Here you will find my works of fiction, including short stories, excerpts from longer works, and poetry. When writing fiction, I usually start somewhere real, drawing from personal experiences, but then end up somewhere different. This is a fluid process in which a story can change and grow with a bit of creative allowance.
I think I’ve lived in dreams, so much so that I can’t separate them from memory. I thought I had fallen down the stairs, was as sure of it as I was of that feeling when gravity pulls you down. But, that was just a dream. I used to dream about drowning. But, that was a memory, after all. Read more
We all come from the water, and someday we will return to it. Our bodies will die and come apart, fragmenting into pieces of a once intricate puzzle. What’s left will wash away and seep into the earth, which will drink us up thirstily. And then new life will come forth, because we’ve given ourselves over to something greater. I never feel quite as small, quite as insignificant, as when I behold the ocean. I like to think of it as a calling to the sea within, an internal compass that reminds me of where I came from, where we all came from. Maybe it’s that feeling of obsoleteness that made me afraid of water for so many years – that, and a lack of faith in any sort of ordered design, in anything but existence borne out of chaos through chance alone like waves crashing into each other in an everlasting current. Read more
When I crossed the threshold of the local dive bar, I walked directly into a Wall of Sound. The band’s lead singer was screaming into his mic with a nasal bravado that I couldn’t parse. Three amped up guitarists played fast and repetitively with limited chords that reverberated and clashed into one another like a car wreck. Headbangers shoved each other in a growing mosh pit in front of the stage. Read more
A 9-year-old girl sat alone, dark curly hair and nerves, running her fingers through the soft grass of summer. Honeybees carried pollen from flower to flower, busy at their work and paying her no attention, which she enjoyed because she could observe them up close as they gathered for the hive. Ada was blowing dandelion seeds into the wind, watching them dance and twirl and fly away, when a call for morning prayer required her participation. She walked tentatively toward the circle of Christians holding hands to find her place among the safety of the “adults,” summer camp counselors no older than 25. The words were never familiar to her, so she mouthed along as best she could – it was easier to fake it than to be the only one abstaining from the ritual. Jesus, sin, God, these words carried little meaning to her. Read more