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…

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Imagine What My Body Would Sound Like

Twenty-year-old me had biceps. Back from a year away, rock climbing and waiting tables…

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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The New Assistant Fiction Editor at Barrelhouse!

I’m thrilled to join the crew at Barrelhouse. Send me your stories!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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