Short stories

Having a nostalgic swim through the still sea of saved short stories. A folder seldom opened. I reread and I alternately squirm and marvel. ‘Oh, no, did I write that?’ and ‘Oh. Did I really write that!?’  One particular story left me moved. I am not really sure if it is a short story… But it is short. And it is a story, a fictional interview with Franz Kafta, written several years ago. It makes such sense to me now. When I wrote it, the questions were overshadowing the answers, I think. Or perhaps not. Perhaps I just needed time to accept the insights.

‘You know, I never did come to terms with anything in my life. And the fact is that for me, the writing didn’t help at all. Rather the opposite, I think, when I look back. It removed me from the real life. It took away all the things other people have: family, work, even my health. And it never provided any answers for me.’ Franz Kafka



Why flamingos? Well, you will have to wait and read the story. If/when it is published.