Purpose

What good can 100 words do? Of what benefit is this exercise that I have undertaken these past 30 days? I haven't written anything of great import. No Great American Novel. No Earth-moving poetry or soaring sonnets. No life-changing sentences. No course-altering paragraphs. Just the daily ramblings of a too-tired mind tapping out words on a keyboard until they reach 100. Does this serve a purpose? Perhaps this is like those 17 mile runs when training for the marathon. Not the goal. Not even that close to the goal. But it's moving in the right direction.

Perfect

There was a time, once upon a time, where everything had to be perfect. Everything had to have straight edges with no little thing peeking or poking where it shouldn't. The fonts had to be pleasing to the eye. The words had to be centered. Every single detail had to be correct. But that was a long time ago. Somewhere along the way, I stopped having time for perfection and I had to be content with just being good enough. This is the curse of living in this broken world. Perfect is impossible. For now, good enough has to suffice.

Silver

They say that silver medalists are the sad ones. Third place is just glad to make it to the podium. Their medal may be only bronze but they got it. Silver medal though is a stark reminder of how close to first you came. If you had only been a little bit stronger, a little bit faster, a little bit better, maybe then you would have come first. You were a fingers-breadth away from being the champion. But instead you are a footnote, close but not close enough, good but not good enough. Maybe next time you'll get there.

Technology

I don't think we knew what we were getting into. The technology kept improving. My, what large disk space you have. The better to store your life, my dear. My, what impressive speeds you have. Why, the better to suck your time away, my dear. My, how portable you are. The better to stay with you and distract you and demand your attention, my dear. We thought we were making life easier, less stressful. Instead, we can't have holidays or weekends because the boss can email, text, or call at any time of day or night. We have become tethered.

Aging

As this body grows older, the aches and creaks become more pronounced. The muscles aren't as elastic, the endurance doesn't last quite as long, the soreness takes longer to go away. But that does not stop me from doing things in this collection of skin and bones. As the years go by, I find myself saying yes to things I wouldn't have done two years ago, setting goals that weren't in mind before. Perhaps this is my manifesto against an aging body. This is my refusal to accept the slowdown. I don't go as fast anymore? I'll just play longer.

Storms

There's a storm coming. There are dark clouds on the horizon, dark and foreboding. The distant roll of thunders echoes across the landscape. The sizzle of lightning cracks the sky. Storms can be scary, frightening, and foreboding in their approach. They crash along their course, a maelstrom of fury. But not all storms are bad. They can bring much-needed rain to a drought-stricken land, watering the dry cracked earth, filling the empty wells back up, providing welcome relief. And, if things line up just right, they can bring the rainbow, bright iridescent hope against the storm cloud sky.

Surprising days

Some days are just surprisingly lovely. Everything falls into place. It is blue sky and puffy white clouds. It is buckets of sunshine cheering up everything it touches - the grass, the flowers, my soul. It is the perfect singable music blasting out of the car speakers. It is getting sweaty and sore then taking a shower and putting on pajamas. It is stopping for chocolate ice cream with peanut butter cups and racing against the heat to eat it before it melts. It is unexpected beauty that lifts the heart, as if everything is possible and anything good could happen.

Words

Originally words can be so difficult. It is so much easier sometimes to borrow the words of another when your own words just won't come. It is so much simpler to speak the the sentences and thoughts and ideas that came from another brain. When my own brain is tired and the synapses aren't firing properly, when my eyes just keep closing and I can't see what I'm doing, when bed beckons from just out of sight, it is then that I wish I did not have to come up with one hundred original words. But that's DrabDayMoMay for you.

Mistake

It took me a lot of years to figure this thing out. To be fair, I still haven't figured out many things. But they were right. Time and aging has developed some wisdom. I have realized this concept is true. Just because I make a mistake doesn't mean I am a mistake. I am greater than sum of my failures, I am more than the collection of my shortcomings. I am a child of the King, a member of the royal priesthood, and the daughter of the Almighty. I trust His work and watch Him turn all things for good.

Days

The thing about days is that they just keep coming. It doesn't matter if Thursday was the best day ever, Friday will show up tomorrow. It doesn't matter if Monday was the worst day ever, Tuesday shall still come around just like it did last week. The good days don't last forever but, thank goodness, neither do the bad ones. My track record for getting through bad days is one hundred percent. And is yours. As many days as we have, they just keep coming, one after the other. Days to weeks to months to years until the end.

A Prayer

How long oh Lord? How long will you allow your children to suffer and be in pain? Doesn't it hurt You to see Your beloved in such anguish? Doesn't it make you angry to see all the injustice and sorrow in the world? Yet You are patient, abounding in steadfast love and kindness, punishing sin to the third and fourth generation but extending grace to a thousand generations. You do not tarry because You are impotent and powerless. You tarry because you are kind and are giving many the opportunity to trust You. I see in part, You see fully.

Hobbit

I have reconciled myself to a certain fact. After looking at the evidence, the judgment is quite obvious and clear. I am not elven. I am not dwarf. I am certainly not ent. I am not even man. I am hobbit. I am not fierce in battle nor skilled in forging weaponry. I cook and feast and bake and sing and dance. I do not go chasing adventure. I live in a small house with my beloved family. But let us be clear here. Samwise Gamgee was a hobbit too. If I can be like him, it will be enough.

Relative

Time is relative. I think that's how the saying goes. Or is it a scientific fact? Perhaps it is a wish? It certainly feels relative. It seems relative to my anxiety and stress level. It seems relative to my desire for the future or my regret about the past. It appears relative to weather, season, hopes, dreams, fears, sadness, happiness. Does it speed up when we are in the midst of joyful times? Does it slow down in the midst of painful times? I don't know the answer to these questions. You'll have to ask Einstein. I think he knows.

Slogging

So here we are again. Another late night drabble in which I simply put words down for the sake of word count. This exercise of month long writing feels like that sometimes. An exercise of perseverance and diligence. Not always the best form. Not often the best form. But it is 3100 words over the span of 31 days. And that is the goal. Finishing a marathon is 26.2 miles. It doesn't really matter how you get to the finish line. If you can't run then walk. If you can't walk, crawl. If you can't crawl, fall forward. Just finish.

The Question

Every day is a chance for reinvention. A change for evolution and self-revolution, evaluation and self-revelation. Every day presents the opportunity to ask the question "What are you doing here?" and provides the ability to answer it. Some days the emphasis changes. Perhaps today it is "What are you doing here?" Perhaps tomorrow it is "What are you doing here?" Each night we lay our heads down, a prefiguring of the last time we shall do so. Each morning, a coming back to life, a foreshadow of the final waking which shall never end. And the question remains.

The after

This is the moment just before the After.

The moment when all the dreams were still the same, the moment when you were still here.

I don't know what you knew, if you knew, but I do know I hope you weren't afraid. I do know I hope you knew and felt our love.

This rocky year has me still unsure how to do the rest of my time, and the year, the After, still feels unreal.

But I do know you left a piece of your strength, and step by step, I take it slow, holding your love.

Lucy Van Pelt

Sometimes I spend a lot of time pondering my drabble before I write them. I craft the words with care, seeking to illustrate a specific point and tell a particular story. Each word is delicately placed and carefully reviewed before publishing. Other times I am like Lucy Van Pelt when she writes her book report on Peter Rabbit and writes it to the very very very very very end. It is all about the word count, you see. Gotta get to one hundred words. Dear Reader, I shall let you determine and decide what type of drabble this one is.

rough days

Rough days. They happen. Today was one of them. It feels like the world is smaller. Its gravity is stronger. The consequences more severe. The pain more real. A quick cry in the car. Go lie on the floor of my friend’s new apartment and wait for more friends to arrive. I ramble cryptically. Offer one of the people around me half of my life. We negotiate down to one third. My partner takes me home. I step away, be alone. When I resurface, he’s at the bottom of the stairs awkwardly holding a very full, hot cup of tea.

tea

tea finds its way into our writing our poetry our drabbles liquid capable of conquering empires raising dynasties giving birth to war that inspired the child to invent a language and pursue love that stains an old pot by the kettle by the sink waiting to be filled and poured out into perfect cups poured out over perfect conversations like the poet leaning over the back of a lounge yearning to find the words for the magic that no one has yet to put together just the right way that stirs the heart like milk in a cup of tea

Makeup

I bought new mascara today. I think it has been over a year since I bought mascara. I may or may not have put it on in the car after I dabbed on some concealer. And, talk straight here, who really has time for a full face of makeup at 6:30 in the morning? Not that I even know how to do a half face. Lucky for me, I'm a fan of the natural look. And I'm sure that has nothing to do with not knowing or caring how makeup works on my face. I've never been that creative.

Dream

Why is it that we call our hopes and aspirations dreams? Why do we relegate our deep desires for the future to the realm of sleep? Where nothing makes sense and time is irrelevant. Where the past, the present, and the future all get mixed up together in our heads. Perhaps it is our attempt to reclaim the confusion and chaos. Maybe in calling our forward-thinking wishes dreams, we bring the power of imagination and rest to bear as we march ceaselessly onward. We dream in the dark, an involuntary action. Let us also dream voluntarily in the light.

Rain

It is a gentle sound until it's not. It is a welcome visitor until it's not. And the rain just continues going and going and going and we believe it might never end. But the trees keep blooming, the grass keeps getting greener, the waterways keep getting fuller. And the rain keeps falling. Welcomed or not, it simply continues tapping on windows and roofs, a musical rhythm written by the nascent season. The baptism of spring bringing forth life after death. The heavenly sprinkling for the thirsty ground. The cleansing stream across the earth. Wash away. Wash away. Wash away.

journey

That evening she sat staring at the incredible, abundant, extravagant beauty her friends, family, neighbors, and acquaintances had delivered to her. Still unsure of why and wondering what to do with so many flowers and plants, she wept. Tears that overwhelmed her. What love was this? What motivation did so many people have to visit and wish her well. What journey they spoke of… and slowly her heart swelled. It takes time for the spirit of a human to understand. To comprehend. The journey she was taking was one she would never be able to share with them. The living.

mysterious

All day friends stopped by her home. The first arrived at 7:26 am on her way to work. With flowers. Each of them who could come themselves dropped off a small bouquet or potted plant. Three different flower delivery vans came by that day, each dropping off multiple gifts. The day went on and on. Visitor after visitor coming by, saying hello, sharing love and well wishes, then vanishing, leaving flowers in their wake. It wasn’t her birthday, it wasn’t a holiday, she wasn’t grieving or celebrating anything that she knew of. But someone had planned this. A mysterious day.

To the mothers

To the mothers who have never seen their children except as pink stripes on a plastic stick. To the mothers who have never seen their children except as black and white ultrasound images. To the mothers who have never known their children except by the love they carry in their hearts and the pain they carry deep in their bones. To the mothers who have felt death in their wombs, who have known their bodies as a grave. To the mothers whose arms are empty. You are a mother. This is your day too. I am you. Happy Mother's Day.

Spring

There is a tipping point in spring. After the grey brutality of winter teasing us with glimpses of hope then coming back in raging force, when it seems winter may never truly be over, something subtle changes. A deep and true warmth, untainted by Jack Frost's bitter chill. A floral scent on the air. The new green of the baby maple leaves creeping bravely sunward. It happens slowly, beneath the surface until suddenly it bursts forth in force. Winter is truly and properly over. Spring has come. The stone table has cracked. What once was dead has come to life.

Words

The best way to beat writer's block is to push through it. Put the words down. Pen to paper, typing to keyboard, words to screen. Let the words out and don't judge them. The block will fade, the wall will crumble. Start somewhere. Don't worry about the destination, where the thing is headed. Don't fret about what comes next, the subsequent story. Push through. Write something then write some more. The words will come. One word turns into ten words turns into one paragraph turns into the story. Don't grow weary in the struggle. Keep going, keep going, keep going.

Groove

I have always thought of music as having grooves. Maybe it is from watching records being played. Maybe it is just how my brain works. But the melody is its own groove and each harmony runs parallel to the melody. Lines stretching on for infinity, perfectly harmonized. No dissonance or clashing, just beauty. I open my mouth to sing and I find my groove. This is the only way I know how to sing harmony. Find the groove, stay in the groove. If I go sharp or flat, I've lost my groove. Music is easy. Just gotta find your groove.

Cook

Cook, verb: to combine different ingredients to make an edible substance. A pinch of this, a dab of that, a dollop of something more. Or perhaps slightly more precise. One teaspoon of this, one tablespoon of that, three cups of something more. It doesn't really matter how to get there. The matter is the magic. In the scent of memories wafting through the air. In the feel of history in the bowl. In the future of nourishment yet to come. In the way it possesses a language unto itself. Cook, noun: one with the power to show love through food.

Screen

Because really what are we without our screens? The human face is frightening. There are emotions there. Hope, fear, love, anger. Eyes open, window to soul. Much easier to hold the rest of humanity at arm's length. I can put the phone down wherever and whenever it suits me. I don't have to look at your face. I don't have to recognize imago Deo in the pigment of your skin, the wave of your hair, the color of your eyes.  Much easier to reduce you to pixels on my screen no more than 2.5 inches wide by 7 inches tall.

Nurses Week

How do you celebrate Nurses Week when you’ve left the profession? When you’ve spent four years of your life slogging through textbooks, followed by another seven of twelve hour shifts that are really fourteen hours and don’t forget weekends and holidays. Then you decide to torture yourself further, spending another two and half years slogging through harder textbooks while working full-time followed by three years of anxiety-ridden work weeks that somehow still manage to include weekends and holidays. Should you even celebrate Nurses Week when RN still stands behind your name but you’re just glad that the experience is over?

drabblers' condition

drabblers' condition is a minor ailment derived from the self-imposed rule that one must compose and post one new drabble every day in the month of may. the condition lies dormant until the drabbler becomes either lazy, overwhelmed, or uninspired; thereby missing one day of continuous composition and posting. drabblers afflicted with this condition have two courses of action in which to alleviate the condition. one, one can simply carry on, pretending no days have gone missed. or two, compose an extra drabble the next day and pretend no days of gone missed. this condition only occurs in may.

RHE

We got updates in cryptic messages from her husband. She was sick. We prayed. She was having seizures. We prayed. She was in a medically induced coma. We prayed. She died. We prayed.

We keep up this conversation with God, confused that her earthly body is no longer present, saddened that she leaves behind a husband and two children, angry that our prayers were not answered the way we pleaded.

She keeps up the conversation with God too. Her questions answered, no longer seeing in a mirror dimly. Always fully known, she now knows fully, seeing Jesus face to face.

form

when composing a drabble one might consider form. however, the limitation of composing something consisting of exactly 100 words is in itself a form. one may argue that the limitation directs or informs the form of the composition.

however, again, a drabbler may chose any form or layout that they chose.

one may present their 100 words in a standard paragraph form.

and yet another
may present a series

of couplets. and so
it is agreed upon

that the form of a drabble is fluid and defined outside of the word count parameters. one may and should use any form.

May The Fourth Be With You

The opening yellow crawl explaining the background of this grand space opera. The epic score with its brass notes starting off the story, announcing to us that this is a great adventure so we should get ready. The stars sparkling white in the expanse of black. For years, it was my obsession. I watched the films, read the books, discussed the crazy fan theories, bought the soundtrack, listened to the score with my eyes closed.

It was good to be reminded that evil, though powerful, cannot prevail. In the end, the darkness is not strong enough to overcome the light.

Cooling Towers

The spectators gathered to watch the show, huddled in small to middling pockets. The early morning chatter, buoyed up by Dunkin coffee, echoed over the water as the crowds waited to see the implosion. The towers came down with stunning precision. In a quick burst of smoke silhouetted against the morning sky, they fell. They disappeared as if drawn inside the earth by some giant hand. Turns out records can be set when cooling towers, having long outstayed their welcome, are dismantled in less than ten seconds. Then they are gone, leaving only memories of ash billowing through the air.

contents

contents may vary from drabble to drabble.

some drabbles may be sweet ruminations on the budding spring time while others may be bemoaning mini tirades on one's swollen sinuses and watery eyes.

some drabbles may be quirky and allusive while others are direct and poignant.

some drabbles may contain references to revolutions fought, fighting, or to be fought while others are mere meandering flights of fancy like fantastic tiny journeys on the backs of bumble bees.

still yet other drabbles may reveal themselves to be nothing more than instructions on fixing the perfect snack.

but they all stir the heart.

Assumption

I never used to think I was special. I assumed my thoughts were pedestrian, common. I assume my experiences were typical, unoriginal. I assumed my fears, joys, sadness, delights, nightmares, and daydreams were colored the exactly same as everyone else’s. That nothing separated me from the crowd and I blended in with everyone around me. I assumed I not unique or one of a kind. But we all know what happens when I assume. And besides, there really is only one of me. And really only one of you. Let’s be a little more Mr. Rogers about it, shall we?

procedure

1. open word counting tool. (bookmark or download one if you haven't already.)
2. poor a hot cup of trader joe's mint watermelon tea. (product placement. send back up tins, this stuff is delicious!)
3. begin composition.
3a. think of a word or a place.
3b. begin to ruminate on said word or place.
(different drabblers may have different techniques when it comes to inspiration)
3c. type out your thoughts in your word counter.
4. begin to panic that you either a) have written too many words or b) have a perfect little poem at 85 words.
5. edit profusely.

Words Worth

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I think we may be doing the math wrong. The picture exists, static in time and space. It leaves little to nothing for the imagination to fill in. But words are the fire of the mind, the ember of the soul. They crackle and burn within, fueling flights of fancy that no picture could ever capture. Let us not view words too cheaply. Let us not hold them in contempt. With words are men’s souls stoked. With words are revolutions kindled. With words are we remembered. Consider with me their true worth.

definition

In order to complete the task, the task must first be defined.

In May, the task is to compose drabbles. To engage in drabbling. Defined here:


Noun.

A drabble is a piece of writing consisting of exactly 100 words.

Fiction. Nonfiction. Poetry. Prose.

Example: I will write one drabble every day in the month of May.


Verb.

To drabble is to compose a piece of writing consisting of exactly 100 words.

Fiction. Nonfiction. Poetry. Prose.

Example: I am drabbling every day in the month of May.


The task is to create one drabble every day of the Month of May.