Fiction
published in The Drift (2024)
Eric and his dad lived alone in a mansion overlooking a spear-shaped bay on the Long Island Sound. His mom had killed herself when he was eight, and shortly after that Eric’s dad stripped all her photos and belongings from the house — an act that my father called grief and my mother called spite and Eric and I, being normal American boys, didn’t know how to talk about.
published in Narrative Magazine (2020)
Because the beach seemed unchanged, still dune-fringed and rind-shaped and molten underfoot, Helen had reverted to her teenage habit of arranging her towel near the touch-football game. The players, still college age, looked younger to her now, but she’d nonetheless enjoyed—while wiggling out of her sundress, while unsnapping her bathing suit—the distraction her presence inserted into their game: the quick glances of the linemen, the quarterback’s huffy voice, the sideline’s gentle drift in her direction.

"The House at the End of the Night"
published in Conjunctions: Nocturnals (2019)
They honked the horn at intervals, taking turns, one boy pacing up and down the bed of the truck, listening for yells or rifle shots with his hands cupped around his ears, the other in the cab, doors closed for warmth, banging on the horn, counting to sixty, banging on the horn. The truck trembled in the gusts. More than once the boy in the back pounded on the cab’s roof and the other spilled out and they stood frozen, hearing something or not, hearing what they yearned to hear and learning to distrust it. Listen! What? It’s him! What is? They yelled the uncle’s name. They shifted foot to foot, rubbing their gloves together. They made loon calls, hoping the different pitch would cut through the wind. But the wind was many-pitched itself now, howling, lashing, stealing whatever sounds they made.