Pixies and Paperwork (100 Word Fantasy Story)

You are one cubicle worker in an office full of other cubicle workers. Here, everything is beige and bland. From the monotonous typing of keyboards to the crisp business suits to the hum of the water cooler.

At your desk, you open the metal drawer. On top of a stack of manila folders and forgotten files stands a pixie. Rosy cherub cheeks and pricked ears. Dragonfly wings. Rainbow dust twinkles around.

“D’you want to leave?” The pixie whispers, smiling up at you. “Someplace nicer?”

The phone rings. Computer screens lights up with emails. You nod, almost too quickly.

“Yes please.”


Write with heart.

Love,

Lady Jabberwocky

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Scrunchies and School Bells (100 Word Humor)

“Ready for school, pumpkin?”

“Almost!”

Determined to start middle school with confidence, the teen checked themselves in the mirror again. First day of school outfit was make-or-break.

Oversized overalls. Power Rangers t-shirt. Around their wrist, a beaded friendship bracelet from camp.

Unfortunate braces in their mouth. A mountain sized pimple on their forehead.

They tossed a deck of trading cards and sour candy stash into their backpack. Essentials for being the cool kid during free period.

The bus was here. Their mood ring pink with excitement.

Leaning on the heels of their sneakers, they wheeled away toward new awkward adventures.


Fun fact: I’m a 1990s kid. Born in 1993! Between that awesome Finding Saban Moon documentary and Jax’s 90’s Kids song, I’ve been deep in 90s nostalgia this week. May spend the weekend rewatching some childhood favorites. Inspired by these 90s vibes, I wrote this short story. Not sure how good it came out, feels more like a character profile than flash fiction. Regardless, it was a fun little piece and fun character to play around with.

How many nostalgic refernces can you find in this story? What decade were you born in? Let me know in the comments!

Write with heart.

Love,

Lady Jabberwocky

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The Basil Sprites (100 Word Fantasy Story)(Repost)

Hello Writer Bees! Sorry for the late post this week. Work has been hectic! But I didn’t want to leave you empty handed. Since I’m in a fantasy genre mood lately, I’m reposting this short fairytale. Now that I think of it, this may have been the first 100-word story I’ve ever written. From two years ago! Hope you all enjoy. Write with heart! – Love, Victoria aka Lady Jabberwocky.


Hidden under basil leaves, they sit, aglow. With their firefly kisses and rice paper wings, they wait for the first sprig of spring to sprout. Wandering travelers fondly call them diminutive deities. In unwavering tradition, farmers tie bells or chimes to branches, to win favor with these guardians of the field.

Threads of golden luck tucked in their clutches, the little spirits bless the harvest of many. Be weary, dear friends. Do not ravage the earth nor mistreat nature itself. Common basil sprites will become vengeful imps, inviting weeds and death onto your land. Best to keep the bells ringing.


Stay safe and keep writing.

— Lady Jabberwocky

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It Lives in Kentucky (100 Word Sci-Fi Humor Story)

“What did you do!?”

The girl. Wendy Jane. From a farm in nowhere, Kentucky. Freckles.

“Smee wanted hamburger.”

The extraterrestrial. Sm’ium. Smee for short. From a planet past Pluto. Laser gun in tentacle.

Together, they stood in front of the vaporized remnants of a cow. Blood and guts splatted onto the grass.

“Generous one said hamburgers come from beef, yes?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Generous one is generous. Let Smee sleep in red dwelling with riding beast.”

“You mean the barn with the horse?”

“If beef is in cow, then hamburger is in cow.”

She facepalmed. “Your logic’s off, buddy.”


Hey Writer Bees. Two 100-word stories in a row? Crazy! Actually, this one’s been sitting in my drafts folder for YEARS. I always said I’d play around with it on a rainy day. And today is that rainy day. I kinda like how it turned out. It’s dialogue heavy and with limited descriptions. When it comes to filling any blanks, I’ll leave it to your beautiful imagination.

Let me know what you think in the comments.

Write with heart.

Love,

Lady Jabberwocky

Sunny Day Towing Company (Self Care 100 Word Story)

“Did you call for a tow?” A woman in dungaree overalls asked, stepping out the truck. Stitched named tag read ‘Sunny’.

Crying, he sat on the curb and nodded, clothes drenched from the rain.

Her eyes assessed the damage. “Yeah, that’s not looking good.”

“You’re telling me,” He choked a teary laugh. “Can’t seem to get myself out of this ditch,” No broken-down vehicle in sight, only a grey raincloud floating over his head. “Life’s been rough lately, y’know?”

Smiling, she attached the truck’s hook to the edge of the cloud. Thunder rumbled.

“Don’t get overwhelmed, I’m here to help.”          


Hello Writer Bees,

I’ve had a tough week for me. Changes at work have left me stressed. Had at least two breakdowns. It’s been difficult to write blog posts and my WIP when I’m in this bad head space. When hard things in life pile on like that, it can be overwhelming. I try to be a positive light and post content for you guys, but in this moment, my mental health is struggling.

I need some self care, to re-shift my focus and attitude. And from that need for self care came this little 100 word story. Feel like I poured my sad feelings into this piece. Now I’m a little lighter, dusting those heavy emotions off my chest and heart. From a challenging time came a simple sweet story. Writing isn’t just art, it’s an outlet. And I’m pretty lucky writing is my outlet and safe space.

And shoutout to Mister Jabberwocky for letting me ugly cry all week. He really is the sweetest, most supportive partner. Again, I’ve pretty lucky.

If you are struggling, don’t be afraid to reach out for help and talk to someone.

Write with heart.

Love,

Lady Jabberwocky          

Query Letter’s 270+ Best Writing Contests (Repost)

Hello Writer Bees!

Hope you all are staying creative and enjoying the warm weather. Still stuck in the editing trenches here, so I’ve yet to frolic in the sunshine.

This post will be quick, but trust me, it’s a goodie.

The lovely folks at QueryLetter.com reached out to me with some exciting information. Recently, they published a blog post titled ‘The 270+ Best Writing Contests‘. In this extensive list, they’ve highlighted over 270 of the top writing contests around. And the best part? There are contests in a variety of genres and word counts. From poetry to flash fiction to non-fiction, all writers are welcomed. No matter what you write, you’ll for sure find something up your alley.

I highly recommend checking out this list. Even as I’m writing this, I’m looking through all the different contests and am tempted to try it out. Inspiration is already bubbling in my head. Challenge yourself and try participating in one of these contests. There’s no harm in taking a chance and throwing your hat in the ring. You never know.


Have you ever participated in a writing contest before? Are you interesting in signing up for one of contests listed? Talk to me in the comments. As always, I love to hear from you.

Write with heart.

Love,

Lady Jabberwocky

Born a Bloodhound (Detective Mystery Flash Fiction)

Hello Super Sleuths,

This work on fiction is based on last week’s post, the 5 archetypes of fictional detectives. Enjoy!


In every lifetime, I’d been born a bloodhound.

The city was a graveyard, grey and cold and deadly silent. It was near midnight. On a lonely street corner by the museum, I stood there in the pouring rain. Fedora and trench coat drenched. Smoke rose from the sewer grate.

She stood beside me, a viper in heels. Eyelashes sharp like butcher knives.

“Finn, darling,” Her hands slip inside my coat, warm as a shot of ice cold whiskey. She whispered into my ear. “Let’s forget about this little museum jewel heist. The robbers are probably long gone by now,” The minx kissed me, full and feverish. Lips were red like a stop sign. “Couldn’t we just run off together instead? It’d be so easy.” Easy, she says. Easy like a bullet to the head.

I lit a cigarette and eyed the moon. “A dame like you is going to be in a world of trouble someday.” She snickered, her fingers inched towards the gun holstered on my hip. I snatched her wrist. “Quit playing games and fess up already. I know about your little scheme. Now, you want to tell me where that million-dollar diamond is? Or do I have to search you myself?”

Eyebrow raised, she offered a wide wolfish grin, full of teeth and poison. “Please do, inspector.”
———————————————————————————————————–

Every incarnation, there is a trail I’m bound to follow.

That sunny summer morning on Cherry Blossom Lane, I sat cozy in my armchair. On the coffee table, there’s a tray of tea and oatmeal cookies. The rain would arrive later, my bones could sense it. 

“Miss Finnegan, are you feeling alright?” The aid, Gloria, handed me a porcelain teacup embellished with golden roses. Accepting the cup, I nodded with a smile. Looking out the window once more, I watched the new neighbors shuffle cardboard boxes. Lady Whiskerdown, my faithful companion, leapt into my lap.

“Dear? Did you hear about Mister Massey next door?” I asked.

She hummed. “They said it was a robbery gone wrong, yes? Poor thing.”

“His son moved in so quickly after his father’s death, don’t you think?” I pondered. As soon as the yellow police tape was removed, the son was quick to move into the lovely estate. How odd. Lady Whiskerdown thought it odd too.

“Miss Finnegan, you are being nosey again,”  The nurse teased, wagging her finger. As Gloria left the room to fetch my afternoon pills, I gripped my walker, hoisting myself up. “Where are you off to now?”

I may be retired, but an old dog like me can sense trouble when it’s around. Like the rain, my bones could sense it. I gave her a sweet, harmless smile. “Only saying hello to the new neighbors. Where’s the harm in that?”


Every breath dedicated to unraveling the most tangled of life’s mysteries.

After hours, school gave me the heebie-jeebies. Once bustling with classmates, the hallways were eerily empty. Flashlights in hand, my pals and I the snuck around. With the janitor’s permission, of course. He wasn’t thrilled about the recent hauntings and kidnappings either. Our sneakers squeaked against the linoleum tiles. A heavy mini backpack strapped to my back, full of everything a good detective needs to catch a ghost. Fishing net included. Scrunchie on my wrist, in case of emergency.

We found locker #66G. I pried open the metal locker with a screwdriver, its contents spilling out on the floor. Let’s see. A stack of overdue homework. A half-eaten cheeseburger. A bag of glow-in-the-dark powder. I gulped. “Guys,” I turned to my gang of cohorts: The mathlete with thick rimmed glasses, the blonde vixen in a cheerleader uniform, the skater with the tie dye shirt, the dog. “I think I found something.”

Above us, the lights flickered. A strained, moaning sound rang through the halls. Suddenly, a specter in white rags with a phantom mask appeared, floating and glowing a ghoulish green. Rattling chains looped around it’s arms.

“It-it-it’s the Grahamsville G-G-Ghost!”

“Yikes!”

“Finley, run!” My friend called out to me. The Grahamsville Ghost hovered towards us.  

Real ghost or not, I wasn’t looking to become the next missing victim. New plan: Run!


I tried experimenting with different tones here, different subgenres of mystery fiction. Sometimes, It’s good to write outside your comfort zone. In the first part, I was aiming for noir vibes, second part was more a cozy mystery and third part was based on Saturday morning cartoons. Let me know what you guys think in the comments. I’m open to feedback.

Happy sleuthing!

Write with heart,

Lady Jabberwocky

The Brawn Man of Brooklyn (A Superpowered Short Story)

They called it an extraordinary phenomenon.

A regular Hercules, Dr. Rabinowitz on 3rd street claimed. Frankie was born with the capabilities of lifting objects 100 times heavier than his body weight. Super strength, as the kids would say. His mother said Hail Mary in Italian ten times a day and cried, as if her son was some kind of devil. She constantly scolded him out of fear of his destructiveness. “Don’t touch that!” and “Don’t touch anything!” and “Don’t you dare touch the baby!”

He was a toddler. And his strength was something unexplainable, something that should remain a secret. If he pressed his hand into wall too hard, the wall would crack. Toys, if not handled gently, would be crushed or broken into pieces. Even the metal handle of his bicycle was indented with his fingertips. He couldn’t control this, even as he got older, his power grew more dangerous. On the kindergarten playground, he pushed a kid out of the sandbox and cracked his rib. When he was seven years old, he threw a baseball and it landed three blocks away and through a car windshield.

He couldn’t touch anything. He wasn’t safe.

When his sister, Camilla, was an infant, Frankie would hold his small hands behind his back and peek into her crib. He was afraid of breaking her too.

His father owned a deli under the train tracks, Berardi’s Deli. Behind it was a dead patch of grass they called a backyard. And above it was a shoe box apartment they called a home. His father wore a stained apron as he sat on the sidewalk’s edge, smelling like fennel seed and sweat. He smoked a cigarette and watched the kids in the street play. Frankie, now a small boy with small hands, sat beside him.

“Pops, why can’t I play with them?” The boy asked, watching the kids play stickball. “I promise I’ll be good. I won’t hit so hard. Honest.”

His father gave him a side glance, taking a long drag and rubbing his stubbled chin. “Last time, you knocked a kid out.”

He looked down at his small hands, discouraged “I-I didn’t mean to, Pops, he was….”

“Your mother with have a heart attack if she finds out you hurt someone else with your…” Trailing off, he stood up and stomped his cigarette out. The few remaining embers in the curb fizzled into the cement. “Don’t let nobody see you doing that. You hear me?” He warned. Frankie’s eyes wandered to the window to the apartment above the deli, where his mother, with tired eyes, looked out.


“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Camilla.” He said, looking down at his feet as they walked home from high school one crisp autumn afternoon. His black hair fell into a perfect greased curl.

“Sure it is,” His sister grinned, holding her biology textbook in her arms. “You love baseball.”

“Watchin’ baseball, sure. Not playin’ it,” He shrugged, still unsure “Pop’s will be mad. And Ma’s gonna be in hysterics if she finds out.”

She nudged him with her elbow. Her long wool skirt matched her mint green sweater. “Come on, don’t worry about that stuff, Frankie, you’d be amazing and you know it.”

Frankie sighed, shoving his hands in his Letterman jacket. A chill blew between them. A police siren blared in the distance. The sun was setting, burning orange and gold.

“What if I hurt someone?”

“What if you only hit home runs?” She countered with a laugh.

“I’m serious, Camilla,” He grabbed her arm lightly, as if he was holding a feather. They stood on the street corner across from their family’s deli. “I can’t control this. Someone’s gonna get hurt.”

“You can control it. You don’t have to be scared. You’re strong… super strong, but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. You can do something good with it.” The sirens grew louder.

As they crossed the street, a car screeched around the corner, being tailed by red and blue flashing lights. A police chase. Frankie was in the middle of the street, frozen for a moment. Camilla screamed, pulling at his hand. “Frankie, move!” He wouldn’t budge. He didn’t want to be scared anymore. The car barreled towards him. He pushed his sister out of the way, and braced for impact, with an arched back and outstretched arms.

The car slammed into Frankie, metal crushed against his chest, pushing him back a couple of feet. His sneakers skid against the pavement. The vehicle was stopped completely, with three bewildered robbers wearing ski masks sitting inside. The next day, the headline in the newspaper dubbed him “The Brawn Man of Brooklyn”.


Hello Writer bees! I’ve been feeling gross this week. For the record, it’s not COVID. While I’ve been under the weather, the Mister and I have been on a nostalgia trip, revisiting shows and movies from our childhoods. High School Musical One and Two were involved. Since I love that nostalgia feeling, it seemed fitting to share this short story I wrote back in 2017. Back when I was a newbie writer. Hope you enjoy!

—Lady Jabberwocky

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The Sleepless Queen – (Fantasy Short Story)

“Is it wise to disturb her majesty so late in the evening?” The young page asked the guard, his voice shivering.

The guard yawned as pounded on the chamber door. “Course. There’s a reason she’s called the Sleepless Queen, you know.” Almost instantly, the torch lights illuminated the stone hall. The double doors swung open of their own accord, bidding entrance into the King and Queen’s private quarters. Carefully, he stepped inside the room. A question rattled in the child’s head. Why do they call her the sleepless queen?

The Queen sat in a grand canopy bed – wide awake, as her moniker suggested – reading a leatherbound book. Her skin dark and warm like cinnamon. Ears pricked and pointed, a mark of her magical lineage. Rosy pink hair tied into a braid. Beside her, the King snored, his arm slung across her stomach.

“Apologies for disturbing you, your highness.” He bowed.

The book snapped shut. “No apologies needed.” She smiled, beckoning the page to her bedside. With a nervous tremor, he stepped closer and handed her the note. Her amber eyes skimmed the paper. Looking back to the child, her smile returned. Slowly and softly, the Queen climbed out of bed and out of her lover’s embrace. Her satin white nightgown shined in the lantern light. “A beast was seen in the forest. All the kingdoms are on alert.” Her fingers reached for the jagged crystal sitting in the windowsill. The Jagged gem began to glow. A thin silver shield, like a thick fog, covered the entire kingdom. With a resolved nod, her majesty seemed content with the shield protecting their realm.

Bowing again, the boy took a few steps towards the door then stopped. Curiosity clawing at his throat. “Forgive me for asking, but do you have trouble sleeping? Is that why they call you the Sleepless Queen?”

With a light, fluttering laugh, she shook her head. “No, little one. I’m not human like my husband. My kind do not require sleep to survive.” She explained, the gentle tone of her voice soothing like an ocean breeze. A twinkle of adoration in her eyes as she glanced over at the sleeping King. “Though I use the time well. I read. I help maintain the barrier. I protect the King when he rests.” In a playful movement, she grazed his freckles with her thumbs. “Speaking of rest, off to bed with you. Thank you for delivering this message, my good sir, you have done well.” She whispered her praise before shooing him away. The young messenger scampered off. The Sleepless Queen returned to bed, returned to her lover’s side. A book floated into the Queen’s grasp, opening to the page where she left off. “I can tell when you are feigning sleep, dear heart. Unbecoming for a king.”

Enveloping his wife in his arms, he held her in an embrace. Both of them falling into the comfort of closeness. “The Sleepless Queen. Haven’t heard that name in ages.” He hummed into her neck.

Her lips found the crown of his head. “I will gladly take up the title. Being by your side, in the quiet moments, is a blessing in itself.” Waving her fingers, the lanterns dimmed.

“Is there trouble?” The King mumble, drowsiness slowly overcoming him.

“Trouble that can wait until the morning, do not fret.” Golden eyes flicked towards the window, checking the barrier one last time. “If a dragon comes knocking on our walls, we will be protected, to an extent. Go back to sleep, my love. Enjoy the quiet while it lasts.”

“Goodnight, my sleepless Queen.”

“Goodnight.”


I couldn’t get this idea of a queen that does not need to sleep out of my head. And I had no real plot for her to play in. So, I did some freewriting. Let me know what you think.

Stay safe and stay creative.

Write with heart,

Lady Jabberwocky