Leading Edge, Issue 72
“Can’t a man take a walk in the park or relax in his yard without eyes on him? You should be able to get away from things. To be alone. Really and truly alone. I don’t need eyes boring into the back of my head wherever I go.” But things often don’t work out the way you hope they will.
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 …
Storms (link offline)
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.
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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.
My website, June 2021
Instead of horses, she ended up riding rockets. Close enough. Same surge of power, same rush, same escape. But no open air.
Crickets (link offline)
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.
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Blessed Life (link offline)
The Manchester Times, 1999-2000
It was two years ago this month since the horrible wail, but Vera could still recall the moment as if it happened hours ago.