Pages

Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts

Friday, May 8, 2020

Fiction: "The Meteor" at Fractured Lit

"The meteor fell from the sky and landed in the yard of the couple." 



So excited to have my story, "The Meteor," reprinted in the debut issue of Fractured Lit! Some amazing work from Dan Chaon, Cathy Ulrich, Aubrey Hersh, Kathy Fish, Shasta Grant, and Pamela Painter here as well. Thanks to editor in chief, Tommy Dean, on his amazing new project!

Tuesday, October 9, 2018

New Fiction: "Welcome Petsitter!" at Atticus Review


Delighted to have new flash fiction, "Welcome Petsitter!" at Atticus Review! Thanks to Michelle Ross and her team for giving this piece a home:

2. BATHROOMS - Please use the fan when you shower otherwise Quentin’s clothes (closet next to bathroom) get damp/mildew or whatever.

To read more, go here.

Monday, October 16, 2017

New Fiction at Jellyfish Review

Super excited that my flash, "Ghosts," is up today at Jellyfish Review!


After her mother died, my daughter became afraid of ghosts. Not the kind in Scooby Doo, she said, but ones that smother you in the bed, that lurk in the crack of the closet, that drip out of the faucet and threaten to flood the house. The kind that take her mother in dreams. 

To read more, go here

Friday, August 11, 2017

New Fiction at Smokelong

Thrilled that guest editor Sequoia Nagamatsu chose my story "I'm Such a Slut and I Dont' Give a Fuck" for publication this week at Smokelong:


...when it was all stoopid and fun, you were so high, just writing songs for each other. You and your girlfriends taped it on your boyfriend’s four-track so you could play it again later, for a laugh. You had ne’er a thought about the things that would come to define you.


I had been thinking a lot about how for musicians (and often writers, too) may write a song or an album or a novel of ill repute that really connects to a particular group of people during a particular time, and while the musician or novelist continues to grow and over time try to distance herself from it, successive generations of listeners and readers connect with the piece, and in a way, the artist is sort of frozen in carbonite like Han Solo, never allowed to break away from that creation, never able to grow, always tethered to their "opus and curse." Or, if you're the Rolling Stones, you don't give a fuck. 

You can find the story at Smokelong here.