Writer of magical realist fiction
Wrighting the Wheel Right
Worlds folded together like pleats on an accordion's bellows. They breathed and pulsed as one--places blinking in and out of focus: schools, farms and pear tree orchards, family dinner tables and college dorms, school dances and exotic dances, battles of warlocks and contests of jocks, factory foundries and found object fantasies. A mechanism held it all together. It sputtered with the familiar charm of ancient factory equipment.
Iced at Ragnarokk
With cruel and creeping fingers, she had seized the wheels of the world--a demoralizing surprise, for all of us who thought to know her.
The first time I found a body, it seemed a fluke--a horror, but a fluke. In among the rushes. So tragically discarded. I lifted the body of a young girl, bloated and forgotten.
The Castle Comes Alive
'The palace' was a place of mystery. Even the woods surrounding it had a spooky sentience, a quiet that told you hidden things were watching. Odjinn (the mark who'd turned the tables on me yesterday) and I were making our way along a narrow, forgotten path. He was turning out to be pretty spry for an old man--which is to say he was leaving me in the dust. Generally, I'm not so bad off, but I seemed to be perpetually running after him, just to keep him in sight. While he, for all appearances, was merely walking. If I'd had more pride, this might have bothered me, but it merely struck me as perplexing and comical.
The Rent of Ragnarokk
Yesterday, I met with a yawning chasm in an old man's face--some strange trick he conjured, when he revealed that he lacked an eye. It had bothered me to be so stricken by it--we all have holes these days, where precious things once were--and so I'd knuckled down, to conclude our trade.
Crossing the Abyss
I had said that I would cross the abyss itself for a slice of comfort, but this was ridiculous. The abyss had always been something figurative, that haunted people's dreams and imaginations--casual shorthand for ultimate terror. Kind of like referencing the coming of Ragnarokk, in fact--which was another thing proving to be real.
We called it 'heart-shaped,' and I suppose it would be, if you ripped out two hearts and placed them side by side. The locket was amidst a rat's nest of costume jewelry, and bore the inscription, "Love Always, Your Champion." Clearly, it was gold--declarations of love always bore that promise--but the sentiments had proved their worth, and now it was for melting.
The Embarrassment of the Earth
This is not a happy-fun story about zany people wielding poopknives or accidentally playing their Cardi B playlist on the workplace sound system. My life has plenty of that kind of cringe, but it doesn't haunt me with regrets like the following story: