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The short story

What you leave in must imply everything that's missing. ~Jeffrey eugenides

“Earthlings” TLR: The Literary Review Vol. 58, Issue 4

“When he found her, his first reaction was anger. An irrational yet, he assured himself, nearly universal response. It seized him for a moment, long enough for him to yank his daughter by the arm and bring her to standing with some force. Then Jacob was released into a shimmering, God-praising euphoria. He regarded this as his life’s one and only spiritual experience: finding the daughter he’d already mentally surrendered to a dozen different hellscapes, under a tree, safe and whole.”

“The Best of Their Blunders” Hindsight Magazine Spring 2020

“But instead I launched myself on top of Alex, who’s still driving the car. I swiped at his neck, hooking some crescent-shaped plugs of skin under my nails. What was going through my mind? I can’t say. In terms of memory, what’s going through one’s mind at any given point in time hardly ever makes it to long-term storage. If it’s non-sensory, it’s vapor. Any impression to the contrary is just a mnemonic phantom.”

“Nineteen-Aught” Her Texas: Story, Image, and Song. Wings Press, 2015

“It doesn’t require much imagination to picture this hospital as a rickety old boat, far out at sea, surrounded by water. Water rising, higher and higher every hour. Cornices, roofs, blinds, flying in all directions outside. It’s gone dark now, and they all call for you. All but him. He only calls for her. Should I know what moves him? Will I know it finally when I’m in your arms? Do you hold yourself ready to come for us should the occasion demand?”

“Casco on The Foam Planet” TLR: The Literary Review Vol. 55 Issue 4

“I scramble to a blue space ship and crab-crawl through its tiny entrance as quickly as I allow myself. I’m sitting in the black of its hollow. I’m sucking in the heavy chalk-scent of playground dust and dirty socks. Let it be quick—this is the thought behind which I concentrate what I assume to be my fleeting, and I fear wholly inadequate, human will—like blowing a fuse. Just flip my fucking switch already.”

“Saudades (For Amy)” Short Edition (online and worldwide short-story vending machines) Fall 2020

“Play something, love,” says the lone woman. Her hair is blue-black like dragonfly wings, a pinup girl is inked on her slender arm. She laughs, gleeful yet strained, a cackle that leaps an octave.
He plays “The Girl from Ipanema,” the jazz version.
“Oh, no, baby,” she interrupts him, more laughter. “It’s cool, but what else you got?”
He plays “O Leãozinho.” He gives it a heartbreak turn, whistling through some of the lyrics. He’s perfected this particular longing.

“The Blue Lady” Short Edition (online and worldwide short-story vending machines) Fall 2018

“Bà Rose travelled with four neat boxes out of which a school, and an entire country, appeared. Posters were rolled up neatly in two cardboard tubes: images of cloud-ringed mountains and beaches dotted with green islands, a monkey with red, furred legs, a cityscape called “The Paris of Vietnam.” Three fat Buddhas— replete with an offering of coins, nuts, fruits, and cans of Squirt soda—emerged from the boxes each week.”

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