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Stories in this section will be updated, changed, rotated and deleted according to whim. They are in PDF format, so you'll need the free Adobe Acrobat reader software.
Included with each piece are three things: publication data, story notes, and a copyright notice. Please pay particular attention to the latter. Play nicely, people.
These two early stories are probably the closest I've come to writing horror:
We Have Met the Alien | 1988
"Anna lay on her back and watched moonlight snail-trail over the crucifix, down the wall, across the green cotton of her coverlet: light from the sun, a star on the other side of the world, streaming through space and bouncing down from bare rock. Onto her bed."
Wearing My Skin | 1990
"Coel pulled out of the parking lot, enjoying the smooth roll of the wheel under her hands, the way the Jaguar's new tires gripped the road. Gold and red gleamed on each side of the road; the Indian summer was sighing to a close but the sky was a hard arcing blue..."
These two, both set in a hot and sultry Atlanta, were written within about a year of each other:
Song of Bullfrogs, Cry of Geese | 1990
"I sat by the side of the road in the afternoon sun and watched the cranefly struggle. A breeze, hot and heavy as a tired dog's breath, coated the web and fly with dust. I shaded my eyes and squinted down the road. Empty. As usual..."
Touching Fire | 1991
"That summer I was working nights at Talulah's to pay the rent until school opened again in the fall. It was Wednesday night, getting on time to close, and there was one woman left, nursing a beer over in the corner under the bass speaker..."
***Note: I've temporarily disabled this link. "Touching Fire" will be available in an anthology in early 2007. Details TK.
Here are two very early pieces: the first short story I wrote and the first one I sold:
Down the Path of the Sun | 1985
"I dreamed again. My sister Diggy and I were on the beach. Although we were the same age as we are now, it was before the plague: my father and three other sisters were there, too, shadowy and indistinct. Like ghosts. We sat facing each other on the sand, surrounded by a bubble of quiet, digging..."
Mirrors and Burnstone | 1987
"Jink brushed a fingertip over the wall before her. It was smooth and smelled strange. A cloud unwound itself from the spring moon and silver light pinned her to the turf. Motionless, she breathed slow and deep. This was unexpected..."
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