Fiction
I've tried my hand at most forms of fiction, from flash to short story to novel. A number of short pieces have been published in journals. One short story was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. I am experimenting with longer forms and hope to pblish soon.
"The One Who Held the Knife"
Detective Fiction
...in revisions
What is there special about police agent Willem-Paul De Grijf? Nothing much, he would have confessed. He had worked his way up to inspector, slowly and steadily. He wasn’t brilliant; he had made a few mistakes. He loved his wife; he didn’t drink too much or too little. His friends might complain that he was grumpy, but they would also insist that he meant well.
Someone finds him worthy of special attention, though. Two years after he closed one notorious murder case, there is a second, and the second murder follows the blueprint of the first one quite faithfully. The clues seem specially tailored for De Grijf. If he had considered taking a pass on this case, the murderer has another idea.
SHORT FICTION
Excerpts from short stories:
from "Throwing Stones"
That was the year of the riots. None of the expats in Ethiopia during that time will forget. Everyone has some crazy story about those days. I wish I could hear how Antoine tells his.
I had met Antoine only a few months before. It was one of those idle days when I could ride the public taxis, those whimsical blue vans with the boys who hung out the windows shouting destinations, the vans that swerved wildly to your side when you hailed them. You crouched as you made your way to the back, crowding in past mothers and babes, and you paid your coins to the boys who shouted.
I ended up in the dusty district downtown called Ambassador, named presumably after the decrepit 60s hotel still standing as commemoration to better days, the days of emperors. Nearby were the hot springs that compelled one emperor’s wife to descend from the mountain fortress above and found a city. She called it New Flower, Addis Ababa.
There was a terrible old film theater there, a frighteningly ill-kept building like a tinder box, that showed no film less than five years old. Next door was a café furnished in a similar spirit, a big empty room filled with tables and chairs in fine 60s diner style, in various stages of disrepair. It was crowded and noisy. Everyone ordered glass cups of tea. There was little else to choose from. The ancient glass display case usually had no more than a few rows of day-old yellow cakes. ...
published in the Apeiron Review
SHORT FICTION
Excerpts from short stories:
from "Some"
“You coward.” Meg hisses.
Half her face is buried in the deep pillow, so the insult is muffled and distorted. The man wouldn’t hear it, even if she shouted it to the ceiling. He can’t be touched. He can’t be insulted, punched, or suffocated in his sleep. He wasn’t even a man.
He appears like a man. He smirks like a man of the world, picking his way among the tiny, marble-top tables of the café. She watched him through the window. He’s elegant in his tailored suit. His blonde hair is neatly swept back. His face is indistinct, though she can sense the wry angle of his smile. He turns slightly in a taunting acknowledgement of her presence at the café window. She stands at a rail of curling wrought iron painted black, staring in through the plate of glass.
And that’s how it always goes. ...
ergens anders