Creative writing

Creative writing

Yes, I know, of course I do. This street isn’t old, not by the standards of Paris, but it’s been around for a hundred fifty years, since they tore down the slaughterhouses that had...

I saw him over her shoulder and must have looked startled because she looked at me, stopped eating and asked what’s the matter. She didn’t even turn around when I told her what had...

The Paris Chairs In every stage of my life I’ve had a special chair to fill a special need: one that helped nurse me back to health when a sickly child; one that was a...

I ran into Joseph Lestrange about a week ago and he was smiling, dizzy-happy, you could say.  That’s something I haven’t seen in Joe’s face for quite a while—but I think you might say...

“Date laid,” I say out loud and grin. I have a carton of eggs in my hand with the date the eggs were laid printed on it. This is wonderful, the straight-line of the...

I have no idea why I’m here, but I am pretty sure I shouldn’t be. I guess I should correct that. I’m here because I walked in the front door of my own free...

Trois heures, c’est toujours trop tard ou trop tôt pour tout ce qu’on veut faire. Un drôle de moment dans l’après-midi. This time, anyway, Sartre got it right—and perhaps that explains why this is...

If I could remember exactly when it happened, I would tell you. The second encounter is clear enough—about this time, last year and on a smallish street that opens out into a square, which...

Paris is not meant for the rain. Low gray skies suit Amsterdam and can even feel cozy there — God’s in his wet heaven and all’s damp with the world, or at least the...

What do you do on Valentine’s day when you have a broken heart? For me, that’s not the real question because it’s not theoretical and, forgive me, it’s not about you that I’m thinking...