PUBLISHED SHORT FICTION
A few days before the end of our world, my mother took me to her favorite tailor to be fit
for a dress I would never wear.
By the time I stumble off the red-eye from Los Angeles, my butt is numb. Five years ago, I would have been working up to murder.
Now, I feel fucking glorious.
The way to save yourself, o captain, is simple.
You must leave everything—your star-splayed chair on the bridge, your full belly, the soft, silk robes in the first-class chamber where you sleep—and come down to where we are dying.
To kill a theriida, you need gunboats and suits, laser cutters and open-mawed cargo bays, brawn and a stout heart, and God on your side.
We, of course, had none of that.
UPCOMING SHORT FICTION
“The Blanched Bones, The Tyrant Wind” in Fireside Quarterly, January 1, 2019
The city lives because we die: we, the shivering, bloody few, the girls who climb the diamond stair in the winter to serve ourselves to the dragon.
“The Dead, In Their Uncontrollable Power” in Uncanny Magazine, 2019
The funeral is nearly over when the dead captain
explodes. Roses turn to shrapnel. The cathedral is lost in fire. I am drenched in blood. Bone buries itself in the wall next to my head, my arm, my howling, open mouth. I am standing at the back of the room where a sin-eater’s child belongs, and that is why I live when everyone else dies.
“It Will Bear Watching” at The Museum of Science Fiction’s Theodore Sturgeon Centenary Project, 2019
On the last day of your mother’s life, you take her to the plaza to wait for God’s Voice.
Your mother is eight days old, a saint of skycraft, a bright, productive wonder from the moment she left her eggshell behind. Born to the motherboard team like all the women of your line, she installed sixteen transistors on the Great Undertaking before you even began to breathe.
“The Two-Bullet War” in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, 2019
The queen lay dying. She had wrapped herself in a nest of wrinkled sheets on the floor of
the cathedral, stinking and sweating, her clawlike hands shaking, fluid collecting at the back of her throat. In the loft, a choir howled. They had been singing for hours, and the soloist was hoarse.