14 stories about childhood
Drabble drabble
Hi all! Today is a special edition of Fictitious, as it features not just things written by me, but also by more than a dozen of great writers from the social club. If you’re not following the club yet, you’re missing out on some of the freshest writing there is online (shoutout to for bringing the group together!).
The “submission criteria” was super simple — a short story related to childhood, 100 words per story. Such stories are also called drabbles and have been a popular format in fanfiction/sci-fi circles.
The stories I received could not be more diverse — some are wholesome, others raunchy, and some are just crazy. I hope you enjoy this experiment, and if you do — let me know, as I would love to run something similar in March.
Final thought — take these stories slow. They’re all 100 words each, but you’ll be surprised how much can fit in just 100 words.
Oleg Volkov (me).
July heat has melted the black tar the workers left. You use your stiff fingers to twirl the mass into a conch. You’re not good with your hands, but this seems easy. Just twist and squeeze. It looks like one of those fancy fossils kids that go to geology club find on their digs. You’re not one of them, but at least you have your little tar trilobite. There’s a larger matchbox you could fit it in, just like the stool sample you had to take to the school’s nurse. But you lose it outside, like so many other things.
A Childhood Dream, or The Emergence Of The Sentient AI
As a kid, Felix Futzbucker dreamed of transhumanism. It had been tempting him from the first day he learned about computers. In fifth grade, he discovered Artificial Intelligence and got hooked. It took him months to master statistics, linear algebra and programming. He read research papers, trained SOTA neural networks, paid thousands on GPU clusters, and then, after all those efforts and nerves spent, Felix crawled close to his dream. He loaded all his journal entries into GPT-3 and started asking it questions. And, you won’t believe it, but the first thing it said to him was, “You dickhead”. (edited)
Brady of
There’s a temple. You’re a child. An elf. Green of garb and experience. A solemn choir sings a mystic’s hymn. There is a sword with a deep blue hilt, its tip buried in stone, radiant light streaming from the glass above. You pull the sword from its resting place. You are chosen. The years pass in a flash and you are grown. But you can go back by way of magic.
Yet, you are not the elf onscreen. You are you. Time goes only forward. And though Ocarina is a Link to your past, you can never go back again.
Minna of
Heavy Like an Elephant
Feeling heavy like an elephant sinking into the couch and the cooling sheets that mother has carefully placed to allow the aching hot body to feel relief. Sinking deeper than my body allows. Sinews and consciousness far below. Upside is down and it is impossible to know if the belly touches the sheets — or is it the back? Perhaps the body is rotating around its polar axis while endlessly seeking comfortable positions? Perhaps the nerves have finally reached a dead end? Perhaps the body is truly floating? A heavy elephant with an 8-year-old girl’s brain floating in a fever dream.
The Dealer’s Trade
For six days I run the shop. Strangers drop off their leather bound tomes, scuffed hardbacks stripped of their original dust jackets, and dogeared paperbacks, graffitied with pencil markings. They take the cash and run, never to be seen again. To them they are nothing but cheap thrills and trashy tales. But they are lost treasures; a portal to the past offering joy, wisdom, and excitement. Now I restore them; preserve and keep them in good condition for the next young soul. Where will you go, little traveler? What do you seek?
Perhaps your next book will take you there.
Sam
Friday evening. You grab your pillow and stuff some toys, candy, and a toothbrush that isn't going to get used into the case. You say goodbye to your family and walk out the door of the house and begin your journey. Dusk has settled in on the warm evening; the streetlights giving off a yellow hue, creating circles of light on the otherwise dark street, the moon too low in the sky to offer any assistance. Your mom watches as you follow the sidewalk seven houses away. You have arrived at your best friend's house. A sleepover about to begin.
I never humped my stuffed animals because I was too busy preaching to them. Homilies and hugs was how I showed love to the potentially erotic petting zoo of plush. At camp, I went into full shock and stare as the other girls straddled the matted hair of their Teddy Bears. Once home, the button-eyed congregation heard my sermon, a promise to never stuff them in my underwear. (That’s where the sock-balls belonged.) Deep into the night tho, I’d coat my tongue in Solomon’s honey. God may be lost on me, but Catholicism gave me love of poetry.
DB of
Far too many pubic hairs dotted the urinal to have just flaked off from underwear friction. Did somebody run their hands through their bush to yank this much out?
As I peed the pubes down the drain, I tried it myself. Even with tugging and rubbing, I couldn’t nearly match the previous collection. It hurt when a hair would pop loose from the root, but not enough to stop.
But when I flushed, the clogged drain sent yellowish water with brown twists over the porcelain lip.
I didn’t have time to wash my hands. I didn't want to get caught.
A chubby boy of thirteen pleads with his Dad beside their car at the back of the lot.
“I don’t want to change here—we’re too close to the swimming hole.”
“The hotel is an hour away—nobody will see!”
The boy gets naked and scrambles to pull up his trunks.
A bus packed full of teenage girls pulls up next to their car.
The boy panics.
When he jumps into the car to hide himself, his bathing suit gets caught around his ankles.
The girls’ laughter echoes around dinner tables for decades when he and his Dad retell the story.
I trace a new scratch on the table with my finger.
Then there are the two bumps from the crazy glue repair job. I fixed a figurine for my daughter and set it directly on the table like an idiot. Now all I seem to see are the new scratch and those little, almost imperceptible bumps.
My daughter comes bouncing into the room.
“Whatcha staring at, Daddy?”
“Daddy is annoyed with these scratches and bumps on the table, honey.”
“But Daddy, maybe the boo-boos make it special and not a boring table.”
“Maybe you’re right. Nobody’s perfect,” I say.
Smile!
You hate smiling, age nine. Last school year Isaac called you a dork. Mom takes you for family pictures anyway, and this summer as every, the Target studio makes you squirm. Walls of joy, beaming scrapbooks. A cheeky toddler sliding wood blocks in the waiting area points a hand at you and laughs, does what you can’t. So when it’s time and the camera lady bids you say cheese, you crack a smile so wide it cracks you open, frees a monster with jagged teeth radiating hunger, the end of all life.
Grin and bear it. This too shall pass.
The television in the corner of the bedroom winked out, but the visions of heroes still played across my young imagination. Fuel for the day to come, the swift run, the long days at park and beach, Granny's silver hair and smoke filled house, the coins pressed into my hand for a fish supper. Those were the halcyon days, days of sunshine and potential. Hers was a place of freedom and fun. A far cry from today. A far cry from the hospital room where, decades later, she met her great-grandson and I kissed cold withered skin and childhood goodbye.
Hello dad its me your son been a while no time for punctuation my arms hurt did you see the explosion I created last week all the angels chuckled they think I’m daft but we must have new places to live when all the humans are used up okay better run have lots of prayers to answer everyone wants a new war or a win at the dog races say don’t forget to drop me a coin next time you change martyrs I could use a vacation and if you don’t mind would you pull me down from this cross
Instead of notches on a wall, my growth spurts mapped to crops from our garden. In my one-month photo I cradled a butternut squash in my arms. A technicolor preschool photo shows me head-to-head with the heirloom tomato plant; by the first grade I grazed the tops of the raspberry bushes. That year a mole burrowed tunnels under the flower bed and Dad brought home a Rottweiler to snuff him out. On the day we met, Duke took one look at me and pounced at my shoulders, knocking me to the dirt. That’s the day I stopped watering the petunias.
Did you enjoy these stories? Would you maybe want to participate in something similar? Let me know!
Thank you Oleg for putting this together, and to all whose drabbles are here. Nicely done. :)
Evocative micro memories. Well done, all!