Fiction
My horror short story, Feeding Time, was published in the Chesapeake Bay Writers Fall Anthology, Pumpkin Spice and Haunted Nights, in 2025. Available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
A poorly carved jack-o’-lantern lit the porch of the sixth house down, casting orange light from its lopsided eyes and jagged grin. Robert adjusted his Iron Man mask and rang the doorbell. A man, dressed in loose jeans, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and a green rubber Frankenstein mask, appeared with a bowl of candy. “Tricks or Treats,” the four children shouted.
“Frankenstein have treats,” the man mimicked the monster with his broken, halting speech. “Me have treat for Iron Man,” he dropped some candy into the container. “For pirate. For sea captain.”
A poorly carved jack-o’-lantern lit the porch of the sixth house down, casting orange light from its lopsided eyes and jagged grin. Robert adjusted his Iron Man mask and rang the doorbell. A man, dressed in loose jeans, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, and a green rubber Frankenstein mask, appeared with a bowl of candy. “Tricks or Treats,” the four children shouted.
“Frankenstein have treats,” the man mimicked the monster with his broken, halting speech. “Me have treat for Iron Man,” he dropped some candy into the container. “For pirate. For sea captain.”
My science fiction short story, Meta, was published in the Chesapeake Bay Writers Anniversary Anthology, Harboring Secrets: Tales and Reflections from The Chesapeake Bay Writers, in 2013.
“Can we turn these off now?” Dari asked. “I can’t see my feet and the air ionization is getting itchy.” Noll turned at the sound of Dari’s voice, unable to see anything other than an errant refraction of light. This was due to the cloaking field that kept Dari invisible under the midday sun. There was a clear trail of flattened grass through the sea of brown, meter-tall switchgrass, a sign of their passage that even the cloaks could not hide. It was better than being in the open, though, exposed to Sentinel surveillance.
“It’s about half a kilometer to the tree line,” Noll replied. “We’ll turn off the cloaks when we reach cover.” He pressed forward through the tall grass.
“Can we turn these off now?” Dari asked. “I can’t see my feet and the air ionization is getting itchy.” Noll turned at the sound of Dari’s voice, unable to see anything other than an errant refraction of light. This was due to the cloaking field that kept Dari invisible under the midday sun. There was a clear trail of flattened grass through the sea of brown, meter-tall switchgrass, a sign of their passage that even the cloaks could not hide. It was better than being in the open, though, exposed to Sentinel surveillance.
“It’s about half a kilometer to the tree line,” Noll replied. “We’ll turn off the cloaks when we reach cover.” He pressed forward through the tall grass.
Non-Fiction
My essay, Hopeful Monsters: Reflections of a Galápagos Tourist, was published in the Virginia Writers Club Journal 2023. Available on Amazon.
Lonesome George was the last of his kind. He was not aware of this and was probably not concerned about anything other than where he would get his next piece of guava.
Lonesome George was a giant tortoise. He belonged to a species endemic to the island of Pinta and was the subject of much effort to preserve the genetic heritage of his species. To this end, he was repeatedly bred with other tortoises, none of them of the same species, but all offering the hope of creating hybrids that would preserve at least some of his genes. Unfortunately, none of the eggs were viable. And those that were proved to be unrelated to George.
Lonesome George was the last of his kind. He was not aware of this and was probably not concerned about anything other than where he would get his next piece of guava.
Lonesome George was a giant tortoise. He belonged to a species endemic to the island of Pinta and was the subject of much effort to preserve the genetic heritage of his species. To this end, he was repeatedly bred with other tortoises, none of them of the same species, but all offering the hope of creating hybrids that would preserve at least some of his genes. Unfortunately, none of the eggs were viable. And those that were proved to be unrelated to George.
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