But thats cause no one reads! On a three hour roadtrip i wrote 5 drabbles, which are stories exactly 100 words long. No more, no less. Here they are:

(BE WARNED. SOME ARE SLIGHTLY DISTURBING.)

 Ghost Bar

In the dark, death bar, I clean the little shot glass and pass it down an empty table.

There it is filled with alcoholic sorrow and blood and is tipped in the air a customer downs the shot.

I sigh as the door rattles, signaling that another patron is entering.

It is fresh. A new ghost. The freezing draft tells me this.

I hear the invisible whispers order a Bloody Mary and I shake my head with a laugh. As I feel chills, my laughter dies in my throat.

I pull out the bottle.

The recently deceased have no humor.

The God of Pain 

Blue skies fall upon her until she loses all senses. Her heart drowns in light and breathes golden sunbeams.

Her sister is the goddess of wind, and she of light.

I forever wade in storm clouds, at least, until lightning finds me.

I have no use of my heart, for it is locked within hers.

I sit on the banks of the Moon River with my brother, the god of fire. I am the god of pain.

I see her across the bank. My brother nudges me.

I slowly raise my arm and wave.

She doesn’t even look.

I’m Pain.

 Fey Blood

Hunger burns in the wolf’s throat and I taste the blood of my kill. I smile mockingly at him, bloodlust oozing from my pores. None for him. All for me. My grin stretches over my face, reaching farther than any human’s lips. Fairy blood drips across my fangs, onto the carcass of my fey meal.

It is a goblin, perhaps. Maybe a troll. I do not care either way. It is mine, and in my mouth and replenishing my thirst. It is beautiful. The crimson pooling in my throat, on my tongue.

I shall always remember my very first fairy.

 Car Rides

We race storm clouds in a backwards macabre climb across the deathly dark roads. The taste of victory still hangs on our tongues, indulging our senses and blocking out our fear of the death vapor above our heads, above our little silver car’s roof.

We dive into the storm’s heart, our little less than minivan shuttering against the wind, streamers pouring from our windows, ripping off the car.

The water has yet to come. Still waiting for the downpour. Heavy metal pounds in my ears, but the others are calm. My gut wrenches. Then the semi truck hit our car.

 Little Pirates Fall

Behind me is the stool leading to the platform, to the gallows. Fake tears flood my face

and I smudge my stage makeup in the process. I smile for a split second at the crowd, then climb the stairs. My face is a mask.

It was one sick play, if anything else.  Phil, the pirate, shouts in his too convincing accent, and my bones rattle. He is also set in one of the nooses. We both cry out, to stop the hanging, but as usual, we are unsuccessful.

The floor gives. This time, there is no stool to stop death.

CREEPY. At least I think so.

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