March 2015 | Fiction
Johnny’s car rocks with us as he tucks his shirt into his trousers. I haven’t moved from the backseat since he pulled away to get dressed. No, still on my back, knees bent toward the roof of his car. From the passenger window I look out of, there’s only a view of the unfinished house and dump from the construction site Johnny drove us to. His workplace. It’s deserted this late at night. This is as romantic as it gets
Feb. 2014 | Fiction
All she wants is to scream. Stop. It’s written in every wrinkle on her forehead, in her tightly shut eyes and in the quiet tears that slither down her cheeks now. A rivulet clusters into a droplet at the very tip of her chin and waits, prays maybe, before offering itself up to her bosom. Drip. Drip. Then calm. The wrinkles come undone and Mrs. Forester’s face relaxes into her porcelain features...
Jan. 2013 | Prose Poetry
...“Santa sera. Santa sera,” she repeats. Her words are stained glass that don’t quite fit. I can’t pretend to see what she sees. Are our trees the same? How can I drink a milkshake without a straw?...
Jan. 2013 | Prose Poetry
The sun leaves ribbons of orange and yellow and green in the sky. This lava overflows off the horizon to stalk creatures whose eyes grow dark. Your eyes haven’t yet been taped with forget-me-nots. You still have a face. And your palms cup your cheeks to keep your features from sliding into the fire. It’s already happened to the couple who stroll the bridge behind you. The woman must have been pretty once...
Sept. 2012 | Flash Fiction
A ride would do. Fred’s fingers work their way around the brown and gray patches on Betsy's neck, her neigh a whisper that comforts the tremble in his aging hands. It was two years, four months, six days since he’d last saddled up. Tom had just returned to the Oklahoma countryside.
“I thought it was permanent this time,” Fred had said, his voice small.
“Maybe it’ll end before I have to head back,” Tom said.
The evenness in his tone told them both he was lying...
Sept. 2012 | Prose Poetry
...Tu es la plus belle fille du monde. Her eyes are drunk with Communion. The veins on his wings taste her silken skin as his hands drop anchors at her hips. She begs to be devoured, to whisper to him wishes made on wells...
July 2012 | Prose Poetry
Pricked by time now sleep. Numbers melt off faces of clocks and settle into the quicksand of Big Bangs. Ruby bead slips from finger into ebony to birth a universe. Ripples roll through tea-light constellations. Reconfigure Orion to the incision of her hand. Call it Midwood. You’ll never forget me then. But wait. Wait on the landing between zodiac flights. Wait on the buckle of stars’ broken belts. Leather is easily repaired. Use ivory stitches and he says go with him...