Short Fiction

Though I write a lot of short stories, I don’t pursue their publication to the degree I should. Some of the stories below have been published, most have not … yet. I am collecting my short stories into a single volume which may, if I get around to the hassle of formatting it, be available soon.

Static Movement, June, 2006.

The steady rise and fall of the canoe paddle was finding muscles in her back she’d forgotten were there. It was quiet on the river now, the ultraviolet streaming down, eating its way through the 50 sun block she had smeared on her exposed skin. She watched the swirling eddies the paddles made as they slid alongside the canoe, the water spiders that skittered across the slick surface in search of food. Up ahead, the water undulated in hypnotic waves as it passed over submerged rocks and logs.


Static Movement, February, 2007.

Mickey didn’t approve of zoos, but that day she had a hankering to visit the wolves. It had been months since she’d snuck Harlan in there, an act she felt the tiniest bit guilty about, but what else could you do with a wolf in the city? And, if she were honest with herself, which she was trying really hard to do now that she’d reached her twenty-first birthday, she felt a little guilty over the events that led to her having to sneak Harlan there. After all, it wasn’t really Harlan’s fault, was it? Well, maybe some of it was, but still, a wolf is a wolf and it’s in their nature to act in wolfish ways.


The Battered Suitcase, December, 2008.

The strains of something vaguely Garth Brooks drifted through the half-open door of the patio. Tinny. Flat. The hum of traffic rising from the street ten floors below possessed more rhythm.

Rose glanced at her watch. The vermilion digits ticked off the seconds. The shadows of dancing couples slid across her table. She wondered if he’d show? He hadn’t been at the conference earlier in the day. But then, he’d written to say he wouldn’t be. Other commitments, he’d said, not commenting further. So like him, of course. Outside his poetry, he divulged little of his personal life.


SOMA Literary Review, February, 2009.

Winston Church tightened the thin jacket about his shoulders, turned up the collar and stepped out the alley door of his office building. A sharp, cold wind, the kind that blows in off the Pacific and turns the streets of the financial district into arctic wind tunnels, slammed into him. “Frickin July in San Francisco,” he said under his breath and began the long walk home.


/short-fiction/final-target/”>Final Target
Unpublished, a rewrite of Hit, looking for a home

Sweat. It soaks his hair, his skin, the clothes he wears, drips thirty feet to the jungle floor at the base of the tree he’s tied himself to. There’s a crackle in his earphone, a whispered voice.

“Target in sight. Range … 660 yards.”


/short-fiction/fire-and-slush/”>Fire And Slush
Unpublished, looking for a home

“I served a purpose, you know.”

The Lord of Light sighed deeply. This woman with her grating voice was like a blister that never healed. His chief minion Ba’al was growing furious, hinting that defection could well become an option if she wasn’t taken from his hands. If only the package would arrive so he could get her started at her task and be free of her. Why was it taking Theo so long to deliver? A vengeful god? Ha! Unreliable was more like it.


/short-fiction/thief/”>Thief
Unpublished, looking for a home. This is a prequel to my novel Stealing The Marbles

Hot town, summer in the city. The old Lovin’ Spoonful song kept looping through his mind, just that one line, over and over. Hot town. Summer in the city. John Sebastian. A rockin’ song. Cities and summer heat.

It was dark now, past midnight. The hours without sun hadn’t cut the temperature by more than a degree or two. He was sweating a torrent beneath the black cotton clothes he wore. He could smell the mixture of sweat and fear rising from him in an malodorous cloud. It was a good thing his destination didn’t have BO alarms. He’d be busted for sure.

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