short stories

When I was much younger, I used to write stories. A lot of stories actually. Most of them were usually scribbled on scraps of paper, in notebooks and along the margins of class notes, snippets of characters’ names and plots. Little windows into a different time or a different place — and usually no more than a few sentences, a few paragraphs at most. Truth be told, I think I always had the intention of turning them into longer, more in depth stories — the inklings of a novel, I told myself — detectives solving crimes, a war hero returning home, two young lovers meeting for the first time. And yet, there they sat. Half started, on the brink of...