We arrive in the dark at the shortest night and cluster away from the pyre. We are nameless and unsure, bleeding without a wound. We count: forty of us against three of them. Still, we feel outnumbered. We rub our…

Happy to share that my flash fiction, "The Guillotine Reimagined," is published by Little Fiction. Thank you Troy Palmer, Beth Gilstrap, and Elvin Park for publishing my work. Below is the opening of the story and a link to the…

Femke knows it’s not sex. They’re still enjoying each other’s bodies, and he never smells of anything but himself. She trusts her nose, her hunter’s sense. It’s not sex.

Outside the Rembrandt café was a tramp, a woman with the haunted look of the long-term unlucky. She was wrapped in layers of flannel and wool and sat hunched on the stoop, smoking a cigarette, blowing her breath against her…

Put a character in a house with a porch and a yard, and call the place old, even though less than two centuries weigh it down. A picket fence is useful, along with a crabapple tree. Mention alcohol abuse or…

It’s easy to disappear in the dampness of this town. Twelve moons ago, my mother wandered through a murky labyrinth of streets and bridges, crossing canal after canal—like I do now—leaving no footsteps. Cold air snakes across her face and…