Short Fiction



“The Journalist,” Ruminate Magazine 36.1 (2015).

Nominated for a Pushcart Prize, 2016.







“Danielle’s Barn,” Iron Horse Literary Review 16.6 (2014).






“Enforced Disappearance,” The Pinch Literary Journal 33.2 (2013): 4-7.









“Intimations of Chloe,” Hawai’i Review  78.1 (2013): 16-18.





“Encyclopaedia Alanica,” Laurel Review, 45.1 (Spring 2011): 77-90.

Alanica 1


“Of Porcelai

n or Silver,” Midwest Literary Magazine, January 2011: 90-92.

*Reprinted in Winter Cannons, MLM Press

“Saturday morning I wake around eleven, lie in bed for almost an hour after my alarm, drift from a dream. I see myself with my parents when I am ten, running in the snow around the park near our duplex, feeling the warm hold of my father when I jump into his arms. Three years later and I’m moving back and forth between two houses, cities hundreds of miles apart, never settling on one school, one life, one family.

I see myself fifteen years from today, still writing freelance alone in my apartment. I see my relationships as two islands, where the oceans expand and the land gets smaller and smaller as the days and years pass. The ferry asks me to cross, but I don’t get aboard to ride.

I see myself now, looking at the ceiling as my clock radio plays songs my father used to like. My sheets are silk and slippery and moving even when I’m not, just like the rest of the world. Unlike them I seem to be stuck in one space, in one time.”

“Building Faith,” Wisconsin Review 44.1 (Spring 2010): 78-84.



“Buenosa retracted his tape, contemplating bringing all the boards back outside just to shave off something that didn’t make much of a difference. He didn’t quite agree with his brother but he had to admit that history did. This most recent repair was the third massive job in as many years that Sacred Heart Parish had contracted for the Brothers Salvatore. The first year had been a tornado, the first to hit the dry, sometimes windy but often placid valley of Talajara, Texas in recent history. That small funnel struck the north wing of the church, scattering the entire priest’s quarters, altar and half the congregation pews in all directions. Just two weeks after the Salvatores had finished the extensive repairs an accidental fire set the front doors and the foyer area ablaze, fighting what proved to be a valiant eight-hour battle against the local firemen.”




“Six Angel,” Ampersand Review 2(Spring 2009): 55-58.

“Sounds tough, I know, but he was right. It was in his voice. His words. Sonia, the closest thing Six ever had to a steady, once told him while they was laying in bed, Six, you’ve got the voice of an angel, but the tongue of the devil. When Six told us we nearly pissed ourselves. Steep even shot the Dew he was drinking out his nose. That’s when everyone around the block started callin him Six Angel. To me, he was always just Six.”



“To Play Hockey, One-on-One,”Fiction Weekly, March 2009.

“Barry knew he would pay for this in the morning. He missed a loop on his brown single-blade skates and had to pull the laces out completely to start over. When he got them in right he stood; his right wobbled a little, but his left felt altogether too tight. Was it too tight? Skates were supposed to be tight, so you didn’t twist an ankle, like he was damn sure he would if he didn’t give his right laces at least another tug. Either way his feet would swell up, become miniature clubs at the end of his legs. He took a pull off his bottle of whiskey. What exactly the hell was he thinking? He hadn’t played hockey in twenty-two years.”

Read the full story here.




“Kindred’s Mother,” Concho River Review 20.2 (Fall 2006): 28-39.

*Reprinted in University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee Creative Writing Anthology, UWM Press

“Kindred’s mother was nineteen when she gave birth to a five pound, thirteen-ounce girl with no hair and one arm slightly longer than the other. Kindred’s father stood by her side, clutching her hand when she needed something to squeeze, whispering upon her deaf ears that everything would be okay. That she could do this. Unwilling to have an abortion but unable financially to support a child, she had decided upon adoption almost immediately. She didn’t even want to see the child after the delivery, and abandoned both the hospital and her daughter’s life two days later. With the child left unnamed, her father walked to the room full of kicking, sucking and crying babies, and, through a large plate glass, decided that she would be Kindred Baxter: the first name his gift, the last her mother’s. He left the hospital that night after standing, with his palms and occasionally his forehead pressed against the glass, for three and a half hours, watching his child sleep peacefully through whimpers and cries. He saw an entire life for her: she would grow slowly, developing into her own brand of woman through angst, fear, failures and successes. She would attend prom with a handsome boy, read novels in her free time, go to movies with friends on Friday nights. Everyone would call her Kindy, or just Kay; everyone except her father, who would always address her by her full name, because that was the way he intended, because that was how he made her. That night, he drove through hard rain that turned into a cold, ceaseless sleet, across four state borders, and never returned.”

To read the full story, buy the issue here.



“Wings of Hope,” Fox Cities Magazine, August 2000. (First-prize, $250 award.)

“Why? Why can birds fly? Joey pondered this question as she stared out her window. Her mother had returned, this time with her new boyfriend. Joey could hear the faint trill of her father’s angered voice that he tried to keep down for her sake.”



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