I was watching a documentary about Robert Redford when Robert Redford walked in. He was still dusted over with snow from skiing. In my paint ­covered jeans and beanie, Is howed him around the house. He lifted things gently and asked questions. I answered carefully. ‘Over there is a music box I’ve had since I was a baby.’ He wound the little box, and it played a warbly tune. ‘Here is a stone from the Great Kei River in South Africa.’ He held the stone . . .

'A Box of Winter' in Flash Fiction Online, December, 2016. Read it here.

The man once had an idea about a birdcage. They were all sitting on the floor of his new house under the paintings of people who were long as shadows, and he signaled it with a hand to the mantel. A thought-cage, he called it, and gave them paper. They sat cross-legged, that night and many others, folding their secrets down until each could be passed through the bars.

'Stone Fruit' published in Wraparound South, Winter 2015.

Read the whole story here.

I found your first love letter to me at the back of a magazine. I have built a house without your sighs, and it is insufficient. Reading that line, I tried to stay calm.

'From Mena' published in Sliver of Stone, Issue 8. 2014.

Read the whole story here.

Long after her parents’ divorce, when drifting through a convention in Seattle, she would come across a half-melted ice eagle on a banquet table, its wings disappearing, and she would think of the German winter spent with her parents, she would remember the scent of the wild goose stuffed with apples and sage on the table, the way the car had sped over the roadways, how the stars had not moved at all.

'Ice Animals.' Published in Wilma Magazine. 2007.