Short Stories


I’m very pleased to say that my short story, Separations, has been shortlisted for the From the Well Short Story Prize sponsored by the Cork County Council. Twenty writers – myself included – will have their stories published in this year’s anthology and the top 3 winners will be announced in the coming weeks.

Separations explores childhood through the eyes of a woman looking back on her life as a young girl. Having had a propensity for imagination and a strong belief in magic, the narrator chronicles a tragic time in her life when she, unfortunately, had to grow up and face reality.

Read below:


Excerpts, Short Stories

Ghosts in a Small Town

I am very happy to say that Ghosts in a Small Town has been published by The Rose Magazine.

Below is an excerpt which follows Walt, a grieving father, as he deals with his daughter’s untimely death. If you’d like to read the story in its entirety, click here.


Our only daughter, Annette, died on prom night. After the dance, after she broke curfew and got drunk with Jeremy out at Gudgeon Bridge. Trains don’t come around there too often anymore, but sometimes they do. Late at night.

Annette and Jeremy were standing too close to the tracks as the train approached from the dark tunnel. She tripped. Jeremy was too wasted to react quickly. Her classmates, her friends, were sitting on the hoods of their cars getting high and laughing. Laughing even as the train came rushing down the tracks like a bat from a cave.

Some of the kids said they saw her head spin all the way around before popping off like a cap on a bottle of soda after you shake it. They didn’t say this to us, but we heard the whispers, overheard the low, secretive conversations when we walked by. Fairvale is like that, so small everyone knows everything as soon as it happens. The stories of her final moments varied depending on who was talking, but there was one unwavering detail: she didn’t scream. Before it happened, when the train’s whistle was shrieking in the dark, the wheels scraping on the rail, the smoke billowing out of the stack, she stayed quiet. Even right before impact. She just lifted her head and watched it charge toward her. Everyone said the same thing.

And then the crunch of bones, the enamel pounded to dust. Her thoughts, her ideas, her soul, dashed and obliterated as her skin tore and blood smeared and her brain popped on the greasy metal. The coroner said it must have been a nasty fall – that it might have knocked her out for a moment or two, leaving her with no time to move out of the way. Later, when we looked at what was left of her, I noticed there was a rip in the fluffy, tulle fabric of her yellow dress. I imagined she snagged it on a rusty nail.

She got a page in the back of the senior class yearbook. A big, blown up picture of her smiling in her cheerleading uniform with Jeremy’s Letterman Jacket draped over her shoulders. She sat beneath the football scoreboard, frozen in time, with wild, red hair blowing all over the place. It was windy that day, and cold. R.I.P Annette Hughes, the text beneath the photo said. Only the good die young. And then some quote from a song Kate and I didn’t know. Her eyes stared out at us from the page and I told Kate if I looked really hard, I could tell what Annette would have looked like when she got older. She just had one of those faces. Kate started crying and left the room and I ripped the goddamn page out of the book and threw it into the fireplace.

Short Stories

The Boy in the Woods

“The story I am about to tell you is not a happy story. This is not a tale of redemption or closure or bravery. It is about pain and fear and strange friendship and escape. This is a story, told very often now, around fireplaces not so different from this one—around dinner tables and old, creaking rocking chairs—about a boy who was lonely, and treated too poorly, so he ran away from home.”

This is a story about Cole and the boy in the woods.

The Boy in the Woods was published by Rose Red Review. I wrote it with one of my favorite writers, Neil Gaiman, in mind. I can’t think of a living writer who has inspired me more. This is my “thank you.”

Read the story here.

Short Stories

Domains of Life

A story, told in shifting perspectives, about a father, his daughter, and a teacher – all with very different ideas surrounding the fragility, and different domains, of life.

Domains of Life has been published in issue 12 of The Incubator Journal. Read the piece in its entirety here.

Below is a short excerpt:

Even with her eyes closed, the sunlight hits Kristin’s face and she sees splotchy, bright dots dance inside her head. It makes her think of science class, of the day where they got to use the microscopes in the lab to look at water and earthworms, then at the leaves of a four leaf clover. The shifting shapes, the network of veins, the colors. A whole world unseen suddenly seen up close.

Kristin focuses on the sound of tires crunching on dirt. Underneath, she hears her father’s steady breathing and the jingling of car keys.

Today, Mr. Davis will cover what will be on the science test on Friday. The classifications of all living things, from Kingdom to Species. The three domains of life: Archaea, Bacteria, and Eukarya. 4 The genus and species names of plants and animals. That’s why she has to go—to take notes so she knows what to study. Otherwise, she would have taken her dad up on his offer. Blow off school for today, stay home, watch re-runs of The Twilight Zone and Married with Children. But she is too interested in the way the world works and the natural order of things. She thinks of plants growing out of damp soil, of stars bursting to life only to dim and die out after thousands—millions—of years. There will never be enough time to see it all, to understand everything, but she plans on trying.


Excerpts, Short Stories

Winter Green Gorge

Good news!

This piece, a short story entitled Winter Green Gorge, has been published in the Quarryman Literary Journal in Cork, Ireland. Below is a small, introductory excerpt. Enjoy!

My father’s hands were a hundred times the size of mine. They were rough, calloused, tanned. I noticed them most of all when he took me fishing. He’d grab worms out of an old coffee can and stick them carefully onto our hooks, his huge fingers expertly stabbing the poor bastards to ensure that they would not fall off even if the current was strong.

We would rise early in the morning. I’d put on old jeans and a sweatshirt, then grab my gloves and the blue fishing hat that was too big for me. It used to be his. It hung down slightly over my eyes so I’d lift my head and look up high so I could see. Dad had started to pin tackle pieces to my hat after every trip. He gave me blue and pink feathers, striped and silvery minnows, white and red fishing bobbers. They all represented my skill as a fisherman. Or fisherwoman. My hat of honor, he’d say. Each time I caught a fish, he’d stick another piece of tackle into the fabric. It become a trophy.