Writing

Short Fiction

“Postcards from Heaven,” SYNTAX AND SALT MAGAZINE, JAN 2020 (forthcoming)
there’s no need for sirens among ghosts

“The Almost Mother,” BANGALORE REVIEW (forthcoming)
the Almost Mother sits with me on a park bench, smiling to herself, humming a lullaby, while she looks for children to trip

“Nouon,” NILVX: A BOOK OF MAGIC, SEPTEMBER 2019
there is a woman on the airwaves

“The Healer of Solus,” FANTASIA FAIRY TALES, SEPTEMBER 2019
sage did not heal them. keeping a bundle of hawthorn under their pillows did not calm their nerves

“Nowt,” FARTHER STARS THAN THESE, AUGUST 2019
he wanted to hightail it out of the planet. because this one, yes, this little speck of blue didn’t quite feel like home

“Tessellations, In A Greater Hand,” STRANGE HORIZONS, APRIL 2019
where I’m from, it bodes ill to announce that you’re going somewhere

“A Handful of Mud,” LUNA STATION QUARTERLY, DECEMBER 2018
let it not be said that I didn’t try. the presence of mud in our room keeps me on edge and nags at me throughout the day

“Fissures,” THE ESTHETIC APOSTLE, JULY 2018
anarchy begins in the bowels of utopia. and if it should be found anywhere, anarchy must linger here, brewing at the bottom of these chasms. a revolution waiting to germinate.

“The Lady of Shalott,” FIREFLIES & FAIRY DUST, MARCH 2018
fingers move deftly across the loom, plucking threads. she frowns at the picture blossoming of a lily. An idle hand should not stay idle, her mother once told her

“The Hanged Man,” NILVX: A BOOK OF MAGIC, JULY 2017
the mysteries of the world shouldn’t be a birthright of the arcane

“The Mercenary,” OBRA ARTIFACT, APRIL 2017
he’s sitting on the stool, his back stiff and unetherized. his head is fastened between clamps and a longbarrel stares into one eye. it’s the right eye; it’s the one he used to peer through the look-hole of a boiler to watch furnaces burn, to supply electricity to a million unlit homes and to bring food to our table

“Gerousia,” CHICAGO LITERATI, MARCH 2017
the grim reaper isn’t dead. Its dark, morbid garb and crescent sickle have been left with the ages