POLITICS AND POETRY My poems sometimes take a political turn. My prose seldom does, and if so, it tends to be less blunt, more circumspect. Confined in real-world time and place, the plot of a story or novel will address what concerns me, particularly the plight of women, but always…

This story won first prize in the 2003 Clark College Fiction Contest judged by Gina Ochsner. I repost it now because of the death of Roe. v. Wade last June at the hands of the Supreme Court of The United States. Fance thought she could get it done over in…

originally published in Prose.onl Anyone will tell you, Sunday is the worst day of the week. That’s Open House day, noon to four, and there you stand, grinning away while your feet kill you, your back wrenched from hanging curtains with the wife the night before, making small talk, being…

originally published in Feminine Collective you think time stops because you figure something out like how your ex bf sings for tiny women & since you’re tall his love for you was never true despite what he swore, through crocodile tears, as he pinned you to the wall or later…

originally published in Feminine Collective twenty years you’ve been gone & that’s just how long you’ve been dead in life you were gone, too i was a pool you’d drown in if you got your feet wet you kept your feet dry how hard to hold the truth like a…

originally published in Feminine Collective sunlight egg yolk daffodils a rare diamond amber anything not alive our house a sickly skin tone bruises the car you owned when we met butter lemons fallen leaves pineapples the tie you tried to strangle me with the straw in the ice water they…

On Friday afternoons the mood in the typing pool was a gathering storm. Heads bent tensely over keyboards. Machines clacked. High on the wall hung a big clock like a cold sun above the room. As the hour hand moved toward five the atmosphere became electric. Edith’s supervisor, Miss Grett…

originally published in Ropes Literary Magazine Desperate people made Sandra’s job easy as pie. It helped that loneliness and loss were everywhere, all the time. Yes, you’ll hear from her soon. No, she’s not cheating on you. I have a very strong feeling about it, trust me. Like the spiritualists…

Eric poured himself another glass of wine, leaned forward in his chair, and fixed Flora with a loopy, cock-eyed gaze. “Well?” he asked. “Motherland.” “That’s awful.” “Why?” “Too Nazi.” “You’re thinking of Fatherland.” “Yeah, you’re right.” He poured her some wine, too. Eric didn’t think the farm needed a name…