Stories

Here's some links to stories I've haad published online, which will, with any luck, continue to grow...

WHITE: (Lobster Cult Magazine)
The last time they would ever see each other, huddled together inside a car, the weight of a secret revealed hanging heavy in the air between them. She’d unburdened herself, only a fraction of the ghosts that haunted her, but it was enough to stun him. They swirled there in the cold of the night, mixing with every breath he drew, racing down to his lungs and battering his heart.
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SPITFIRE: (Colored Chalk, Issue 9)
Broken glass drives through my right cheek scraping and chipping at my teeth. Swallowing blood, my shoulder is gone, just a wet useless mess. 10,000 feet and losing altitude.
This is how I’ll get to Heaven, one piece at a time.
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BLUE LINE RUN: (Colored Chalk, Issue 7)
Los Angeles, 1990
Rio put the suitcase in my hands and told me to run. So I did. It wasn’t much to look at, shiny titanium, all rounded edges and no scuffs. There was a weird-looking lock on the side, half a pair of handcuffs attached to the handle, and on top, some small marks that looked like rust. Or maybe blood. 
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THE MUSE FACTORY: (Colored Chalk, Issue 4)
Mr. Bloom meets me at the entrance with a curt nod and we make our way up the staircase. The door whispers closed behind us, shutting out the haze, the street vendors, even the clatter of horse and carriage. The stairwell is dim, ivory walls and brass banisters that deposit us into a long hallway lined with doors. 
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MATILDA HITS ROCK BOTTOM: (Colored Chalk, Issue 3)
We’re standing hand in hand, Mad Molly and I, watching the wreck of the Matilda slowly bubble its way to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. My first thought, standing shivering and wet on the rocks of Marina del Rey, is that this is not as cool as the movies make it seem. 
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ASHES TO ASHES: (Colored Chalk, Issue 1)
Three hundred days since the Incident. Eighteen hours in a shaky helicopter ride. A day and a half on the road. We’ve been picking our way through the rubble of buildings for the past week now. We’re here to bury the dead, release the ghosts. 
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UNTITLED ALLEGORY (Unpublished)
There was a girl, legend told, who lived at the peak of the highest mountain in the country, just outside the village of Katari. Her lair was carved from ice, they said, riddled with caves that held the books of greatest knowledge.
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Lost Angeles - the incredibly true adventures of life on the left coast!

I think comedian Harry Shearer (The Simpsons) puts it best on his great radio program Le Show: “Los Angeles is the edge of America, the Home of the Homeless...” It's also the current HQ of the Monkeywright. A lot of strange things happen out here. I aim to find them, get into them, and take a bite from their gooey nougat centers. One things for sure: if you're looking to write about weird things, you'll never run out of material in Los Angeles.