A long time ago, when I was a wild rebellious eighteen-year-old who left my mother’s home with a young man I would soon marry, I liked to experiment with LSD. Not as often as some of my generation did, but often enough to learn that...
originally published in Feminine Collective Who may tell her story? Who has earned the right? What if she’s come and gone? Has no tongue, no eyes, no hands? Must one wear her skin, eat from her bowl Fight nightmare’s demons on her sleeping mat just to feel the Rhythm of her heart? Aren’t...
coming October 2019 from Unsolicited Press CHAPTER ONE The floor creaked whenever Maggie shifted her weight. The Jimmy Choo stiletto pumps were killing her. Their cherry red leather called her name in the SoHo shoe boutique only an hour before, just after Kyle’s text message urged her...
originally published in Feminine Collective The rib never fit And the apple had worms Fig leaves are for fools shaming the Triangle of life Caves sheltered as long as you brought Down your share, felled by points you Chiseled by the hour, in between Sewing skins and putting the baby To your breast— Migrations, snow,...
originally published in The Mark Literary Review He landed a good gig. Looking in on people’s homes would keep them in Aspen. The hikers were gone; the skiers yet to descend. Those in town now were there for the golden trees, and the occasional red and...
originally published in Women Writers, Women's Books Susan Cheever, daughter of the famous author, John Cheever, once said that fiction is not a competitive sport. Also a writer, living in the shadow of her father’s reputation and achievements can’t have been easy. I believe she made...
originally published in Wilde Boy two little circles below her elbow reach for her porcelain hand on different planes as if the arm had been held and gently turned - as if the one who touched his lit cigarette to her skin felt a bit of whimsy as he considered which spot to kiss...
originally published in O: JA&L As the rain got heavier, people moved inside. When the annual Art Walk was held in good weather, everyone stayed out and enjoyed the spring twilight. Last year’s mild temperature and clear skies meant poor sales. Tonight, just about every place...
originally published in The Slag Review More trees in the mountains went up, and the firelight was yellower than the day before. He called it the color of dry sand. The sun reddened, as if not in anger, but in grief. Who wouldn’t mourn? Homes lost,...
originally published in Writer's Digest We’ve all heard it said that readers have increasingly short attention spans. Spending time with a print medium isn’t as engaging as watching things move or interacting with content on a screen. Does this mean that we should write stories that...