The Sound a Voice Makes,”

Avery Anthology, Fall 2010.

“Winston was a man accustomed to standing quite still. He was excellent at it, actually. As a child he was often caught frozen anxiously: crouching among his mother’s fur coats in the dark front room closet, stiff at an elegant table as the old record player scratched out its waltzes, straining to hear twists of wrappings being removed from his cousins’ Christmas presents.”


Epic literary magazine, Spring 2008.

“There were no cigars that day; after all, we are too young to smoke. When the doctor announced the baby was healthy–no heart palpitations or even jaundice, nothing wrong except his seventeen-year-old child had just came up with a child of her own–my father sighed greatly and said, Well, that’s one less thing we have to worry about.”

The Hat,”

Epic literary magazine, Spring 2008.

I cringe a little to think how differently I would have turned out if, perhaps, that hat had been a baseball cap or even one of those cream-colored jobs rich people in the 1920s wore on safari, but one cannot undo time, and my hat was purple. It was gigantic; floppy and airy with a few red plumes of feather stuck in like the ones rich women wear even today to the Kentucky Derby.