Selected Publications

Fiction from the collection

Spinning The Record 

This story is reprinted as the title story in Spinning The Record

I’m late again and this time it’s a big deal. The new manager will wait until after closing time to scold me. He’ll first address me by my full name, Matthew, in a condescending tone. Then his young face will burn red and his thin body will shake with rage inside his cheap suit, and he’ll threaten to fire me again. But this time I’m actually scared because he has good reason to. I’m spinning at The Island, like I have for almost ten years now, but tonight isn’t like any other night. Tonight is the party after Pride 2006 and I was supposed to start an hour ago. I sneak in through the lobby of the attached hotel, slither my way through the crowd along the outside of the stage, and climb into the adjacent DJ booth…

twilight

An expanded version of this flash fiction appears in Spinning The Record

“Your shoulder blades move like angel wings,” he told me once.

He said the heroin made him a better poet. He would wrap that ratty leather belt around his thin bicep and pull it tight with his teeth, just like in the movies. His body mapped the history of his relationship with the drug, as did mine. Blue trail marks ran up and down his alabaster arms and legs. When we started we only injected between our toes so that no one else knew, but eventually we had to chart new territory. He’d push the liquid through the syringe and into his bloodstream. His eyes would roll back. The warmth would wrap around him and the rush would go through him. Then he’d relax. He would take the needle from his bicep, and give it to me. By then I’d have prepped my arm, and would inject the rest. Within seconds there would be no more day or night, no more waking or sleeping, just a beautiful state somewhere in-between…

Other Fiction

Playing House

“Mom..Dad…I’m gay,” Colin announced at Thanksgiving dinner, with one hand on his bony hip and the other hanging from his bony wrist. How could they not have known? “And Dean is my fiancé.” He turned when he said this, his long, white index finger and recently manicured fingernail pointing directly at me. Some of his family was there: his mother, his father, his two older sisters and their husbands. The brothers-in-law, who had been talking about the day’s football game before Colin’s announcement, now looked uncomfortable. Off to the right of us was the kiddie table, where Colin’s two and three year old niece and nephews were making messes, and arguing about whose sippie cup was whose, completely oblivious to the silence sitting right next to them…

Divine Intervention (page 19)

“But, dear, that’s just Satan’s game. Once you’re convinced he doesn’t exist, he’s won.” Becky’s Aunt Datherine responded to Becky’s assertion that, perhaps, the devil was an artifi cial construction. Aunt Datherine spoke with the certainty of a scholar. She waved her thin white fingers, displaying the remnants of natural nail that were never manicured and always bitten to the skin, and periodically using one of her index fingers to scratch her scalp through her short, schoolboy haircut…

Creative Non Fiction

January 18th, 2007

By 6 o’clock I arrive home and fall into the couch. Our Pomeranian, already waiting on the couch, curls up on my chest; the digging of her tail against my chest slow as she calms, as her head nestles into my neck. We nap. I don’t hate my job, but I don’t love it either. Two years in, my dream of writing daily still hasn’t been realized; I hardly get enough sleep before I have to rush off to my office job, so waking up early to write is not an option. But I’m too drained from an eight hour day of working through piles of paperwork to write when I get home. Lately my hands ache and I’m concerned the little writing I’ve done is on borrowed time…

 

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