The Last Gift

TinHouseTheOpenBarSixteen years ago, my father died. Today, Tin House published my flash memoir in defense of euthanasia as a tribute in The Open Bar.

Preview of “The Last Gift”

January 20th, 2000, The Netherlands

Believe it or not, nobody objected. Not one of us stood up in the bedroom and said, “Don’t kill him.” Neither did anybody else in the house for that matter, the cleaning lady, the unobtrusive nurse. We all accepted my father’s fate with eyes wide open and mouths shut. Imagine us grateful, if you can.

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phoneA good friend of mine called today and I was moody.

I told her it had nothing to do with her. And it hadn’t. I just hate phones. They supposedly establish connections, tighten ties, relate to people via direct lines, but this closeness is a maddening illusion. If the phone is useful for anything, it’s to demonstrate that the person you’re talking to is conspicuously absent, nothing more than a disembodied voice that may or may not have been emitted from someone real.

And there is this: I am a writer. I bear what I say much better when I’ve been given time to express myself clearly, in solitude. I care about nuance and precision. Each time I hear myself utter a platitude on the phone, I cringe. TALK LESS & LISTEN MORE is my phone motto. But the people I talk to are often kind and not very self-obsessed so they usually turn the conversation around. Tell me what’s going on in your life, they say.

When I speak to others in person, I have my entire face to work with. I use my eyes to complement my words. And I read my interlocutor’s face, which will tell me whether I’m causing confusion or have made myself understood. The same goes when I address an audience. I use body postures and hand gestures to express myself, and the audience’s feedback (in laughter, chattering, or applause) is immediate.

After an awkward voice-alone phone call, I always hope that the person I talked to understands that I care about them and want to know how they are and would love to see them again—soon—but that I’m just not very good on the phone.

Locked In, Locked Out

OldMiniYesterday, in Vending Machine Press, my flash fiction “Locked In, Locked Out.”


Minnie pushes her shopping cart down the aisles and thinks about getting a car. Not to drive it, for she has nowhere to go, but to sit in it on rainy Sunday afternoons.

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Happy New Year!

chanpagneThe years pass without hard edges. Only our dates draw them apart. Our life doesn’t really consist of years but of periods defined by a before and after.

So why celebrate New Year’s Eve? It seems unnecessary, totally artificial, unless the new year truly coincides with a dislocation, a death, a birth, or a life-defining decision whose effects last beyond a mere few days.

Then again, one should never pass up an excuse to drink champagne.


masks—You must stop the Social Media Crap.


—It’s fake. Self-promotion. Making others witness your struggles, your success. Liking what they say. Typing pseudo-funny comments. Striking up conversations with complete strangers. At random. Getting them to like you. Need I go on?

—No, I see your point. But how’s that different from life?

—Excuse me?

—Well, in life, we’re trying to be liked as well. We talk to strangers on the bus. We feel good when someone compliments us. Bad when someone yells. We  listen to others, put our best foot forward, try to make our mark in the world. Occasionally, we talk about our weaknesses, our failures, our insecurities, to show that we’re human and perhaps gain some advice or consolation. We connect through our stories.

—You think life in general is fake.

—It is. We pose, constantly. So I suggest a redefinition of the word “fake.” If life is fake and yet life is the only reality we know, then fakeness must be real. Fakeness may define us as human beings.

—You’re not making any sense.

—What about: despite all the fakeness, true friendships exist. Even though we self-promote ourselves relentlessly, every day, trying to be loved and accepted, true love and acceptance may still come our way, despite our flaws, despite the fact that most people can see straight through our strategies of fakeness.

—I’m lost.

—All I’m saying is: I’m not quitting the Social Media Crap.

Paris Attacks

Paris_Peace-Were you in Paris at the time of the attacks?


-Were you hurt?


-Were any of your friends or family members hurt?


-Did you witness any of the violent events first hand?


-Where were you when you first heard about the attacks?

-At home. I was having dinner with my husband.

-How did you learn about the attacks?

-A friend sent me a text message to ask whether I was okay. That’s when we checked the news on our phones.

-How did you feel when you saw the news?

-Baffled. Horrified. Powerless.

-You did not feel scared?


-Why not?

-I don’t know. I was at home behind locked doors. I live in another part of town. I have an exaggerated sense of self-safety.

-What did you do once you heard about the attacks?

-I checked up on friends who lived in the area where the shootings took place. I browsed social media networks for information. I thought about all the times I had been in the Bataclan in the past. I replied to concerned messages from others about my safety. I listened to the helicopters above my head.

-Did you sleep?

-We have Xanax.

-How did you feel the next day?

-Angry. Depressed. Haunted.

-What did you do?

-I checked where I could donate my blood and learned that there were so many people in line to donate their blood that authorities discouraged people from coming.

-What did you do next?

-I read the first few chapters of Houellebecq’s Submission. And I worried.

-About what?

-The social and political consequences of the attacks. The human capacity for evil. The hopelessness of the state of the world. The dangerous force of delusional ideas. The human talent for cruelty, selfishness, jealousy, hatred, blame, revenge, bad reasoning, xenophobia. The possible reoccurrence of similar attacks all over the world. Ignorance. The future of eduction. The weapon industry. The hidden powers of our own governments. War. The chance that some conspiracy theories are true. The unattainability of the truth. The impotence of all of us to ever change any of it.

-Do you still think Europe should accept as many Syrian refugees as we can?


-Do you think that some of these refugees are terrorists in disguise who at some point in the future might become a threat to the safety of European citizens?

-Every human being can at some point in the future become a threat to another human being.

-What’s going to happen next?

-“At this point, it’s hard to say what is, or isn’t, possible. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either a fool or a liar. I don’t think anyone has any idea what the next few weeks will bring.” (From Submission by Michel Houellebecq translated by Lorin Stein)

-Is there anything you’d like to add?

-Yes. My heart goes out to everyone who was a victim of the attacks or lost someone they loved.

Snails and Oysters

Hermeneutic Chaos published a flash story of mine that was later nominated for Best Small Fictions 2015.

Preview of “Snails and Oysters.”

She loves snails, their soft flavor of slowness. She loves drowning them in olive oil and swallowing them down with raw garlic, a shred of parsley. In between bites she indulges in sourdough bread toasted black. Flutes of chilled Chablis.

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The Hunter at the End of the Day

hobartSelf-confusion for Writers – Eight Steps

1. Write a story
2. Realize it’s erotica
3. Feel self-conscious, then submit it anyway
4. Get the story accepted by a really cool literary magazine
5. Have doubts and worry
6. See it published
7. Feel proud, then embarrassed
8. Tell yourself to get over it and promote the story anyway

Preview of “The Hunter at the End of the Day” published by Hobart.

I’m rambling through a dense forest, on the dark side of intimidating. None of the picnic-and-pine appeal the woods used to have in my youth. This territory is primitive and full of perils. Bats hunt in the early dusk.

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The World on Fire

Today in Crack the Spine a micro piece of mine was published.

Preview of “The World on Fire”

“No one died that day. At least not in my town. No one saw the light and was saved.”

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Back to Back

wordriotlogoThe always on the edge Word Riot published my short and intimate memoire “Back to Back” in their October issue.

Preview of “Back to Back”

Two girls, twelve, thirteen perhaps, are sitting back to back on the bedroom floor so as not to look each other in the eye. One has her knees drawn up, whereas the other keeps her legs stretched out in front of her. Their tailbones press hard against the cement underneath the carpet, a discomfort that suits the awkwardness of their exchange.

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