If the gods wouldn’t help her, she’d travel far away—somewhere so far that sortok meant nothing, if such a place existed. She’d find a way to rely on no one but herself.
—in The Pagan Anthology of Short Fiction: 13 Prize-Winning Tales (2008)

I write records in my mind, impermanent, like my own flesh—records tracking his feces’ scent, shape, color, the time he took to produce them.
—in Helix (2008), also Transcriptase (2008)

Today was a perfect day, with three flaws. It was snowing here in Miami, one of her brides had trouble recognizing her, and her cummerbund wouldn’t stay up. The cummerbund was the only problem Mel could fix. She brushed ashes off the church office’s desk and rummaged around for safety pins. She found typed notes for an old sermon, some yellow pushpins, and three tampons. Mel took the tampons and left the rest. Not a single safety pin, which surprised her–for a place that looters hadn’t been through, there was little here. Underneath the desk, Mel found a paperclip. After a moment’s thought, she opened her pocketknife and cut two holes in the cummerbund’s back. She unbent the paperclip, wired the cummerbund together, and attached it to the belt loop on her black jeans.… MORE »

“Everyone dies,” he said. “Kings, beggars, insurance agents, younger brothers, and you.”
—in Lone Star Stories (2008)

We come in peace / We mean no harm / Put down your weapons / We’ll save you, save you. It’s the song inside me—the song every writer knows he has, and just can’t find when he looks for it.
—in Abyss & Apex (2008)

Her name is Maranda, and she’s running naked across my snow-covered yard. I peer through my cracked Venetian blinds. Water droplets fly off her breasts, which bounce with every step she takes. Her soaked black hair lies flat against her shoulders. Her pubic hair is as dark as her head, and I’m secretly glad, because I don’t like how young girls dye their hair now. I’ve never spoken to her, but I’m in love. She’s Maranda—naked, and wild, and she’s pounding on my door.… MORE »

On the morning of her eighty-third birthday, Miss Minette sat in her rocking chair and looked at things. The sun had been up for a few hours over the east-facing porch. Sweat dripped underneath her black satin dress and pooled between her breasts. Her ribcage, slightly misshapen by corsets in her youth, felt sticky and moist. Even her scalp was hot underneath a black lace cap. Minette reached toward the nearby table and picked up her paper fan with a white-gloved hand. She spread it expertly and fanned herself, still looking at the street before her.… MORE »