A drabble, as I do it, is an exactly 100-word story, not counting the title. Five follow.
Most of them were already posted on my first blog but I wish to have them on this one as well. There is something about this limitation that fulfils my need. Set limits to your child, or she will write. 🙂
In July last year, before I returned to my homeland for the summer holiday, I wrote:
I just wrote my first book.
It will never see the printers, be sold, make money.
It’s been written for the audience of one, with one life in mind.
And as a direct result of internet it is comprised entirely of drabbles. Seventy, one for each year lived.
I even invented Slovenian word for it: “drabljica”.
He has not seen it yet.
Writing it made me realise what a high standard of loving me he has set, and that I might as well be a bit more lenient towards all the rest.
It’s not that they will ever reach it.
The next one I wrote in December last year after a lovely walk in Trastevere.
I steak you
Just today in Roma I entered a shop with many shirts.
I saw a shirt that I would buy if it wasn’t in one colour only, ugly brown. On it were a bear and a girl (or was it a boy?) walking hand in hand. The bear was huge.
They appeared pensive. There was a think bubble with a drawing hovering next to each head.
In hers was: A heart.
In his was: A steak.
The reason I entered this shop was its name.
It is called: Trust Nobody.
He said later: “But they didn’t need to be so blunt.”
Here is one that rolled off my chest in gratitude after a vet visit.
“Bronchitis,” he said, “from the worms. Do you want to observe them under the microscope?”
A very hands-on vet. In his case, hands blacker than black, delivering the shot gently and deftly. His forest green scrubs in a magic dance with his skin tone.
And later again, after single-handedly handling the dog and the X-ray machine: “Look, these are his lungs. And this is the shadow.”
My Italian is getting there, his Italian has a Tuscan home. Good that you’re native, and there. Even though you couldn’t see the worms.
“It’s because he’s a human, not a machine,” you explain.
The next one is about something that really happened, like everything I write about, years ago:
A visit to his daughter. We enter the trailer. She’s in there with a colleague, gypsy-looking. They have upturned coffee cups, inspecting the grounds.
The gypsy looks straight into my eyes.
“Why doesn’t she do it, I can see she knows how.”
You must know this about me: I’m of earth and the sea. I can land an ear and offer a perspective, but I don’t do it this way.
The shock doesn’t show.
I take the cup and feel his eyes widen.
“There will be a three-way, and you will stick to the middle.”
Such fraud. Unless it’s Freud.
The last drabble shows exactly how I do it. It happened two years ago when there was a Pearl Jam Trieste concert ticket to give away.
A spare best band ticket awaits somebody to complete the expected 30,000 people. Sis told her facebook, put an ad online, nothing.
I tell her to go wider, call long-lost people. I can hear her thinking over the phone. She will.
Later, a message: “Done, the ticket goes to the best possible candidate”. Do I want to be told or prefer a surprise?
It only takes a second.
“Come on, Manja,” in mock disappointment.
And only she knows that no, I wasn’t cheating. Her gallant prom date didn’t inform me of her call.
She did say best possible.
Photo: a © signature mmm production
For more drabbles, please see the first Drabble Quarterly e-zine (and Nick’s piece in it).