Find me in print:
Hobart Pulp
F(r)iction Magazine
Restoration Management
B(oink) Zine
We had to search through everything. As we did, small noises came from the periphery of the room and each one made me jump – was it a mouse? A rat? A fly in its last death throes? Dead flies were everywhere, like someone had sprinkled them evenly, for effect, over the entire house. Sturdier ones still buzzed behind the curtains. They were ridiculous, a cliché: there was nowhere to step that wasn’t covered in flies.
In his bedroom, the sheets were dank, twisted onto the floor, stained and shredded where the body had been. “He was half out of bed,” my sister said, her voice muffled through the mask, “the paramedics told me his body rolled from the gasses after he died.”
This did not sound plausible to me.
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The Ghost in my Backyard
“Between the honeysuckles and the lilacs, a blackberry bush. The air there had a taste, thick in the mouth. It was my summer feast, piling berries, seeping juice beaded on the leaf, the stain of it on my skin. And the stamens of the honeysuckle just beyond, slipped gently from the heart of the flower, ran sweet over the tongue.“
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At Max's
“Everything in the room slides towards you,
your density draws an orbit. You make fat jokes,
but I sprung from those solid ribs and while
kudzu pulls until tree, rock is in its trajectory,
captive and hidden, the canopy of green throws wide
outlandish loveliness, the landscape alien new. “
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My Students Bring Me Chocolate
“The grief I feel will not absolve this rite,
the ritual mine, a daughter’s debt and blight.
She likes chocolate, they say to one another,
to staunch the hemorrhaging from my lost mother. “
