From Original Works

Fiction

I fly around the world to see original works. I will sit or stand in front of a painting for twenty minutes or more, and once a certain slack-jawed tiredness builds up, continue to stare.

From A Strange Commonplace

Fiction

The boy was in the backyard, playing aimlessly in the thin snow that covered the packed soil in which nothing had ever been planted. She looked out of one of the panes in the back door window at him, waiting.

Fiction

ADVERTISEMENTS