who cross me. I’d love to stay and watch but the reindeer need feeding.”

Progress

The stench of rotting flesh invades my nostrils as I carefully pick my way through the smouldering rubble.  There are bound to be survivors, there always are. Must be God’s way of trying to fight back, despite the odds being stacked against him. 

My men would deal with them, some more mercifully than others. There are to be no prisoners. My superiors had been adamant in wanting nobody left behind to tell any tales. 

Come nightfall it will all be over. Then, time to move on. New orders. More burning. More cleansing. All of this in the name of progress.

The Visitor in the Wardrobe

Mum said wardrobes can’t open themselves. She said old wood warps, hinges slip, houses settle. But houses don’t whisper your name. Houses don’t breathe behind the coats. I shut the wardrobe last night and pushed the chair against it. 

This morning the chair was across the room. When I looked inside, the clothes were parted neatly, like a curtain after a performance. Something had stood there. Something tall. Something patient. Footprints led out across the carpet, circling my bed before returning to the wardrobe. 

The worst part is not that it came out. It is that it went back in.

That’s this week’s three, the darkest batch yet. Which one’s staying with you tonight? Let me know in the comments, and subscribe if you want next week’s landing in your inbox before you’ve had a chance to brace yourself.

Thanks for reading.

Mike

This week: a dog with demands, a tram with nowhere to go, and a bell that should never ring.

Three drabbles, exactly 100 words each, with nothing in common except the length. A talking dog makes a threat, a robot tram drives an empty world, and a boy faces an impossible choice. Read all three in under two minutes.

Cake or Fingers

“Just want to let you know kid, in case you were wondering, that last cake, the chocolate éclair, it’s got my name on it. Touch it and I’ll have your fingers off!”

“Mum! Mum! Aunt Sally’s dog just said he’s going to bite me. He says the chocolate éclair is his.”

“Don’t be silly dear, little Henry can’t talk, he’s a dog. Now play nicely with him, there’s a good boy. And don’t feed him any cake. Aunt Sally has him on a strict diet.”

“Well kid, it’s up to you. What’s it going to be, cake or fingers?”

The Empty Tram

The empty tram trundled along the deserted tracks, sticking rigidly to its irrelevant timetable.  At each stop a mechanical voice would tell you where you were and wish you a good day.  The doors opened automatically for their mandatory fifty-seven seconds and then closed. 

The driver, a ZXR456 fully automated robot, needed no tea breaks, nor worked any shift pattern, so could continue this journey, back and to, from one end of the promenade to the other – forever. 

Had his programming included being aware of his surroundings he would have noticed the human race had long ceased to exist.

The Bell

“Whatever you do son, don’t ring that bell.”

Samuel stopped dead in his tracks and looked towards where the quiet, menacing voice came from. In his hurry to reach the warning bell he’d not seen the stranger emerge from the swirling, crimson mist.

“I’ve got to mister,’ he said, none too convincingly, “It’s my job. If I don’t ring the bell, then the people in the village won’t be ready.”

“I’m sorry son but I can’t let you do that,” whispered the stranger, gently pulling a fearsome looking weapon from inside his long, black coat. 

The bell remained ominously quiet

That’s this week’s three Drabbles. If one stuck with you more than the others, tell me which with a note in the comments, and if you haven’t already, subscribe so the next batch lands straight in your inbox.

Thanks for reading.

Mike