Literary, Not Lyrical
Plain language, structural ambition. Sentences that earn their length. No fog machines, no inherited tricks, no prose that mistakes ornament for meaning.
A curated archive of short fiction, novellas, and selected excerpts — grouped by collection, written for readers who prefer their sentences load-bearing.
Three ongoing collections, each with its own weather. Filter by form to find what you came for, or wander. Both are valid approaches.
A woman returns to a Maine headstone she does not remember, and finds a job she cannot quit.
Three siblings, one inherited cottage, and a letter their mother never meant to send.
A marine biologist catalogues birds, lies, and the precise taxonomy of regret.
A gas-station philosopher in the Mojave draws maps to places that no longer exist on any official record.
Chapter three of an unfinished western, in which a widow negotiates with the only bank that will still see her.
A retired test-site engineer receives a visitor who claims to be from 1973, and may actually be telling the truth.
An AI ethicist retires to a cabin that, against all odds, listens better than her former colleagues did.
A building refuses to be sold. A lawyer refuses to leave. A tenant, now seventy, has been paying rent since 1987.
The opening movement of a longer work-in-progress on what happens to landscape when the last reader leaves.
A short field guide to the editorial choices that shape this fiction library — and what to expect when you sit down with a story.
Plain language, structural ambition. Sentences that earn their length. No fog machines, no inherited tricks, no prose that mistakes ornament for meaning.
Every piece is published complete — no chapter gating, no serialized paywalls, no cliffhanger-as-business-model. Sit. Stay. Read the whole thing.
Selected stories ship with margin notes — historical references, structural choices, the occasional argument against my own prose. Read with the lights on.
The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter is the kind of story that makes you stand up from your desk, walk to a window, and then stand there for a while, not quite ready to sit back down.The Hudson Review · Winter 2022 print edition
If the short stories are not quite your weather, the essays and long-form commentary sit just down the hall. Or write back — letters from readers are the part of this that I never take for granted.