Short Fiction on the Web


Click on the links below to read short fiction in the Shenandoah, 3:AM Magazine, Baltimore Review, and Drunken Boat.

“Gar”

abandonedsubwayHave you ever had a ‘pauletate’?

No.

Do you know what an ‘armournte’ is?

No.

If you were given a bag of wool what would you do with it? READ MORE at Shenandoah

“Adios Puerto Lempira”

miles davis
After Miles Davis’s Spanish Key

This happened yesterday. Or maybe a long time ago. No, it’s happening right now. The sky is the colour of blister water, and the abandoned refinery is burning in the distance. This spit of land is spit into the warm waters of the green sea is shining in the beach roil like camel’s hair and here we stand at the edge of all things. Puerto Lempira. This has happened before. It’s happening right now. READ MORE at 3:AM Magazine

“Buckets”

ocean night 2The boat was carrying buckets, several thousand of them, in the hold, by way of Panama—we had made the canal without incident, and were now en plein Caribe as the tender, a Frenchman from Algeria, liked to say. The boat wasn’t big, ninety feet from stem to stern, an old chugger with a busted diesel belching black smoke in great spiraling tourbillons that the vast Caribbean sky swallowed in gulps. I would go down into the hold nights—as second mate I had free run and to tell the truth there wasn’t much to do on that old iron-bellied porringer. Of course the buckets weren’t just lying around down there—they were in boxes, stacked three high, and I would stare at them, and then crawl back up the old rusted ladder and stand on the deck as the moonlight flooded our pale churned up wake. READ MORE at the Baltimore Review

“Born”

Macbeth-on-stilts-001In the spring, he started cutting school, hiding behind a gardenia bush in the backyard until his mom left for work, then creeping back inside, fumbling out of his school clothes, and sliding into the bath. While steam rose in slow gusts off the surface of the water, he watched his pulse jerk at his ankles. The enamel walls blistered with the moisture. After lunch he watched Edge of Night on television. READ MORE at Drunken Boat

“Wetlands”

61768794-swamp-nightWe park along a culvert in a graveled pullover, out past Opa-Locka, beyond the developments. Miami lies east of us, its flatlands radiating in darkness strung with beads of distant roadway and lonely security lights. To the west, where we’re going, the darkness of the sky tilts down and spills into an end-of-the-world lightless swamp. I shove the plastic boots at the kid and say: “Put these on.” The kid stares and says, “I didn’t hear nothing about going in no water.” READ MORE at Drunken Boat

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