Stories begin in strange, unexpected places. Where gravity loses its bearings, where time plays hooky, where physics fails. And once the stories are ready to be told, I think they just go and find the storyteller.
I had no plans to write fiction, but who was to tell the stories that? Or the house? Even all those years ago when I first started going there, despite its brick and mortar, stucco and stained glass, pillars, pavilions, and endless doors, the house never felt real. When you walked in, you fell into another world, one I wanted to escape from instantly. Maybe it sensed that, maybe that’s why it lingers in my mind, even though I never quite belonged there, even though it’s gone, even after everything.
The house brims with stories… they all began there. They murmur, whisper, rage, banter, hoodwink, and cajole. I write. Stories of people I seem to have met before, or will meet later, stories tucked here, hidden there, toppling over me from nowhere. Sometimes, it feels like a novel to me.
I am adding more stories, some are already written, some yet to be. Hope you enjoy your browse through these pages. If possible, please leave a comment. It’s always a good feeling to know a story found its reader.
Just posted: Dream catcher
Nolen gur, balaclava, and bombs
A collection of stories from a house far away that’s never that far.
…………………………………..A collection of stories from a house far away that’s never that far.