I've been writing fiction since I was old enough to hold a pencil.
The Magic Box
When I was seven, my mother took a job at Old Oak Manors, a nursing home walking distance from our apartment. For almost a full year, she worked the 11 to 7 shift. She got home at 7:25 most mornings, poured my cereal, packed my lunch and walked me to school, still dressed in her white uniform and thick-soled shoes.
Piece of Cake
I can glimpse the hallway in the gap between his forearm and the side of his body. The light coming from the bathroom is feeble, an arc of yellow that illuminates a patch of wallpaper, an expanse of floor. The rug is crooked, or maybe it is just the angle of my head. I move slightly to the left. My hair, caught under me, pulls. The tug borders between gentle and pain. The rug is crooked from this angle as well.
Black Fly Season
The house and barn were hidden from view, camouflaged by overgrown shrubs and trees. It wasn’t until they turned onto the drive itself that Maura Hartson caught a glimpse of the prim white house and the old cowshed beside it. Two cruisers were parked in front of the house, strobes on, painting the clapboards a lazy blue and red. The coroner’s van was parked sideways in the drive; Maura stopped behind it. A uniformed officer made his way toward her. She studied his approach. Hurried, harried, intense. She opened the door, climbed out.
Captain Holland was on the observation deck when the alarm sounded, a bray of static that pierced his eardrums. He swore under his breath. His heart dropped in his chest, settled in his stomach and for the first time in a long time, he prayed. He didn’t turn as O’Hare approached, intent on staring out of the long windows into the gray. O’Hare’s reflection in the glass was a ghost image, pinned next to Holland’s.