Short stories
My fiction has been published in the following journals:
“A Blue to the Shadow’s Black” in the Southern Review
“This autumn had carried with it an Indian summer, lately arrived full-blown, and Kid felt lazy in its warm and sparking belly. The leaves in the trees burned chimney red and Halloween orange; the very air ripened and fired, coming winter held at bay.”
“The Doorman” in the Antioch Review
“He had a uniform, of course, I could see that. Maroon coat, gold piping, epaulettes with one two three four stripes. The snappy hat, the bright white gloves. All of it, somehow, large and bearing trust.”
“Ornithology” in the New Orleans Review
“I reach the sidewalk, the cane clicks, the squeak of steel joints. I turn on a slow dime. A flutter in the heart, of warning and birdsong. This heart laid open to the rising of murder, and the faint song of birds, in the leaves then gone.”
“Switzerland” in the Sycamore Review
“Rachel’s mother anchors the southern end of the kitchen table in a lime-green cardigan, nursing a Benson and Hedges and a cold, bitter cup of after-dinner coffee. Rachel, my beautiful wife, her plaid flannel sleeves cranked tight above the elbow, sits opposite over the Op-Ed pages and a Marlboro Light, chewing her nails to the quick. They look like Wilson and Clemenceau at Versailles. I am Switzerland, washing dishes.”
“The Rest of Days” in the Timberline Review
“It would be the run, certainly, of Bender’s life: fitful, spectacular, heartbreaking. It had started with promise. It had ended in pratfall. It would lead to the unraveling of time itself. Because this is not a story about sport. This is a story about love, and the rest of days.”
“Poured Out Like Water” in the Madison Review
“Eighty-eight miles an hour, a fifth of vodka tipped, the heater rattling in the dash. One finger steer, the radio handing out we hear you’re leaving, that’s okay. The guard rail looms, the bottle between his legs. And a slow glide down the exit ramp, smooth sail onto comfortable streets, little smile, lost in mind, eyes slowly closing.”
“Ebb Tremble” in the Berkeley Fiction Review
“A boy broken by a hurtling train, hurled screaming into muteness and a mind wiped clean of meaning, stares at the wallpaper of his bedroom, waiting for painted bears to speak.”
“From Hope to Hard Weather” in Porcupine Literary Arts
“As I punch the Toro past the Gibson’s azaleas and wrestle her into a hard right turn, I’m thinking maybe I can shave off thirty seconds by zig-zagging the space between the rose bushes and the compost pile instead of running down three straight lines.”
