My essay “Stomping Grounds” was included in the 2019 Hobart baseball issue.
“Bucking modern trends, the ballpark remained nameless. From the day it opened in 1984 to its closure in fall 1996, the naming rights were never sold, or considered for sale. No aspect of its marketability was discussed in any boardroom. Memorabilia was not available for purchase. There were zero replica helmets, zero foam fingers. Concessions were nonexistent. The playing field was not defined by a single iconic feature. There was no long-enduring hand-operated scoreboard. Ivy did not cling to the outfield walls. If anything, the venue was defined by its near-constant evolution.” Continue here.
My story, “We work in the dark,” is in the new issue of Glimmer Train. You can buy a copy at your local bookstore or online here.
My story “What was lost in the waning light” is now live at Atticus Review.
“Dusk enters the harbor like an uninvited party guest, sharply dressed but sinisterly unshaven, flashing smiles at windows glazed orange by the setting sun so that someone looking up the hillside from shore – retirees, let’s say, dragging a pair of corgis along the pier, or hard-boiled lonesome men dangling fishing poles, or kids clutching ice-cream cones on the verge of collapse – might mistakenly think in the fractional moment before their brains catch up to their senses that a hundred rectangular fires are smoldering among the firs.” Continue here.
My story “Auld Lang Syne” appears in issue 16 of Barrelhouse. You can order a copy here.
My story “Last Light” is included in the final issue of Bartleby Snopes. Order here.
My story, “Another song in the desert,” is in Issue 60 of Potomac Review. You can order a copy of the issue here.
My story, “The helium’s rise,” is now available at WhiskeyPaper.
“Five-year-old Cornelia has hacked off her hair with pink scissors. Her mother walks in and sees long locks, peach-scented, corn-husk blond, scotch-taped to a doll’s rubber head.
The doll needed hair, Cornelia says, her voice a whispered poem, her scabbed knees cratering the carpet. Who knows why they’re scabbed? The girl is reckless, always running, always falling. The scabs never get a chance to heal.” Continue here.
My novella, “The final accident report filed by National Transportation Safety Board Investigator Maxwell Burns,” ended its run this week over at Novella-T. It was serialized and sent to subscribers in four parts beginning Sept. 1.
“Passenger 1 is not afraid to fly. He is not afraid of anything. When he was twelve years old and his stepfather pressed the barrel of a gun to his temple and told him that he, the stepfather, was not be fucked with, Passenger 1 paused briefly for effect before responding coolly that he wasn’t afraid. He didn’t know why he wasn’t afraid. He’d somehow just always known that there isn’t anything in life he can’t handle, so there is really no reason to fear anything ever, especially not a pudgy repressed asshole like his stepfather.”
My short story “Vorkov’s Angel” is now live over at Juked Magazine.
Snow is swirling in suburban skies and piling up quickly on the sagging roof of the Perpetual Winter Hockeyrena. Inside the building, Coach Vladimir Vorkov paces behind plexiglass and smokes a cigarette against league and rink policy. His attention is divided. Foremost it is tracing the glacial action on the ice. Vorkov is at the same time thinking that the detention and torture of wayward human souls must be tricky, tragic business—a thought that on the surface seems to be totally unrelated to his primary concern but actually intersects with it, is intersecting here and now, in an entirely confounding but sort of interesting way, that is if the whole thing weren’t so dire on so many levels. Continue here.
My short story “Leveling” appears in Issue 40 of Per Contra.
It was gray and cloudy but hot as shit. We were sweating through our t-shirts as we rode our bikes alongside the gridlocked highway, a stretch overrun by stoplights and big-box stores and Korean barbecue joints. Past the windshield repair place, past the massage parlor, past the tire store we rode through the heat and exhaust, half-inflated inner-tubes hung around our necks. I had a nice chrome bike because I’d stolen it, whereas Allen and James had nice bikes because their parents had money. Continue here.