Got a few minutes to spare? Below are several pieces that may just fill that gap. These short stories were written for bite-sized ideas that had needed a home, as well as a means to work on something during longer works. Sometimes, when you’re eating at the buffet, you need a nibble from the bread basket. (This makes absolutely no sense and I apologise.)
Normally Danny Redwood wouldn’t be out this late, especially on a school night. But this was important. He had the money, and the address given to him from his friend Brian, who had needed help for last month’s spelling bee. And he had Brian’s word that this was legit. That first place trophy he kept showing off was proof enough.
Greg Layfield looked at the man sitting at table three and swore under his breath.
It was definitely him. The pinstripe suit, the slicked-back hair with streaks of grey. Table for one, rearranging the wine glass for the water glass. He picked up a knife, polished it between the napkin, and Greg swore again.
Not him. Not tonight.
“You’re a robot,” said Thomas.
It sounded cold, but in his mind, there was no other way to say it. Cassie was fourteen now, old enough to know the truth. And it wasn’t fair to hide it anymore. The artificial life debate was dominating public consciousness, with each side demanding a voice over the other. She was going to find out sooner or later. And he’d always wanted an open, honest relationship with his family. To not tell her, in a time when she deserved to know... well, it didn’t seem fair
“Fur is murder!”
The shriek pierced Gloria Eagleton’s ears a half-second before a splash of wet doused her face. She darted a hand to her cheek, saw red on her fingertips. Blood? She felt no pain, or any cut in her skin.
The smell. Red paint. And Gloria glared at the woman who threw it.
His shirt collar felt starchy, stiff as cardboard, and it dug into Marcus Golding’s neck the way only a freshly pressed garment could. The outfit that surrounded it was equally uncomfortable: a too-thick suit, a blue tie that choked his throat. And the shoes, they pinched at the toes, and squeaked when he walked. No-one said anything about dressing up for the interview, but when you’re sitting in front of Lydia Mallender, as he was, you think twice about looking anything but your best.
The school assembly hall looked the same as he remembered. Brick for paint-peeling brick, exactly the same, from the rusted weathervane above to the cracked concrete steps below. Upon those steps, the grooves worn from the pounding feet of the thousands of students before him, and thousands more since he’d graduated — god, had it really been twenty years? It hadn’t changed. Standing before the hall, Garry Ortiz didn’t feel as though he had changed. Those twenty years might as well have been yesterday.