A sampling of recent, published short stories:
Big flat
Solitudo County
Up here on big flat there’s only the low, constant hum of the compressors. And the wind rough against the truck, whipping against the rig. Oscar sips the last of the coffee from the thermos, and he thinks of his girls, warm inside far away, sound asleep.
He listens for the wolf, listens past the hemlock and cedar, but there is only the wind . . . Read More. (Hawai'i Pacific Review, Oct. 11, 2015)
Big flat
Solitudo County
Up here on big flat there’s only the low, constant hum of the compressors. And the wind rough against the truck, whipping against the rig. Oscar sips the last of the coffee from the thermos, and he thinks of his girls, warm inside far away, sound asleep.
He listens for the wolf, listens past the hemlock and cedar, but there is only the wind . . . Read More. (Hawai'i Pacific Review, Oct. 11, 2015)
a line
UNDER ONE OF the hammock oaks, Bryan pours the last of the coffee from the thermos into the stainless mug. The coffee would be good on ice, but it was strong coffee, and it would hold him over until they got to camp. The tiny flycatchers circling through the branches sing their echoes.
Across the only patch of light coming through the oaks, the hound mutt stretches, listening carefully to the flycatchers above. He remembers one of those mornings when he’d wake early and get out the old hiking boots, and the lanky and lean pup would start running in circles in the small apartment . . . Read More. (The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, September, 2014)
UNDER ONE OF the hammock oaks, Bryan pours the last of the coffee from the thermos into the stainless mug. The coffee would be good on ice, but it was strong coffee, and it would hold him over until they got to camp. The tiny flycatchers circling through the branches sing their echoes.
Across the only patch of light coming through the oaks, the hound mutt stretches, listening carefully to the flycatchers above. He remembers one of those mornings when he’d wake early and get out the old hiking boots, and the lanky and lean pup would start running in circles in the small apartment . . . Read More. (The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, September, 2014)
Birds of Dusk
This story is a fictional account of real events.
“Today we enjoy the beauty of our Florida wading birds largely because of these men.” — reads the free standing historical marker, 26 degrees, 54.615 minutes north,
by 82 degrees, 05.740 minutes west. 1
***
Can’t find any relations, the deputy says, standing on this side of the open door.
He has some kin back in Placida, Pearson says, and he asks for the reck- oning. With some reservation yet an earnest lawman’s exactitude, the deputy proceeds to tell him what they know: a cast netter, Sunday past, came upon Columbus’ launch submerged under eight feet of dark water; to keep the boat down, two heavy sacks of sand had been fashioned under the thwarts; his body was never recovered despite the long search of northern harbor and creek waters, but his shredded hat was inside the skiff, with bits of hair, skull and brain matter clung to it. Little other infor- mation has been secured . . . Read More (Wilderness House Literary Review, Issue 11.2)
This story is a fictional account of real events.
“Today we enjoy the beauty of our Florida wading birds largely because of these men.” — reads the free standing historical marker, 26 degrees, 54.615 minutes north,
by 82 degrees, 05.740 minutes west. 1
***
Can’t find any relations, the deputy says, standing on this side of the open door.
He has some kin back in Placida, Pearson says, and he asks for the reck- oning. With some reservation yet an earnest lawman’s exactitude, the deputy proceeds to tell him what they know: a cast netter, Sunday past, came upon Columbus’ launch submerged under eight feet of dark water; to keep the boat down, two heavy sacks of sand had been fashioned under the thwarts; his body was never recovered despite the long search of northern harbor and creek waters, but his shredded hat was inside the skiff, with bits of hair, skull and brain matter clung to it. Little other infor- mation has been secured . . . Read More (Wilderness House Literary Review, Issue 11.2)
Thursday Morning
Northville Review, 03.03.2011 issue
It wasn’t no damn solid line that he crossed.
He pours his cup of coffee. It was a blurred line.
The jury knows everything, and they will make their decision today. Today, judgment day. He won’t need to fight to convince anyone after today, won’t need to wait for one single decision to come down. It will be over . . . Read More. (Northville Review, March, 2011 issue)
He pours his cup of coffee. It was a blurred line.
The jury knows everything, and they will make their decision today. Today, judgment day. He won’t need to fight to convince anyone after today, won’t need to wait for one single decision to come down. It will be over . . . Read More. (Northville Review, March, 2011 issue)
