Short Fiction & Poetry
individual publications. for collections, see Books.
A Search for Light
published by Judith Magazine
These poems are full with concern, the concerns we are all grappling with, and yet, they still contain that small spark of hope. That a page will turn, that things will change, that dark times will pass and light will return to us. - Rachel Neve-Midbar
Featuring four poems:
"That Fucking Refrain"
"Phoenix"
"I Held Your Hand Tonight"
"27 Av 5784"
published by Judith Magazine
These poems are full with concern, the concerns we are all grappling with, and yet, they still contain that small spark of hope. That a page will turn, that things will change, that dark times will pass and light will return to us. - Rachel Neve-Midbar
Featuring four poems:
"That Fucking Refrain"
"Phoenix"
"I Held Your Hand Tonight"
"27 Av 5784"
For Saba
published by Judith Magazine
This deceptively simple story is about one woman's grief, but there's a place at her table for anyone who knows the bitter taste of loss--in other words, for all of us. - David Michael Slater
"She would help him set the table. Even this was a more elaborate affair than on her own.
Not just plates and forks and cups—salt and pepper shakers, mustard, butter, an open jar of pickles. Good for snacking before the meal, pickles. Savta ate them too, of course, but that crunching sound—it was the same as when he bit into a pear or a nectarine. The sound was his.
And the taste of the brine, while he talked ideas with her, traded book titles, like she wasn't a stupid teenager: that was his, too.
Maybe she should have bought nectarines."
published by Judith Magazine
This deceptively simple story is about one woman's grief, but there's a place at her table for anyone who knows the bitter taste of loss--in other words, for all of us. - David Michael Slater
"She would help him set the table. Even this was a more elaborate affair than on her own.
Not just plates and forks and cups—salt and pepper shakers, mustard, butter, an open jar of pickles. Good for snacking before the meal, pickles. Savta ate them too, of course, but that crunching sound—it was the same as when he bit into a pear or a nectarine. The sound was his.
And the taste of the brine, while he talked ideas with her, traded book titles, like she wasn't a stupid teenager: that was his, too.
Maybe she should have bought nectarines."
Mortar
published by The Standard Culture
After too long a time and too far a distance, Leslie returns home to help look after her ailing mother--and finds herself overcome by the suffocating heat and memories.
"Summer had always been her favorite season--it was the season for recklessness, for liberty, for an entire afternoon lost in the brambles around the park, for popsicles, for sunburns and bug bites. Summer was the season for stupidity and fireflies. Summer was her season the same as winter had always been Mom’s season, the season when she could warm mugs of cocoa, air out the quilts her grandmother had sewn, hang lights and bang out songs on the piano. But for Leslie, summer was the time to do the things that really mattered, to play hard and build forts and card houses, mud pies.
Now summer was this airless stale thing. A plywood box with nothing inside. A mosquito whining in her ear but not actually biting. Maybe there was no blood left to drink."
"Summer had always been her favorite season--it was the season for recklessness, for liberty, for an entire afternoon lost in the brambles around the park, for popsicles, for sunburns and bug bites. Summer was the season for stupidity and fireflies. Summer was her season the same as winter had always been Mom’s season, the season when she could warm mugs of cocoa, air out the quilts her grandmother had sewn, hang lights and bang out songs on the piano. But for Leslie, summer was the time to do the things that really mattered, to play hard and build forts and card houses, mud pies.
Now summer was this airless stale thing. A plywood box with nothing inside. A mosquito whining in her ear but not actually biting. Maybe there was no blood left to drink."
Episodes: a love story
published by The Biscuit
A boy met a girl. A girl met a boy. A boy loved a girl, and the girl didn't notice for a very long time. Through twenty years and seven different narrative styles, Robert and Clara dance a careful waltz.
"Robert wouldn’t look at her. 'Today you are a man, indeed.' Robert clenched his hands on the tabletop, two fists framing the unhappy boy. Clara watched him, curious and sad. Why did he suddenly seem so young to her? So young and so … so much like the little kid afraid to tell his mother he’d broken her vase. He’d filled out, of course, gotten taller, but he had the same messy almost-black hair, the same thick eyebrows that always gave his face a kind of bemused expression. 'Oh Bobbo,' she whispered, 'how young we’ve gotten.'"
"Robert wouldn’t look at her. 'Today you are a man, indeed.' Robert clenched his hands on the tabletop, two fists framing the unhappy boy. Clara watched him, curious and sad. Why did he suddenly seem so young to her? So young and so … so much like the little kid afraid to tell his mother he’d broken her vase. He’d filled out, of course, gotten taller, but he had the same messy almost-black hair, the same thick eyebrows that always gave his face a kind of bemused expression. 'Oh Bobbo,' she whispered, 'how young we’ve gotten.'"
