Denis Defreyne’s fiction

The old man showed the cleaning lady around the mansion, through all the rooms he wanted her to keep clean.

It started with a tiny crack that crossed the main street of the village, barely perceptible to the naked eye.

In the empty valley stands a house.

The last sliver of sunlight had disappeared, and now the groundskeeper ushered the two women between the gravestones towards the cast-iron cemetery gate.

All Robert wanted was to finish his crossword puzzle in peace, but his woman wanted to make conversation, and the incessant ringing of the doorbell — those darned kids — was driving him up the wall.

I Rob sat at his writing desk, with his laptop in front of him.

As the sun rose over the verdant landscape, the white-painted house reflected the sunlight like a beacon.

The abattoir is the only place I’ve ever worked.