A bit of spring cleaning has turned up some more drabbles that I wrote. I mentioned the ones I had published in this post, whereas these are three examples that I wrote in 1991 but did not submit.
It’s interesting to see what was on my mind in 1991 – a rather grumbly observation about intellectual property licensing; pondering what would happen if and when the Doctor reached a thirteenth regeneration; and killing off K-9 several years before I wrote my Decalog 3 story “Moving On” (1996) and audio play Mirror, Signal, Manoeuvre (2002), each of which put the tin dog out of action. (Read more about the latter here.)
My other two drabbles were published in Drabble Who in 1993 to celebrate Doctor Who‘s 30th anniversary and to raise money for the Royal National Institute for Blind People (RNIB) Talking Books Fund.
If you would like to contribute to the RNIB, their online donation page is here.
SENSOR BALLS
Don’t expect any charitable contributions from us – we’re the guys in the black (and gold), and the only thing we’ll give you is trouble.
Asking us for favours, you’ll come to realise, is as productive as trying to squeeze the contents out of a sealed tin can.
Look us in the eye, and we’ll stare you down in unblinking, uncaring incomprehension.
Exterminate any hope you may entertain of a deal – and if you dare to take the plunge without prior permission, we’ll give you some stick.
Kindly don’t argue when we roll up again: we are Terry Nation’s muscle.
TRISKAIDEKAPHOBIA
When you’re practically immortal, the only end of age always seems an impossibly long journey distant. To you, a thousand years old can barely be conceived. To a mayfly, you are the god.
Today, I face my middle age with equanimity.
The flaw, perhaps, is that living fast means dying young.
Borusa escaped, after a fashion, by challenging Rassilon, his continued existence evidenced by the furious flashing of his eyes.
The Master took one life for thirteen more.
On the whole, though, it’s unlucky for most.
What must a Time Lord do when time finally runs out? Cheat, of course.
BUILT-IN OBSOLESCENCE
Five months later, some of the novelty had worn off. A journalist knows the currency of a recent story, and the transience of human interest.
She should have guessed when the gears first started to crunch and the print-out was exhausted. Now, crouched by the side of the machine, so was she.
Brendan honked. “Again?”
She withered him with a glance. “The problem with self-diagnostics is what to do when they go wrong.”
“Sounds recursive.” Brendan munched, disinterested. “First year psychology. Logic.”
Crumbs bounced.
She slapped the side of the computer, piqued.
“So typical of the Doctor to forget the instruction book.”
The Red Lines Page 