Stories Available Online
"Be Prepared to Shoot the Nanny," Metaphorosis January 2017
By the time her husband came downstairs, Miranda was nearly frantic trying to find a kill switch for the nanny.
“Katie got herself eaten over the weekend,” she said without looking up, her fingers dancing across the surface of her smartphone. “Some drunk driver hit her car, and her boyfriend reanimated before she could get to the gun in her glove compartment. Honestly, what idiot keeps her gun that far out of reach?”
Her husband grimaced. “That’s too bad. She was so good with Henry.”
Miranda snorted. “If she couldn’t even pay enough attention to notice all those ‘armed is prepared’ ads, how could she have paid enough attention to notice what Henry needed?” The zombie safety awareness campaign had been inescapable—it seemed like every time she’d clicked a YouTube video or watched something on Hulu, she’d gotten an ad where that smirking guy from Saturday Night Live reminded everyone to keep a loaded gun within arm’s reach; you never knew when someone might die, reanimate as a zombie, and try to eat you. How had Katie missed the message? (Read more..)
"And To the Republic," Crossed Genres #26
I tried to keep my face calm as I read the attachment, even though on the inside I was screaming curses to Jupiter. I couldn't send Antonia an email from work about the problem – centurions had access to the work computers of Republic employees, everyone knew that, and even though I’d been a model employee for my entire life you never knew when they were going to do a random sweep – so I waited until the end of the work day to call her. I didn’t hurry out the door, since that would raise suspicion. Instead, I stopped at the shrines as I always did, lighting my incense to Mercury for a safe commute and to Washington, Lincoln, and the paters patriae for the health of the Republic, before sliding behind the wheel of my car and punching my sister’s number into my cell phone. (Read more...)
"Default," Plasma Frequency #12
*First runner-up, Baltimore Science Fiction Society 2013 Amateur Writing Contest
*Plasma Frequency Editor's Choice Award
His wife was sitting at her easel by the window, stippling something in green. Her head jerked up as he came in, and she wiped her hands on her ratty smock. "How did it go?"
He kissed her forehead, trying to ignore the knots in his stomach. "Good. The memories scanned in fine, and the loan officer said U Maryland would unlock my transcripts and send my journals and stuff from junior year in a week or two."
Danielle nodded, but he could feel her body tensing. She knows. She knows I don't remember meeting her yet. If I did, I would have mentioned it right away. "What about us?" (Read more...)
"99-Cent Dreams," The Colored Lens #2
After some deliberation, Libby decided to buy the ability to draw. “This one,” she said. “I’ve never been able to manage anything more than stick figures. This would be nice."
Alfred Corrigan smiled at her. “Yes. Very good.” He coughed before continuing in his high, papery voice. “Let me remind you, however, that this only guarantees the ability to draw recognizable pictures, not the talents of a master artist. These are only–"
“–ninety-nine cent dreams,” she finished along with him. It was the name of the store, and he had given her the patter when she had first come in. Ninety-nine cents could only buy small dreams, not miracles. (Read more...)
Stories Available In Print Only
"The Touch," Leading Edge #65
I knew Marie was coming home before she told me. It wasn't just the touch, though that was part of it--I could feel her need for me seething in every letter she sent, pressed into the paper as firmly as the ink. but the touch is vulgar and works on everyone, and I didn't need it for Marie. We'd shared the same womb, and the touch had nothing on that sort of bond.
So when the letter came, I held it in my hand for a moment longer than usual, savoring the knowledge of what was inside. I could feel the envelope itching, buzzing, the ink crawling over my hand and toward Marie's old bedroom, letting me know that this was the one, she was coming home, home, home . . .
. . . and the ink went cold in my hand, as though she had addressed the envelope with ice water.
"First, Do No Harm (Unless They're Zombies)," Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine #52
Even though the alarm didn't go off, I knew Herbert was dead when I heard him banging around in his room. Now, luckily, they'd inspected all of the doors and locks in the hospital earlier that week, so I had plenty of time to track down a security guard. That was good, because here's a little secret: do you remember when Dad used to take us out to the range for shooting practice? I suck just as much at it today as I did back then. It's the kind of thing that can get a geriatric nurse fired nowadays, but I know you'll keep it quiet.
"The Remnant," While the Morning Stars Sing: An Anthology of Spiritually Infused Speculative Fiction
We thought we wouldn't dream in cryo, but when the cycle was ending, it was just like waking up from regular sleep.
I don't know what it was like for everyone else, but for me, it was always the same. I'd see Laura in her playpen watching the bombs fall like shooting stars, see the flesh crumble from her bones before the bones themselves blew away like ashes. I'd see Charlie's shadow sear into the side of our bedroom before the whole house melted into glass. I'd see mushroom clouds blossoming like red flowers all over the United States, a multicolored map of it like you'd see in a classroom. And then, through the smoke, I'd see Jesus walking with a crowd behind Him, like a picture from a prayer card, a halo around His head and holes in His hands and feet. And He'd look at me with His sad, sweet eyes and say, "This was it, Susan. This was the former things passing away, and My Second Coming, and taking My people to a new Heaven and a new Earth. This was it. And you were asleep."
"Westfield," Tales of the Talisman Volume 6, Issue 1
Because this is a flash fiction piece, no excerpt is available.
By the time her husband came downstairs, Miranda was nearly frantic trying to find a kill switch for the nanny.
“Katie got herself eaten over the weekend,” she said without looking up, her fingers dancing across the surface of her smartphone. “Some drunk driver hit her car, and her boyfriend reanimated before she could get to the gun in her glove compartment. Honestly, what idiot keeps her gun that far out of reach?”
Her husband grimaced. “That’s too bad. She was so good with Henry.”
Miranda snorted. “If she couldn’t even pay enough attention to notice all those ‘armed is prepared’ ads, how could she have paid enough attention to notice what Henry needed?” The zombie safety awareness campaign had been inescapable—it seemed like every time she’d clicked a YouTube video or watched something on Hulu, she’d gotten an ad where that smirking guy from Saturday Night Live reminded everyone to keep a loaded gun within arm’s reach; you never knew when someone might die, reanimate as a zombie, and try to eat you. How had Katie missed the message? (Read more..)
"And To the Republic," Crossed Genres #26
I tried to keep my face calm as I read the attachment, even though on the inside I was screaming curses to Jupiter. I couldn't send Antonia an email from work about the problem – centurions had access to the work computers of Republic employees, everyone knew that, and even though I’d been a model employee for my entire life you never knew when they were going to do a random sweep – so I waited until the end of the work day to call her. I didn’t hurry out the door, since that would raise suspicion. Instead, I stopped at the shrines as I always did, lighting my incense to Mercury for a safe commute and to Washington, Lincoln, and the paters patriae for the health of the Republic, before sliding behind the wheel of my car and punching my sister’s number into my cell phone. (Read more...)
"Default," Plasma Frequency #12
*First runner-up, Baltimore Science Fiction Society 2013 Amateur Writing Contest
*Plasma Frequency Editor's Choice Award
His wife was sitting at her easel by the window, stippling something in green. Her head jerked up as he came in, and she wiped her hands on her ratty smock. "How did it go?"
He kissed her forehead, trying to ignore the knots in his stomach. "Good. The memories scanned in fine, and the loan officer said U Maryland would unlock my transcripts and send my journals and stuff from junior year in a week or two."
Danielle nodded, but he could feel her body tensing. She knows. She knows I don't remember meeting her yet. If I did, I would have mentioned it right away. "What about us?" (Read more...)
"99-Cent Dreams," The Colored Lens #2
After some deliberation, Libby decided to buy the ability to draw. “This one,” she said. “I’ve never been able to manage anything more than stick figures. This would be nice."
Alfred Corrigan smiled at her. “Yes. Very good.” He coughed before continuing in his high, papery voice. “Let me remind you, however, that this only guarantees the ability to draw recognizable pictures, not the talents of a master artist. These are only–"
“–ninety-nine cent dreams,” she finished along with him. It was the name of the store, and he had given her the patter when she had first come in. Ninety-nine cents could only buy small dreams, not miracles. (Read more...)
Stories Available In Print Only
"The Touch," Leading Edge #65
I knew Marie was coming home before she told me. It wasn't just the touch, though that was part of it--I could feel her need for me seething in every letter she sent, pressed into the paper as firmly as the ink. but the touch is vulgar and works on everyone, and I didn't need it for Marie. We'd shared the same womb, and the touch had nothing on that sort of bond.
So when the letter came, I held it in my hand for a moment longer than usual, savoring the knowledge of what was inside. I could feel the envelope itching, buzzing, the ink crawling over my hand and toward Marie's old bedroom, letting me know that this was the one, she was coming home, home, home . . .
. . . and the ink went cold in my hand, as though she had addressed the envelope with ice water.
"First, Do No Harm (Unless They're Zombies)," Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine #52
Even though the alarm didn't go off, I knew Herbert was dead when I heard him banging around in his room. Now, luckily, they'd inspected all of the doors and locks in the hospital earlier that week, so I had plenty of time to track down a security guard. That was good, because here's a little secret: do you remember when Dad used to take us out to the range for shooting practice? I suck just as much at it today as I did back then. It's the kind of thing that can get a geriatric nurse fired nowadays, but I know you'll keep it quiet.
"The Remnant," While the Morning Stars Sing: An Anthology of Spiritually Infused Speculative Fiction
We thought we wouldn't dream in cryo, but when the cycle was ending, it was just like waking up from regular sleep.
I don't know what it was like for everyone else, but for me, it was always the same. I'd see Laura in her playpen watching the bombs fall like shooting stars, see the flesh crumble from her bones before the bones themselves blew away like ashes. I'd see Charlie's shadow sear into the side of our bedroom before the whole house melted into glass. I'd see mushroom clouds blossoming like red flowers all over the United States, a multicolored map of it like you'd see in a classroom. And then, through the smoke, I'd see Jesus walking with a crowd behind Him, like a picture from a prayer card, a halo around His head and holes in His hands and feet. And He'd look at me with His sad, sweet eyes and say, "This was it, Susan. This was the former things passing away, and My Second Coming, and taking My people to a new Heaven and a new Earth. This was it. And you were asleep."
"Westfield," Tales of the Talisman Volume 6, Issue 1
Because this is a flash fiction piece, no excerpt is available.