Published Stories

"Something Resembling Normal". Published in Raw Writing, October 2015.
I wasn't ready for any of it. The hurricane snuck up on me the way it did most people, so by the weekend, we knew it was on its way and could do nothing but ride it out, wait and see what would happen. Having spent my first thirty years in Chicago, I'd never given hurricanes much thought. They were someone else's problems, things I might hear about on the news and feel bad about, but I didn't care about them.

"Green". Published in Red Savina Review, Spring 2015.
We were at that old dining table, the one I'd been dragging behind me since college, having finished our first annual St. Patrick's Day dinner. I had a half pint of green-tinted beer in front of me; she had half a plate of corned beef and cabbage in front of her.

"Goodbye, Mr. Wonderful". Published in The Xavier Review, Spring 2013.
Sally has come over for her morning cup of coffee again. I don't know when this became a regular thing. When does a routine become routine? When I was working, I had all sorts of routines: getting to my desk fifteen minutes early; taking two laps around the parking lot during lunch. Now I've got none.

"When Will It End?" Published in 971 Menu, September 2011.
I'd stayed in Mississippi so long because the money was good and I was greedy, because so many old ladies had missing roofs and collapsed trees, and because so many legitimate contractors had more work than they could handle.

"We Have a Safe?" Published in The Journal of College Writing, Spring 2010.
With Dad dead for twelve hours, Mom, Cindy, and I sat in the living room not eating despite the food overflowing from the kitchen. People didn't bring cards or flowers but food, trudging through rain and snow and mostly ice to bring us casseroles and vegetable trays.

"The Man Who Shot Henry McCarty". Published in Fiction Weekly, July 2009.
During the third day of a late October rain, I stood on the saturated riverbank and watched my two dumb deputies, Aaron and Abram, try to bring the body on shore. My instinct had been to ignore the story of a body in the river, to leave whatever it was alone and to hope it went away on its own. Then I remembered I was sheriff.

"This Is Where". Published in Southern California Review, Winter 2009.
This was Billy and me out in his yard, the pale yellow headlights of our cars not making things bright enough, and Sarah sitting on the hood of Billy's car counting off three-minute rounds. This was two old friends beating the hell out of each other because they were bored. Sometimes drunk. Often drunk.

"Not Josef". Published in Paradigm, Fall 2007.
Tonight Josef stands where he always stands for the train—on the thick yellow line of paint at the platform's edge—but he doesn't want to get on the train this time. If he gets on the train, it will take him to Pappagallo's, and if he gets to Pappagallo's, he'll see Anna, and if he sees Anna, she'll break up with him.

"Horatio". Published in Phantasmagoria, Spring 2006.
Going out of town always messes up my routine. I'd been in San Diego for a week's worth of training on the company's new accounting software, and all week all I wanted was to be in my own house and in my own bed.

"Goodnight, Reilly". Published in Chicago Quarterly Review, 2006.
Even after ten months of marriage, Reilly sleeps alone every night. Her husband doesn't sleep. Every night after sex, Luke jumps out of bed and disappears down the hallway. Reilly describes him as energetic, but energetic is too subtle. He is raw energy. Sometimes she worries he will burst into a blinding flash of white light and disappear.

"Outside Evansville". Published in The Armchair Aesthete, 2004.
In his rear-view mirror, RT watched the sun rise in pink and orange as if he could out-run it. His eleven-year-old daughter Cass slept in the passenger seat, her head pressing the pillow against the window, her blond hair hanging over her face. She'd said repeatedly that she wouldn't be able to sleep in the car until she dozed off around midnight, around Pittsburgh, her snoring just loud enough to be heard over the radio, the air conditioner, the tires, all the noises of driving eighty-two miles an hour.

"Still". Published inThe Muse Apprentice Guild, Spring 2003.
February 7 and we are sitting on the front steps of our apartment building. The concrete is cold, so deeply cold that the steps won’t warm again until May. I came out here for a cigarette and to avoid a fight. This could have been our daughter’s eleventh birthday, Kay told me at breakfast. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I understood the general topic. We decided years ago not to have kids. Every now and then, Kate seems to reconsider.

"Cleaning Out". Published in The Muse Apprentice Guild, Spring 2003.
This time the fight started with her saying: “You were supposed to vacuum today."