Fiction

I write short and long-form adult, young adult, and middle-grade fiction.

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. My husband’s ability to make the perfect mule was well-known. We drank them several times a week, but only at home. No bar could make them like he could. Not too sweet, a little spicy, heavy-handed with the Icelandic vodka we both preferred.

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. My oldest daughter was listening with me in the car, and surprised me with detailed plans when she got off the school bus the next day. Her coffin would be smaller, because she was seven, but long enough to grow into over the next couple of years. If she hadn’t used it by ten, she would design and build a new one.

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. Until he stopped panicking. Until he exhausted himself.

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. The heart was already half full of dust again. She traced it, digging it back out.

“Rena.” His voice was dry and cracked. “Rena can you see what color the flag is?”

Read the full story on www.scoutmediabooksmusic.com