Shogun Honey, July 2015
Met Frank Saxon in a dirty gin joint on Eleventh Avenue, the light bulbs burned out and the toilets backed up. Stink rose from the corners like steam from a manhole cover. The bartender’s name was Ted. Three times divorced, a four-day beard and a mouth that never turned upwards into a smile, Ted poured his gin and tonics without the tonic. I liked that …
Boston Literary Magazine, Summer 2009
A week in a trench. Mud. Every little while a machine gun barked. Chattering teeth that killed. Lieutenant strolled the line, reminding the men of why they were here. Why people were dying.
Six months ago it was an English sunrise, gold veiled by grey, and her blonde hair. Blanket. Apples on the hillock. The fragrance of her.
“Must you go?” she said.
365 Tomorrows, May 2016
By the time the sandstorm passed, the sun had fallen and the orange skies had faded to a bruised brown and purple. The towers still seemed unreachable, perched on a dream horizon. Faint whispers of yesterday clutching at sky that no longer wanted it.
Red Fez, 2015
He wasn’t sure why he could no longer see. Maybe it was the flash of the bombs outside, ten thousand cameras that turned the world into death instead of capturing its image. Maybe it was the stress of their incessant thump. Maybe so many things. He could no longer see.
ConvoZine, December 2010
A million crickets screamed in the night. What were they saying, Vera wondered? It was a mournful sound, droning and somber. On most nights the sound lulled Vera to sleep, but tonight it kept her awake. It was something about their tone. It sounded as if they were crying out to their loved ones.