one;

When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.

I hate introducing things. I really do. So, um, this is my 100 drabble thread.

The reason I have decided to call it Kafka is, I have always liked the work of Franz Kafka. I read Metamorphosis and The Trial when I was in sixth grade, and though I tended to fall asleep at the sheer verbosity, I enjoyed them down to the last words of the last page of the epilogue. It's my hope that one day I can write something as marvellously paranoid and delusional; this is where I can practice it.

one; introduction
two; rules for drabbles
three; word list
four; form
five; reserve
six; reserve
seven; reserve

two;

Do...
...have fun!
...feel accomplished with every completed drabble!
...try to complete a drabble at least once a week!
...get up a listing of characters.
...remember to say thank you to everyone who comments!

Don't...
...reuse words!
...force yourself to write!
...create random characters for the purpose of a word!
...start a new list without finishing the first!
...be rude to anyone who comments!

three;

Number. Word; character used.

Series One; Godchild

1. Fields
2. Stolen
3. Cryptic
4. Hung
5. Upend
6. Visitor
7. Treat
8. Bible
9. Operation
10. Light
11. Laughter
12. Prayed
13. Clear
14. Engage
15. Ball
16. Time
17. Feast
18. Father
19. Beauty
20. Lithe
21. Whatever
22. Monstrous
23. Calamity
24. Child; Lixxie
25. Cruel
26. Vampire
27. Attend
28. Care
29. Nothing
30. Moon
31. Help
32. Lilies
33. Stake
34. Noble
35. Restrain
36. Relax
37. Gift
38. Chance
39. Judge
40. Castrate
41. Touched
42. Wrong
43. Limits
44. Failed
45. Hatred
46. Mischief
47. Pointless
48. Meaning
49. Place
50. Agent
51. Song
52. Hypnosis
53. Protect
54. Stop
55. Miss
56. Burn
57. Lewd
58. Flame
59. Garden
60. Fall
61. Dress
62. Waste
63. Rot
64. Medium
65. Volatile
66. Key
67. Pet
68. Pressure
69. Speak
70. Order
71. Insect
72. Kiss
73. After
74. Sin
75. Purpose
76. Harsh
77. Cake
78. Promise
79. Expose
80. Scene
81. White
82. Dead
83. Praise
84. Concert
85. Locate
86. Cost
87. Godchild
88. Glory
89. Repent
90. Voice
91. Humiliate
92. Endure
93. Believe
94. Secret
95. True
96. Crimes
97. Scar
98. Dear
99. Strip
100. Insanity

four;

The form with which I shall post a drabble!

series;
word;
characters;
warnings;
use;
notes;

five;

I suppose I'll put navigation up here, when I need it.

six;

Just in case I decide to do something involving art, or something.

seven;

All the other wonderful drabbalists! Which are like kabbalists, except, not.

Jitsumi1221's Drabbles
Emperial's Oddysey
Seripha's Drabbles
Aliena's Drabbles
Seito's Drabbles

series; Godchild
word; 24; child
characters; Elixabeté
warnings; Morbidity
use; None
notes; Uh. Disturbing content.

She knew that once, she had held a child. But it had only been the one time, and after that she’d never seen the little baby ever again. She didn’t know why, and suspected that maybe her father liked her that way. If she didn’t know, she wouldn’t cry, and Father hated it when she cried. But she knew somehow that after she had held the little baby girl named Anna, no one had ever seen her again.

Call it an instinct.

She knew that she was childish. It was just as instinctual as the feeling that little baby Anna had never grown up to wear pigtails or bright dresses. All she ever wanted to do was please, and that was one of the reasons that she thought that maybe Father didn’t like her. Everyone was the boss of her and she didn’t try to deny it, but maybe that’s why he liked her in the first place. She never knew and she wasn’t meant to, but maybe she knew that, somewhere inside, as she stood in the black room of the black house where black plans were laid and she was the victim.

Or wasn’t she?

She thought she knew that the baby was the victim, really. Or she knew she was almost sure.

But for some reason she couldn’t shake the feeling of doom that sat right there, behind her breastbone and the pretty black dress she had gotten for the ceremony later tonight. It wasn’t a little black dress, but it was black and it was a dress and Father had said, “Lixxie, girl, you look stunning,” before going downstairs in his black tuxedo to see all the demons that had risen up from the depths to rain curses upon her on this most cursed day, her wedding day.

I promise I won’t hurt you, she thought at the baby.

The bells would chime a solemn time, an appropriate time that her father, the Master of Ceremonies, had chosen himself. By then she would be downstairs in the chair, looking at all her father’s friends, because of course none of her friends could know that she was going to be the nine-hundred-forty-third bride. None of them knew similarly that she was a foster and not really a demon but some kind of air elemental from a world very far away that she didn’t remember. All she knew was that she had a twin and she’d been made to come here where sometimes she was so very unhappy.

She didn’t know the time, really. It was late. The baby was asleep, but was it her baby? No, of course not, she didn't have a baby. Not yet.

And of course it’d be so easy to just follow orders. She’d already done this once, hadn’t she? She didn’t remember, or, to say it correctly, she didn’t want to remember. It hadn’t really been her anyway, it’d been all Joran. He was the one who had killed the little boy!

But she’d watched and only tried to brush the baby boy’s hair out of his eyes. That was bad enough. She would die and go to Hell for it, or she would've if she hadn't already been there.

“My head hurts,” she said, and knew that she could make all the promises to the sleeping baby she wanted, she’d still do as she was told. Not because she liked it, not because she wanted to, not because she was weak, even. Because that was the way that she had been made.

series; The Lily
word; 8; Bible
characters; Asmadai Riffael
warnings; Can't think of any.
use; Contest entry?
notes; um, nothing really.

"Memory has a hand in the grave up to the wrist."

He had been burying a victim of an obscure genetic disease when the world had shattered and the dead had begun to walk in the city. Convinced that Judgment Day had come, Father Asmadai Riffael had fled from Rome and Italy. Through the strange cycle of days that sometimes became nights at noon, he had made his way to the place that he had known as Uberomania and begun to lay the foundations for a mission there, among the mix of heathens and Christians. It was the sole event in his life he was absolutely sure of.

Now he sat on a half-constructed wall, eating a small loaf of black bread and pretending that he was reading the book of Job. He was truly looking at a garden, the only vanity he permitted himself. He had planted roses in it, alongside carrots and potatoes. Roses were once Maria’s favorite flower... or was it lilies?

It bothered him that he couldn’t remember, so he had planted both, with a little pinch of the ashes that he always kept with him. He had said the funeral rites over the seedlings and watched them grow, thriving on the gray dust. Then he waited.