Selected publications include:
“To Walk Chalk”
Superstition Review 21
Waiting alone in the century-old kitchen, Claire slumped at the table and smoothed the curling foil label on her father’s last whiskey bottle. She had found his bottles, from retired to still-sealed, hidden around her childhood home for months after he died. “Damn,” she whispered. If a couple fingers of his whiskey were still here, maybe he couldn’t be so far away after all… [short story continues in Superstition Review]
Midwest Review 4
Entering the Chicago Art Annex on Wednesday evening felt like trespassing. Normally this would have bothered Jayne, but the sugar binges and atonement fasts of the past few days had left her feeling rinsed out. All she could do was trudge forward, which at this moment meant finding a sliver of space on the crowded elevator.
Distracted by the scrum of students who juggled coats, scarves, lattes, portfolios, and art supplies, she began to step out when the metal doors screeched open. She brushed her wavy hair out of her eyes in time to realize that this was the third floor—where Thomas had his life class. This was the floor where he painted the models he talked so much about… [short story continues in Midwest Review]
“The Occasional Death”
cream city review 34.1
While I watch the painter tarp the windows on my stucco condo, he garners about as much per hour as my mother who might at that moment be clipping the pubic hair, scrubbing, and draping an anesthetized great-grandmother’s pelvis.
While the painter connects the hoses and O-rings of his power sprayer, my mother may be organizing the scopes and thoracic instruments needed to explore the mass left in an accountant’s lung after decades of smoking… [creative nonfiction continues in cream city review]
Blue Mesa Review 22
Grumbelina, the Tomato Woman, or la Mujer de Tomate, for that’s what we called her, was notorious for two things. She grew the oblong, yellow tomatoes that no one else in the neighborhood could grow. They barely resembled tomatoes, but their taste was beyond divine. The secret was in the skin, she claimed. The tough skins condensed all the flavor of the biggest, ripest beefsteaks into odd, squiggly fruits the size of newborns’ fists… [short story continues in Blue Mesa Review]
Porcupine Literary Arts Magazine 10.1
At thirty-six weeks I craved ice,
dreamed about ice, plotted to get ice.
The ice I most wanted
was chewy, partially melted,
not sharp, not hard—
cloudy cubes filled with impurities from tap water.
[poem continues in Porcupine]