Blue Stone memories | J.L. Dupont

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Mountain Intermezzo

The farmhouse I pass by the side of the mountain road is a ruin, a shell, long abandoned, empty of humanity. Still, you’re here, up...

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Watching my father and his men ply their craft, I figured I knew a thing or two about dressing stones. But there’s ‘watching’, and then...

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In a yard dedicated to the crafting of stone, they stood out like two sore thumbs, totally incongruous, the first one thin and stunted in...

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I must’ve been about eight when I popped the fateful question “Mommy? Are we rich?” My mother turned from the stove, wooden spoon in...

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Unlike my native Flemish, in which you’re simply called a tombstone maker, the English language offers two grand words to describe my...

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Once a week, on Friday mornings, all of us boys at the Catholic primary school would troop down from our first-floor classrooms, one...

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To this day, whatever part of the world I’m in, I still can’t walk past a graveyard without some pause, without at least a furtive glance...

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Growing up, every child gets to hear these stories, of cats pouncing on mice, dogs chasing cats, then comes the wolf, and so on. Stories...

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So here I go, a fool's worth of words, let's see if the void persists.