Short Stories 

The Instructions
Epiphany Magazine
The pills were divided between two packages, one orange, the other green. Ivy lined them up on a rag-woven placemat like Matchbox cars in pole position. The notion of them there, in great Aunt Etta’s kitchen, was out of place.

The pharmacist assured Ivy that the print-out that came with her pills would answer all of her questions. Recruiting the sugar bowl and the salt shaker to weigh down the sheet’s stubborn creases, Ivy took a deep breath and began to read. “Two medicines must be used for the medical termination of pregnancy: mifepristone and misoprostol,” she read. The paper, thin and translucent, reminded her of the delicate Bible pages her aunt used to flip through as they lay reading before bed, tucked into side-by-side twins. Keep reading ...

The Pines
West Trade Review

Art never wanted to live at The Pines. In fact, he had specifically wanted not to live there. It was nice enough, sure, and Art had been in for visits plenty of times. The nonenal smell of the place always kindled Art’s sense of alarm and so he kept his visits short, listening to his friends’ complaints—the bland food, the loneliness, the aches in their bodies—without offering much sympathy. Art couldn’t see, then, that he would one day find himself in the same situation. No matter his devotion to resisting it.

He’s been in now for three years, long enough for the place to whittle him into a fellow he barely recognizes. Once a hardy man, content to spend hours in freezing arenas—Art loved to watch anyone playing a game—he’s old now, with skin that bruises more easily than a banana. He is a man with a permanent chill and has steeped in recirculated air for so long that his ability to sense anything pleasant has pruned as much as his skin.

What has sharpened is his realization that nobody on the outside cares much about his situation. Art’s pickling away. Barely living, but nowhere close to dead. Keep reading ...

Get What You Want
Gutter Magazine, Issue 28

'Look,' I say, trying to keep momentum. 'You don't have to decide right now. What I'm asking for is complicated. It's selfish. I know. But what I'm asking for is really just a good time, for old time's sake. Before we run out of time.'

He inhales, deeply, and I worry that I went on too much, botched the ask. 

'I don't know what to say.' What he does not say is no.

'You don't have to say anything now.' I try to sound unrushed, reassuring. 'Why don't I let you go, let you get back to work. If you make a decision, you know how to reach me.' 

'Yeah. Okay,' he says. 

'Okay cool,' I say. 'Talk soon'. I hit the red button to end the call ... but the chat is still open. The three dots indicating he is typing a message appear, disappear and reappear. 

I watch them and wait. Keep reading ...