Fiction/Creative Nonfiction
I write literary fiction and creative nonfiction of all lengths.
You Know This Has To Be True, Or Else You’ll Dissolve, Too
Your four-year-old holds your cheeks tightly in his tiny hands…
Read the story at www.lost-balloon.com
Imagine What My Body Would Sound Like
Twenty-year-old me had biceps. Back from a year away, rock climbing and waiting tables…
Read the story at www.x-r-a-y.com
One Slow-Motion Moment
The kitchen is quiet but destroyed. I flip on the coffee maker. I get a new roll of paper towels from the closet. I push the spilled Froot Loops into the sink, where they immediately bleed neon tributaries into a muddled, gray stream to the drain.
Read the story at www.literarymama.com
Big League Chew
Sammy’s left eye is milky white. Sometimes you can see the outline of a pupil, wandering toward the side. Getting stuck.
Read the story at www.barrenmagazine.com
Domino Sugars
Your mother calls after breakfast and doesn’t even ask if you’re in town.
“Oh no, I thought Jay was doing better.” She tsks and I picture her pursed lips.
“It’s a roller coaster,” I say.
Read the story at www.pidgeonholes.com
Launch
Amy cuts through the park near their apartment, even though it’s dark and Mark says it’s dangerous at night. She follows the path past the deserted playground.
She looks up and the trees blend into the clouds.
Read the story at www.cottonxenomorph.com
The New Assistant Fiction Editor at Barrelhouse!
I’m thrilled to join the crew at Barrelhouse. Send me your stories!
Read the interview at www.barrelhousemag.com
At My Husband’s Funeral
At my husband’s funeral, we drank Moscow Mules. I served them in copper mugs, just like you’re supposed to, and everyone thought it was adorable and heartfelt.
Read the full story on www.hobartpulp.com
The Coffin Club
We heard about it on the radio Sunday morning: Older people in New Zealand were forgoing book groups in favor of coffin clubs. They were learning carpentry and reminding themselves how to sew.
Read the full story on www.barrenmagazine.com
Katie’s Songs
Katie turned up her music and pressed her headphones against her ears. It didn’t help; she still heard her brother yelling in the hallway, pacing, slamming his fists into the bannister. He stomped up the hall, slammed twice, stomped back, slammed three times. Repeat, repeat.
Read the full story on www.lunchticket.org
Leaving Home
Rena was thirsty and tired. Her legs and arms were coated in a thick, gray dust that wouldn’t brush off. She used her left pointer finger to trace her name into her right forearm, next to the fading heart grandpa had sketched earlier.
Read the full story on www.scoutmediabooksmusic.com