Published Work

Bouquets – The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature (11/1/19)

The man in the parking lot handed her a pink carnation. Sara reached automatically to take what the stranger offered as unconsciously as passing a fork when she used to help Mother do dishes. The man just smiled and kept going across the black asphalt that shimmered in the late afternoon heat.

 

Burning – The Dying Dahlia Review (9/3/19)

On the night before she started high school, Katelyn set the book on the grill. A scrape. A flash of orange. A whiff of sulfur. The corner caught, and the edges of the pages glowed. Aunt Ninny had given her the diary for her thirteenth birthday, saying with a wink, “A girl needs a place for her secrets.”

 

The Morning After – The Jellyfish Review (5/25/19)

The door opens downstairs, and I freeze with a fistful of freshly washed underwear poised over the drawer. After twenty-six years of hearing his familiar feet entering our home, I know it’s not Jack, coming back for his wallet, his coffee, a file. I’m realizing that my phone is downstairs in my bag and scanning for a weapon or a place to hide when she calls out to me. Her voice in that one wavering syllable is worse than a home invasion. Worse than a serial killer picking this house at 8:07 in the morning on a Thursday.

 

Sixth Period – Spelk (7/3/19)

We know where the hard corners are. We crouch together, our breaths slowing down while our hearts race, but we are quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet. If we are still and silent it’ll be over soon, and we can get back to Hamlet’s indecision and the Civil War and the laws of multiple proportions and espero, esperas, esperamos.

 

The Third Date – Crack the Spine (5/14/19)

The beer splattered onto Gabby’s lap where the cup landed, making a large wet spot on her jeans that looked like nothing so much as a pants-peeing.

 

To-Do List – Prometheus Dreaming

Morning

        Walk past his bedroom door and resist that tentative tap-tap-tap he hates and knows is just a prelude to you walking in regardless if he says “Come in.” He’ll be hunched in his bed. There will be a stack of cups teetering on his nightstand. The sour stench of piled dirty clothes, unwashed skin, and unrealized potential will be almost more than your mother-heart can stand. The stuffed bunny by his hand where he’s held it to fall asleep for nineteen years will break you in pieces if you let it. Assure yourself that he’ll get up and take a shower as soon as you leave for work.

 

A Year After They Stopped Bothering to Name the Hurricanes – Wingless Dreamer (2/21/19) *1st place winner for flash fiction

The zebra is back. I can see it from the kitchen window where I am washing some underwear and a couple of t-shirts in the sink. The water’s sulfurous smell is getting really strong. Everything I wear now smells like the inside of a lunchbox left in the backseat of a hot car. It’s not like I can just run down to WalMart and buy bags of salt for the well. I’m lucky to have running water at all no matter how bad it stinks.