The Fair

Greensboro Review / 24 April 2020
The Master’s Review Volume VIII Shortlist 

The South’s etiquette didn’t apply much in the neighborhood where I grew up. We were kind to each other, but no one tripped over themselves about it. From ages eight to thirteen, my father and Grann sent me away to summer camp in Vermont. With my cappuccino skin, maybe they thought no one would notice I was black. Or, it might’ve been that they thought the further north I was, the better chance I had of escaping New Orleans for good. Either way, after five summers, I picked up on Yankee manners, which is to say, no manners. When I see Karen’s Mississippi-bred daughters leave perfectly good shrimp and okra in the bottoms of their bowls, I know that these are the Southern women I’ve heard about. Even Laury Anne does it, here, under Karen’s watchful eye.

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The Master’s Review Shortlist  

Photo Op

Louisiana Literature / 15 April 2020

“He knew that what Donny saw, right then, would be the way he imagined Abe for many years, if not always–holding his rifle with one arm buried in the monster’s embrace, an exaggerated hero, the kind they pretended to be in their make-believe games. Abe was powerful. His entire life, before that moment, he had felt smaller–somehow less, and it was all suddenly dwarfed by a new awareness–that he was big enough.”

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Five Dollars May Go Far

Lou Lit Review / 1 March 2020

Her heart hiccupped, then galloped like one of her stepfather’s unbroken horses. She made rehearsed refinements then: face relaxed, abdominals tightened, chin up, calves extended, hips forward. She was a lifesized Jenga set, one fallen block away from toppling over in pieces.

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The Table

Scribble Lit / 4 November 2019

“Oh, come on,” she said. “Speak your truth.”
He took another drink of beer and swirled what was left in the glass. “My truth?”
“You didn’t like my response,” she said, watching his face now. “You never do.”
“Well,” he said. “It was pretty lousy.”
“Would you prefer I just agree with you?”

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Marriage Place

Dual Coast Magazine / 13 June 2019

…the lasting memories of our lives are remembered as moments in particular locations. Think of a defining life experience, and you’ll know exactly where it happened. You won’t remember your to-do list from that day or what you craved for lunch, things which would’ve seemed infinitely important just before the defining moment occurred. They’ll be swept away like silt in a river by the magnitudinous movement of place. Everyone we know is from somewhere, and every story set in some place.

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Man For Sale

The Boiler Journal / 24 September 2018

Even though Dad’s body had been dropped in a hole at the cemetery in town, it seemed he was actually buried here, still mumbling encouragement from below the dirt and beneath the shade of the oak trees. I’d guessed that he followed us home from the funeral. As if things weren’t hard enough.

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Superstitious Whispers

Literally Stories / 5 February 2018

Visitant Literature / 28 March 2018

He wanted to be angryat Tony and himself for failing, his mother, father, even at Charlie who cheerfully grabbed the last box from the carbut he was exhausted. Out of everyone, he could really only be mad at himself.

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Fresh Fish

Every Day Fiction / 17 February 2018

Another windblown day, the humps in the sand like mountains. There’s a scent in the breeze, fresh fish, or maybe shrimp. The smell came from near the water, but it would be worth it if he got there before any of the other crabs. Or the gulls.

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