Letter from an old man
The times, they are a-changin’, and your old man can barely keep up with them. Everything moves so fast, and I… I feel so slow.
A collection of words
stories
stories from the archive.
23 pieces
White lights and blue gowns
The old man stood still under one of the room’s bright white lights. He sat silently on a pale plastic chair, both arms resting on his lap. His blue hospital gown barely covered his wrinkled knees.
A day in Vernazza
He got out the train. It was a beautiful, sunny day in Vernazza. He had just said goodbye to his friend in Cinque Terre’s first colourful village, Riomaggiore. A lot of people were walking around him, mostly tourists. He smiled.
A Siargao story
I am typing this on my cellphone with my left hand only. My right hand is of no use right now, stranded in an arm sling along with the rest of my arm. Five days ago I had a serious motorbike accident. A stupid mistake for which I can only blame my reckless self.
Ton paquet de cigarettes
Lui? C’était pas vraiment ton âme soeur, ni ton amoureux. Ni ton chum, ni ton homme. Non. C’était plus comme ton paquet de cigarettes.
Summer evening (part 3)
Campfire’s burning slowly. It’s a dark, quiet night. We’re out of town, miles away from any urban center.
Summer evening (part 2)
It’s been a long, hot day. As the sun went down though, wind got stronger. It’s colder now. People wear sweaters and shorts. It’s the kind of summer evening us folks in Quebec are used to.
Summer evening
A pair of beautiful legs, barely hidden by a colourful summer dress. Killer stare, killer smile. There’s a friend by her side playing the guitar, doing a great job.
Do not give up
What suicide, love, writing, my job, my anxiety and breaking my spine taught me.
Coupures
Si vous croyez l’heure grave, détrompez-vous : le pire est à venir. Vous ne l’admettez pas encore, mais, au plus profond de vous, vous le savez.
Le plus étoilé
À Mostar, en Bosnie-Herzégovine, il y a un pont célèbre pour être mort pendant la guerre et pour avoir ressuscité ensuite.
Indira
I met Indira on the bus going back to our room near the Dubrovnik bridge.
The black butterfly
– Tell me another story. – Okay, but it'll be the last one for tonight. You close your eyes and go to sleep after this one, deal?
Partners in crime
Okay, here's a beach story. It isn't your typical, boring beach story.
Incendies
Réveille-toi, dit l'ami qui m'a suivi de Paris. Non non non, couché sur le sofa. Réveille-toi, y'a un feu, dit l'ami qui a traversé l'océan dans les airs avec moi.
Une décennie d'absence
Le paysage est ennuyeux ; les étendues vertes et grises autour de l’autoroute ne divertissent pas l’œil du voyageur.
Hôtel plus d'étoiles
Dernière nuit à Zadar. Choix : dormir tout de suite pour laisser le sommeil attaquer la fatigue à coups d'heures ou aller voir la mer qui a mis sa tenue de nuit.
A sleeping beauty
She’s so pretty. A real-life sleeping beauty, truly. God I love seeing her like this, all peaceful and quiet. It’s a simple sight, really, but then again, they say what matters most is the simple things.
We killed time again
He looked at her with his arms crossed behind his head, slightly supported by two messy pillows. She had just gotten out of bed and was picking up her clothes, which had been scattered all around the wooden floor moments ago.
Moments
Souvent, les réponses à la grosse question "C'est quoi, la vie?" se trouvent dans les plus petits moments. Les moments minuscules, qui durent pas plus que quelques secondes ou quelques minutes, mais qui sonnent tellement fort, tellement vrai.
L'art de tuer
Jules travaille à la Galerie – La Galerie d’art Miller, la plus prestigieuse du pays. Depuis deux mois, il porte fièrement, cinq soirs sur sept, son complet d’ébène (il a dû économiser le quart de son ancien salaire annuel afin de se procurer un tel habit).
Killing the king
11 PM. Tim's eating breakfast at the local diner. Food would taste better if the mean old cook decided to put a bit of love in it, but he's a mean old cook, and he hasn't got an ounce of love left in his dying heart.
À coups de Colt
Mon chapeau avait quitté ma tête. Il battait derrière moi, frappant mon dos au rythme des sabots. Retenu par un lacet de cuir serré sur ma gorge, il tentait de s’enfuir avant qu’il ne soit trop tard. Terni par le soleil, il avait mordu la poussière autant de fois que moi.