New publication! Log Jam, now up at The Bohemyth

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I’m so excited to announce that my short story Log Jam has been published by a lovely journal called The Bohemyth. This piece, about the often inexplicable nature of depression, is very dear to me and was in submission for a long time, so I’m deeply thankful it found a home. It would mean the world to me if you read it.

Margarine

It’s been a year since Slink Chunk Press published this short story, so to honor the occasion I am reprinting it here. Enjoy!

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They say that everything is made from everything. Matter never disappears, it just becomes new matter. A cell from your skin catches a southeast breeze and eventually gets inhaled by a penguin; an atom expelled in some dinosaur dung finds its way over the eons to your pomegranate tea; a molecule from the sweat that glistened on Caesar’s temple evaporated and is now raining into your car through the window you left open.

We’re all just cosmos junk, recycled. Never ending, only changing. Ever since the universe’s first big sneeze, all that energy has been riding its waves wherever it can go, moving from one place to another. Perpetual tourists, all of us.

So then what happens if a bit of energy changes its mind? Has a change of heart on the metaphysical interstate and decides to detour over the center divider, head the opposite way?

Decides to come back?

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The Selkie’s Husband

A full year ago today, I was honored to have this flash fiction published by Gingerbread House Literary Magazine. This is my personal favorite of my work, so to celebrate its anniversary I am reprinting it here. I hope you enjoy! 🙂

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Rain fell the day he went to the shore, to see the place where his wife left him. Grey weighted the clouds like sacks full of stones, sagging closer and closer to the sea. Grey upon grey, water upon water, the sea and sky took hands. The way he once took hers.

She never held his hand long. Always wrenching from his grasp, her flesh still as slippery as a seal. Sometimes she would oblige him, sit shaking like a penned animal as he made hushing noises and rubbed her knuckles with his thumbs.

Please let me love you, he would say. I’ve earned it. I found your skin.

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Fingers

One full year ago, the awesome Jersey Devil Press published this flash fiction of mine. I decided to reprint it here to celebrate the occasion. Hope you enjoy!

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The purple monkey hugs my kneecap with his armpit. Squashed into my front is the yellow dinosaur, her spinal ridges prickling my belly every time she shifts. The blue elephant’s hindquarters press against my ear, which is unpleasant, but not as much as the child’s face flattened against the glass.

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The Watching Man, now up at The J. J. Outre Review

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My fifth publication is one that I’d been submitting for more than a year, so I’m BEYOND THRILLED to see it finally find a home. They really mean it when they say persistence is key!

In this creepy suspense tale, a lurker takes people-watching a bit too far and sees something he shouldn’t have seen…

Please check it out here!

The Houseplant in Love with a Girl

This was my first story ever published. It’s been a year since its release in Vandercave Quarterly, so in honor of its publiversary I am now reprinting it here. Enjoy 🙂

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I love her.

I love her, I love her, I love her.

But I cannot tell her this, because the mesophyll affords me no need for a mouth.

Perhaps, as she pours the morning water upon me, causing my limbs to bounce beneath the shower… Perhaps, if I try very, very hard, I can will them to bounce just a little more, and she will see this and she will know that they bounce and jump with joy for her.

Perhaps, as she moves my heavy ceramic pot to the brighter windowsill where the three o’clock sun can find me, where it accentuates my strong and manly stems… Perhaps, if I try very, very hard, I can align my shape so that the light shining between my leaves upon the wall may spell out my ardor in sunlit letters.

Perhaps, as winds thrust through the open window, as they blow into her face her long brown hair (brown like my soil! Oh how many things we have in common!)… Perhaps, if I try very, very hard, with the help of the wind I can scoot to the sill’s edge, fall with a crash onto the floor. She will hasten to sweep up the dirt, but not before I tenderly grasp her hand with my roots.

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The Selkie’s Husband, now up at Gingerbread House!

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I am so, so, so happy – like, heart bursting out of my chest happy! – to announce that my short fiction entitled The Selkie’s Husband is officially published at Gingerbread House Literary Magazine! This is my favorite piece I’ve written thus far, and with a journal I adore, so this publication is a personally significant one. It would mean the world to me if you gave it a look. (If not for the story then at least for that wowzers artwork by Anna Dittman – holy smokes!)

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My second publication – Fingers – is officially out!

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Fingers is the harrowing tale of a teddy bear, a polka-dotted pig, a slimy-handed human, and the 25 cents that could upend everything. Now up at the awesome Jersey Devil Press!

If you feel like giving it a read, I will hug you forever. Not literally of course. I’ll hug you with my heart. Also not literally. I need that for mah bludz and such. Anyway you get what I mean. ❤

Hobo Stories

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In their threadbare, fingerless gloves the two stories warmed their hands over the bin fire. The flames whipped about like those inflatable tube-men outside car dealerships and the stories were careful not to catch a swipe on their equally threadbare cuffs.

“How long’s it been for you, Fantasy Comedy?” asked one of the stories, blowing hot air on his knuckles.

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Beard Man

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I ring the bell for Sofia’s apartment, trying to imagine what could possibly be in store for me. On the phone she had used a scramble of incoherent phrases such as “self-actualization crisis” and “my inner flower has been frosted over by the tundra of creative impotence.” Or something like that.

“Olive! Thank god you’re here!” Sofia shrieks as soon as she opens the door. “Okay, here’s the problem. Do you remember how I’ve been feeling really anxious and frazzled lately?”

“Sure,” I say, stepping into her apartment. Sofia starts pacing.

“Well, I’ve been reading this self-help book because I can’t afford a therapist, not to mention those guys assault you when you’re hypnotized—I read about it—and anyway this book has described my life to a T. It’s as if the writer has been following me around, watching me in order to write this book.”

“Does he prefer the tree outside your window or does he leave nanny-cams in your bedroom?”

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