In the land of micro-fictions

A beautiful sky above a garden as tangled as my mind.

My short stories rise from a mysterious place, from an inner core that is usually discreet, which sometimes offers a narrative like an unexpected message. The expression of a worry, a hope, or a memory that never found its place elsewhere. At first glance, one might think they go in all directions: one day fantasy, another a thriller, some science-fiction… or even green beans. Yet it isn’t dispersion, but listening. A way of leaving a small space for that intimate voice, without judging it.

My short stories resemble the images that pass by a train window, disappearing too quickly and leaving you perplexed or dreamy. Some demand a sequel, others not. Autumn leaves, light and unsettled by the wind, ready to settle anywhere. Some wither, cracking under the step of a careless passerby; others catch the attention of a hand that happened to be there. As Stendhal wrote, sometimes it is enough to touch a few “happy few.” And that is enough.