Creative Non-Fiction

I Dream I’m the Death of Happy Voldemort

Birdcoat Quarterly 7, September 2021

Reports from the French capital were vague, but it appeared Happy Voldemort had fallen in with a questionable crowd that had ultimately meant him no good.

fiction

Machine 23: A Ghost Story

Oxonian Review, February 2023

Like any ghost, it is the haunted who will teach him how to be a ghost.

Our Gods

Thin Air, December 2022

Our gods are wildly, violently sentimental. They rarely protect us and when they do it is for selfish reasons. They forget their requests of yesterday and recall a single prayer muttered a thousand years ago.

The Voice’s Assistant

Subnivean Podcast Episode 2, September 2022

Walking the arterial passages of the palace, glass Gothic arches converging with a slaty sky, I find a place I have been before. I can tell by the stench.

Certain Fantasies I Have of Winnipeg

Paramanu Pentaquark 6, August 2022

Winnipeg walks into a bar. Is there meant to be an end to this story?

If so, I’m it.

My Spirit Shall Not Always Strive

Aurealis 152, July 2022

I am here on the condition that I do not ‘proselytize’: in other words, that I do not remind the Church’s members, none of whom have ever left the state, been online, or consumed anything stronger than home-brewed cider, that they might conceivably live forever.

The Project Team Will Now Introduce Themselves

Solar 4, March 2022

And honestly I would very much like that, no longer having a dozen little egos to stroke and a clutch of spreadsheets to maintain, whose main function is to hide the fact that I’m as helpless as a baby bird in a nest, waiting for scraps of work to be shoved in my mouth. 

Unter

Corvus Review 17, January 2022

I had fantasies of starting a company called Unter. Our product would be dejection.

The Tangly Legs

Sky Island Journal 17, July 2021

The last cactus in the terrarium, thriving obscenely after all his comrades died, lies on his side in a frenzy of fuzzy tendrils. Startled by our behavior, dust swirls in the air above our heads.

My Father, in Twelve Dreams

[PANK] 15:2, September 2020

A moor—is it a moor? I’ve never been on a moor—at twilight, when the moon is high.

In the distance my father howls.

Whitby, August

Westerly 65:1, July 2020

The town has been burned by Vikings and shelled by Germans, watched the Greenland whales dwindle and Spanish trawlers ruin its fishermen. Now it is a refuge for goths, eccentrics, obscurantists and, once annually, folk musicians, whose performances are scattered among the town’s pubs and gathering places.

HYBRID

Four Introductions to Madeleine Barnes

MoonPark Review 18, December 2021

When she was eleven, Madeleine Barnes’ parents revealed that she was an accident and that in a world of more reliable contraceptives she would not exist. She is now a poet. She lives in Brooklyn.

Platinum (with Madeleine Barnes)

Crab Fat, May 2018

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