Lilac City Fairy Tales

I’m excited to announce my flash fiction “The Floorboards Wail like the Cries of Our Children” will be included in the annual Lilac City Fairy Tales anthology. This year’s theme is “Towers & Dungeons.” I’m happy to be sharing pages with Brian C. Baer, Kathryn Smith, Jess Walter, Devin Devine, and many other great writers.

All the proceeds from book sales go to support Spark Central.

The book is published by Scablands Books.

We Were So Lucky

My story, 'We Were So Lucky' is part of The Spokesman-Review's Summer Stories series. The theme/prompt was "The Woods." Very fun.

You can read it here.

American Panic: Part One

I wrote a novel five or six years ago that followed a character named Tom Wilkins. He was a world war one veteran, and begins having a panic attack twenty years later when he hears Orson Welles' War of the Worlds radio broadcast, thinking it is a true journalistic account, opposed to a fiction. The novel was split into three timelines--one took place during the radio broadcast, another followed his time in the trenches during the war, and the third was his instability back in the states as he tried to reenter society. Two of those parts are pretty bad. Even though I did quite a bit of research, the moment I started writing the war scenes I realized how little I actually knew. I pushed through in my hubris and tried to make a compelling story, but never felt great about it. The scenes set in the 1920's once he came back had a lot of logical/realistic problems, but to get to the story from A to B I needed to fudge things, instead of taking the time to fully develop the story. Recently I've gutted both those parts and left the 1938 storyline. My issue with this section is I've used a lot of the War of the Worlds radio play. Instead of tinkering with this story (there are issues, like any story in existence), and instead of trying to figure out the legalities of trying to publish this with a huge chunk of previously released material I'm just going to leave it here.

So here is the first half of the 1938 section of American Panic.

It is only the dead who see the end of war.

-Plato

October 30, 1938

“In the early years of the twentieth century, this world was being watched by intelligences greater than man’s, but as mortal…”

Tom’s ears perked. In the past fifteen years he had an idea another catastrophe was imminent, and now the radio told him that his suspicions had, in fact, been correct.

“We know now that as humans being busied themselves…”

He walked around the piles of newspapers to his Westinghouse tube radio. If an attack was being prepared—or already in progress—Tom would want to know all the available details. Tom sat down in his old leather recliner while the voice crackled out of the radio. Joanne kept telling him that he needed to get the chair reupholstered, but he didn’t think it would be worth the money. He had a fear that putting a new coat on his favorite chair would morph the indentation he had spent so many years forming. The cracks in the leather widened with the addition of his weight and this slight variation gave him a sense of security. He liked the certainty of being able to go somewhere comfortable at the end of the day.

The voice on the radio caused his eyebrows droop further. His father’s features had been passed down, giving him a constant look of being worried.

“People went to and fro over the earth about their little affairs…”

He turned the volume knob a fraction louder so he would be able to reline while he listened to the report. His hearing hadn’t ever recovered from the trenches. He had been preparing his breakfast for the night. A simple roast beef sandwich with American cheese, mustard, and mayonnaise. It was a nightly attraction. Something he put down without fear of it losing its appreciation. He tried soup for about a week, but it would get cold in between bites. His mind lost in the newspaper, or the low droll of the radio, and his breakfast was forced to lay dormant for a time. The radio was normally used for background noise while he slipped into a daydream, although now it was the main event. The voice from the wooden box had all of his attention.

He tried to avoid putting too much focus on the radio on the days he had to work. Lateness was not an option for Tom. Punctuality was next to godliness and he wanted to be a godly man. He’d set the clock in the kitchen for nine-twenty. That gave him enough time to finish the article he was reading, change into his work clothes, and leave the apartment with enough time to arrive at the shop on time.

His apartment sat directly above the bakery. He didn’t need a big window to arrive on time, but he liked to be early. Sometimes, he missed the days when he was allowed to be reckless and arrive twenty minutes late to an engagement. He'd shrug his shoulders and flash a smile, allowing his malfeasance to be forgiven. Now it was imbedded into his mind to stay on top of his responsibilities. Although, when alone in his small apartment he let his duty of cleaning lax. The thick layer of dust remained on his tube radio and the stacks of newspapers surrounding his recliner only got taller. But as soon as he exited this small haven he became the punctual man the world knew him to be.

The bakery used his services all night, preparing for the next day. He was scheduled to start at ten, but liked to arrive at nine-thirty and work until three or four. Or whenever he finished preparing all the dough to be baked the next day, which much his frustration sometimes crept closer to five. He stuck around while the fermenting process began to take hold and the proofing made the creations rise, but it was mostly to keep Joanne company. The time was more for him than it was for her. But he’d never let her know this secret.

“Serene in the assurance of their dominion over this small spinning fragment…” the voice on the radio continued.

The sandwich now sat on the kitchen counter, half-made. The broadcast caught Tom at a moment of weakness. He had been thinking of Johnny Klatz. Tom knew Johnny back when he was Tommy. Johnny never got the chance to be a John. Tom heard the words of being watched, and knew that’s how most battles started—how wars blossomed. He watched the greatest war in his youth before he was fighting in it.

It all began with watching.

“A slight atmospheric disturbance of undetermined origin is reported over Nova Scotia…” the radio broke Tom out of his daze, he liked the weather report. “Accompanied by winds of light gale force. Maximum temperature 66…”

Had Tom imagined the deeper voice a minute before? Possibly it was an advertisement for a new novel or play. He couldn’t be sure. He waited in his recliner for a moment listening for the first man to come back. To be sure an attack wasn’t on the horizon. He’d been hearing a lot about Adolf Hitler and recently read about the situation in the Czechoslovak. A man can use power to manipulate positive results. Get enough people to follow you and you’ll be able to send them out to bend the will of others. It doesn’t even matter what ideals people follow at a certain point as long as there is a power to dictate what to follow.

“We now take you to the Meridian Room in the Hotel Park Plaza in downtown New York where you will be entertained by the music of Ramon Raquello and his orchestra…”

The music began and Tom sighed, sinking into his chair. Occasionally he’d scare himself into a frenzy. He’d think he heard something and be transferred back to painful memories. There wasn’t time for rational thought in the throes of battle. There wasn’t time for empathy in war. And Tom couldn’t control falling into a specific mindset when the world began unraveling, even if there wasn't any actual threat.

Another announcer crackled across the speakers. He told the audience what song was going to be played next. He thanked America for being there to listen, with an appreciation in his voice. Tom closed his eyes and thought about his sandwich. It was still on the counter waiting to be finished.

He pushed himself out of the chair and again walked around the piles of newspapers. One side of the sandwich had mayonnaise spread on it, but the other was bare. Tom unscrewed the mustard and used the same knife to dip out enough for the other slice of bread. He put two pieces of cheese between the bread. Usually he used one, for his health and his wallet, but sometimes wanted to spoil himself. After he added the meat he put the sandwich together. He palmed the top with a little pressure. He didn’t like the sandwich to be too loose; it ran the risk of losing ingredients.

The radio was still set at the higher setting, but the babble didn’t bother him now. Tom opened a cabinet door to retrieve a plate. He liked to sit next to the radio during his breakfast anyway, so he’d be able to adjust the volume as he readied to read the newspaper. He liked a steady droll to keep his mind from wandering, but couldn’t have it too loud, otherwise he couldn't concentrate on the news.

“We interrupt our program of dance music to bring you a special bulletin…” a voice broke into the music, piquing Tom's interest again.

His stride slowed as he walked toward the radio. Maybe he hadn’t made anything up at all. Maybe they were trying to keep the peace as long as they were able. He had to remind himself to trust the pit of his stomach.

“At twenty minutes before eight, central time, Professor Farrell of the Mount Jennings Observatory, Chicago, Illinois, reports observing several explosions of incandescent gas, occurring at regular intervals on the planet Mars.”

The information continued through the radio but Tom had stopped and stood motionless in the middle of his apartment, his plate held close to body. He had worked hard to gain residency in the city. He had worked hard for this life. He had to maneuver obstacles and addictions over the years and he was finally getting to a point of happiness and stability.

The music came back from the Meridian Room, but Tom didn’t buy the cover-up. They wouldn’t interrupt a broadcast just to tell people that Mars was acting funny. That's the kind of news reserved for the next day, in the newspaper. Or maybe in between radio shows. It didn’t belong in the middle of a musical act unless it was important—unless they were putting out a call to ready the troops.

When he got back people asked him if he ever almost died. He always told them no, he had a good group of guys and they all kept one another safe. In reality, he almost died every day, but he needed to lie. War wasn’t a gentleman’s game. It wasn’t somewhere for the innocent. When people asked him about his time overseas he craved a bottle of whiskey.

The further away the war got the more the questions dwindled, and at a certain point people didn't make the assumption Tom was part of the war. In fact, he hadn’t felt like he needed a drink in five years. Although, he kept a bottle behind his toilet. Just a small one. Not that he ever drank from it, but if a moment ever came when he could die without it, it’d be there.

The music was a masquerade for something so much larger. What the radio was telling the people of America was to stay calm—take a load off and listen to this orchestra. But Tom was hearing a different song.

He put his plate on a stack of newspapers, then sat down in his chair. He didn’t want to break his sobriety yet, even if his body yearned for the alcohol. Maybe he was making connections that didn’t exist.

Tom leaned back in the chair and reclined. He tried to look like he was comfortable.

“The Government Meteorological Bureau has requested the large observatories of the country to keep an astronomical watch on any further disturbances occurring on the planet Mars.”

Mars.

Tom opened his eyes. Maybe now they'd stop the cover-up and shed some honest light on the situation. He liked to think he knew how this country operated. Keep the peace until they no longer had control, and then masquerade peace until the people forced the truth out. Americans weren’t as stupid as the media assumed, Tom knew he wasn’t the only one to catch onto the ruse.

The music came back on. They promised to go to New Jersey to talk with an astronomer. A man with educated views on the subject matter. A brief moment of music from Ramon Raquello tried to add a moment of security and then the announcer came back on the air.

“We are ready now to take you to the Princeton Observatory where Carl Phillips, our commentator, will interview Professor Richard Pierson…”

Richard Pierson, Tom thought, strong name. He liked men who were named Richard, but only when they went by the full name. His father’s name was Richard, but no one knew. He was Rich or Dick. Shortened to one syllable because he thought it was more efficient. Tom’s father hated the idea of wasting someone’s time, and the first step to remedy the problem was to shorten your name.

“This is Carl Phillips…” Tom couldn’t imagine why parents decided upon a name like Carl. It sounded like it belonged to a dog. “I am standing in a large semicircular room, pitch black except for an oblong split in the ceiling. Through this opening I can see a sprinkling of stars…”

One thing Tom missed about France was looking up at night. When he grew up on the farm he was able to lay in the field with Becky and connect the dots. In France he looked up at the sky and connect the stars by himself, believing she was doing the same thing. He felt their hearts beating together when he looked at the night sky and couldn’t count all the specks because there were just too many of them. In the city there were too many lights. It washed out the view. He might be able to get a glimpse of a few of them from the bakery window, but nothing like he was used to. He was forced to focused on the dough in front of him.

Carl Phillips asked Richard Pierson his permission to begin. Tom liked that he was polite enough to ask; many reporters he encountered dove right into the questions. They didn't wait for the interviewee to prepare himself. They felt like they'd get a bigger story if they were to catch the person off guard.

“At any time, Mr. Phillips,” Pierson responded.

“What do you see as you observe the planet Mars?”

Tom held his breath.

He hoped for the answer to be nothing.

Something that had to do with planets acting like this all the time. The outer space held gases that were unknown to Earth and they could do strange things at any moment, Tom wanted the astronomer to say.

“Nothing unusual at the moment, Mr. Phillips,” Tom sighed relief. He didn’t have anything to worry about. He hadn’t realized that his grip dug into the folds of his chair. He had widened a split in the leather on the left arm of the chair. He didn’t think he was as prone to anxiety at this point in his life. He thought he had gotten past the panic that drove his addictions. “Transverse stripes across the disk. Quite distinct now…”

Tom wasn’t sure what Richard Pierson was talking about. He didn’t think there were any stripes on Mars. All he knew of the planet was that it was a vivid red.

“What do the transverse stripes signify, Professor Pierson?” Phillips asked.

“From a scientific viewpoint the stripes are merely a result of atmospheric conditions peculiar to the planet.”

“Then you’re quite convinced as a scientist that living intelligence as we know it does not exist on mars?”

“I should say the chances against are a thousand to one,” Pierson said.

Tom thought he heard a waver of uncertainty in the Professor’s voice. Like he was hiding something, fooling the audience like the music had tried to do, but with words of reassurance.

“How do you account for these gas eruptions?” Phillips asked. He seemed to be on the side of the people. Tom wondered if Carl Phillips also heard a hint of untruth and wanted to get the real answer.

“I cannot account for it,” Pierson said.

Tom’s fear began to rise again. He told himself again the gases in the universe were different to the gases within our atmosphere. Some things couldn’t be explained, they just were. The explosions on Mars were in this category. They couldn’t be put down on paper as a definite; it was one of the mysteries of life. Technology and science brought them to the point of seeing and knowing what was happening in the darkness. Only they couldn’t give concrete answers as facts, only hypothesizes and theories.

“Just a moment, ladies and gentleman,” Phillips said. Tom wondered if Pierson shot glares down at the reporter for the haste in his voice. Did Carl Phillips open his mouth too soon and set the stage of panic for frantic listeners. “Someone just handed Professor Pierson a message.”

Tom sat up from his reclined position and pushed the footrest back. The chair locked into its rocking position. Phillips established the setting while Pierson read the note. Tom assumed the music from the Meridian Room would fade in at any moment leaving the listeners curious of the note's contents.

“Professor, may I read the message to the listening audience?”

Tom snorted. He never thought a man named Carl would have the gall to actually ask a person of authority a silly question like that. Didn’t he know what kind of answer he was going to get?

“Certainly, Mr. Phillips.”

Tom stopped his quiet laughter.

“I shall read you a wire addressed to Professor Pierson from Dr. Gray of the National History Museum, New York. ‘9:15 P.M. eastern standard time. Seismograph registered shock of almost earthquake intensity occurring within a radius of twenty miles of Princeton. Please investigate. Signed Lloyd Gray, Chief of Astronomical Division.’”

Could this occurrence have anything to do with the disturbances on Mars?

“This is probably a meteorite of unusual size and its arrival at this particular time is merely coincidence.”

Tom didn’t believe it. How could life hand out so many coincidences? He didn’t believe in the easy solutions to the problems. Pierson said as soon as daylight hit he'd take a team out to investigate the space rock. He’d go out and make sure it was nothing significant to Mars. Tom didn’t think it was going be any normal meteorite. This night was already prevalent in the unknown, why would it stop with something that rarely happened. The bad feelings in Tom’s gut were lining up too perfect for him to ignore.

Again the piano music drifted out the tubes in his radio. A way to relax the audience into feeling cozy in their warm homes on a Sunday night; in a false sense of security. But there was no rest for the evil. Tom knew this, even when he heard contradictory stories. Evidence could be fabricated for either side of the argument. He knew they were only trying to stop a war. Make everyone get along. Tom knew it was too late for that. Both sides had seen too much to just stop and shake hands. Tom wasn’t about to shake hands with anyone.

The music didn’t last long, not even a minute. Tom had looked over at the counter and thought he should finish his sandwich, and then the voice came back. He had to leave for work soon, but wanted to hear what they were going to say over the airwaves. If his gut was right, a missed shift was the least of all their worries.

“Ladies and Gentleman, this is Carl Phillips again,” his voice drifted back into Tom’s apartment. Tom's work clothes were spread out on his bed. He should have continued his nightly ritual. Even if they were the least of his worries what was he going to do about it? He was too beat up to do any good on the battle field. The most he was going to be able to do was show the younger soldiers what guts looked like. What it looked like when you stopped giving a shit. An impending war would still be imminent whether he made it to work on time or not. And at work at least he'd have someone else to listen to the story with.

Tom sat in his chair and listened to what the radio had to say.

They were in Grover’s Mill. Tom knew many of the residents still. He classified himself as a city dweller at this point in his life, living among the buildings for longer than he ever did the fields. His parents weren’t around anymore so he hadn’t been there for years, but he ran into people from his past. They gave him a synopsis of life in Grover’s Mill. He didn’t even have to ask.

“I haven’t had the chance to look around yet. I guess that’s it. Yes, I guess that’s the…thing, directly in front of me, half buried in a vast pit,” the voice described the object that had fallen to Earth. Tom wanted to know exactly what it looked like. Was Phillips talking about the meteorite, and if so, why did he sound as if he were in such awe? The sound of a crowd accompanied the two men. Did the whole town go out to look at the meteorite? And Tom thought they were going to wait until daybreak to investigate. A small smile flickered on his lips; he knew to trust his gut. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together under his chin.

“The ground is covered in splinters from a tree it must have struck on its way down. What I can see of the…object itself doesn’t look very much like a meteor, at least not the meteors I’ve seen. It looks like a huge cylinder.”

Tom looked over at the jar of mayonnaise. Did Phillips realize what a cylinder’s shape was? Tom had assumed a meterorite had jagged edges or a warped body—not a clean, smooth surface with straight lines.

“About thirty yards,” Pierson responded to Phillips inquiry of the estimated length in diameter.

“The metal on the sheath is…well, I’ve never seen anything like it. The color is a sort of yellowish-white. Curious spectators now are pressing close to the object in spite of the efforts of the police to keep them back.” Phillips tried to speak over the din of the crowd.

Tom wondered why people were so apt to seek out destruction. Was it only until someone actually saw a catastrophe that they decided to shy away from scenes of horror? Although, his curiosity was piquing and he couldn’t be sure he’d stay away if he were close enough to the crater.

Tom heard the shouts from police trying to move the crowd back. If this was a giant container from space why would people try to get so near it? Who knew what kind of chemicals or radiation it held. The outside of the cylinder could be covered with a bacterium from Mars unknown to man on Earth.

The owner of the farm came over the air. Phillips said his name was Mr. Wilmuth, asking him to step close to the microphone so the radio audience could hear him better. Tom didn’t remember the name Wilmuth, but there was a Wilson. The family lived on the other side of the mill. He hadn’t ever had a conversation with the man, or even overheard the man’s voice at the store. He was sure Phillips misheard the name and now Wilson was too polite to correct the folly.

“I was listening to the radio and kind of drowsin’, that professor fellow was talking about Mars, so I was half dozin’ and half…” Wilson spoke like a child put on the spot. Not the kind of child who shrank under the pressure and wilted away into the crowd, but one in love attention. Tom could tell Wilson hadn’t been asked his opinion on matters in the past, he spoke with an air of innocence, but also a tone that wanted to please the nation.

“Yes, Mr. Wilmuth, then what happened?” Phillips interrupted.

“As I was sayin’, I was listen’ to the radio kinda halfways…” Wilson continued as if Phillips hadn’t tried to push him along.

“Yes, Mr. Wilmuth,” Phillips continued to call this man by the wrong name. Tom chuckled to himself, then stopped, surprised he was able to laugh. “And then you saw something?” Phillips lead Wilson the direction he wanted the interview to go.

“Not first off. I heard something,” Wilson said.

“And what did you hear?” Phillips asked. Tom wished Wilson just told the story in one breath instead of the need to be prompted after every statement.

“A hissing sound. Like this,” Tom imagined the man touching his teeth together and pushing his tongue against them, then releasing the air from his diaphragm. Wilson made a hissing sound like a stereotypical snake. Only the hiss lasted a short breath, not even a second. “Kind of like a fourth of July rocket.”

Tom thought about what a giant metal cylinder looked like dropping from the sky. He knew the rhythm of metal falling from the sky, like it danced in the descent. He thought of the moments in the trenches when they weren’t sure if they needed to grab their masks, or if it was an oridnary mortar. He never had to grab his mask the whole time he was there. But they heard the stories of gas from other squads.

“Then what?” Phillips again pushed Wilson for more information.

“Turned my head out the window and would have swore I was to sleep and dreamin’.”

“Yes?”

“I seen a kinda greenish streak and then zingo! Somethin’ smacked the ground,” Tom could’ve sworn he felt his apartment shake a little. He didn’t want to seem paranoid so he pushed the feeling out of his mind and continued to listening to Wilson's experience.

“Well, were you frightened, Mr. Wilmuth?” Phillips asked the obvious. Any man would be scared if a giant cylinder fell from the sky onto their property, Tom thought.

“Well, I — I ain’t quite sure. I reckon I — I was kinda riled,” Wilson said. It seemed like he was speaking to himself.

Tom had heard that kind of sentence too many times. All the men in his squad spoke similar words at least a dozen times. They didn’t want to admit they were scared. If the words were to escape their mouths the feelings would manifest as a reality. The words would drift into the sky and down to the Germans. They didn’t want the enemy to know that they had weakness in them. They had to hold strong in the face of the Germans and prove they were going to fight harder and faster and stronger than the enemy.

“Thanks you, Mr. Wilmuth. Thank you.”

Wilson asked if he could be any more help, but Phillips said he got all he needed. Tom didn’t blame Phillips for not going ahead in the search for more information. Wilson didn’t know anything, he just happened to own the land the cylinder landed on.

“I wish I could convey the atmosphere…” Tom still heard the ambient noise behind Phillips’ voice. It sounded like more and more people were arriving to the scene. “Police are trying to rope off the roadway leading into the farm. But it’s no use. They’re breaking right through. Their headlights throw an enormous spot on the pit where the object’s half buried. Some of the more daring souls are venturing near the edge. Their silhouettes stand out against the metal sheen.” Tom imagined a line of eight men standing at the crater, but their faces and contours were masked by shadows, so he saw the shapes of the limbs and torsos. They moved a little as they looked down upon the meteorite. Then Tom heard what he thought was part of the image in his mind. “One man wants to touch the thing…he’s having an argument with a policeman. The policeman wins,” Tom can’t understand why in moments of chaos people rebel against the set order. He saw it in the past, trying to create a united front, but the selfish nature won out in the end. “There’s something I haven’t mentioned in all this excitement, but it’s becoming more distinct. Perhaps you’ve caught it already on your radio. Listen,” the humming became more prominent on the airwaves. Tom felt relieved that he wasn’t losing his wits, but wished a the humming had been a figment of his imagination. It was going to be unexplainable, which meant it was bad news. Phillips had even made note of the peculiar sound.

“Do you hear it?”

Yes.

“It’s a curious humming sound that seems to come from the inside the object. I’ll move the microphone nearer.”

The idea that everyone’s paranoia was getting the better of them crossed his mind, but the probability of that would be too minimal. The cylinder was making a humming noise. A sound not fit for the human beings that inhabited this planet.

“Professor Pierson!”

“Yes, Mr. Phillips?”

“Can you tell us the meaning of that scraping noise inside the thing?”

“Possibly the unequal cooling of the surface.”

Tom clenched his eyes closed. He needed to keep the paranoia at bay, but as the evidence stacked on the contrary he couldn't help himself from thinking of possible enemies hiding within the foreign object. Phillips just said the noise was coming from the inside of the container, but now Pierson said the sound was on the outside. Tom decided Phillips was looking at the situation with child-like eyes, while Pierson tried his hardest to give each new installment a scientific spin. He wanted there to be a simple answer for the complex questions—answers he’d heard before. Phillips was open to the idea that maybe this thing had extraterrestrial properties.

“Do you still think it’s a meteor, Professor?” Phillips asked.

“I don’t know what to think. The metal casing is definitely extraterrestrial,” Pierson admitted. Tom found relief that Pierson didn’t try to spin Phillips’ question. “Friction with the earth’s atmosphere usually tears holes in a meteorite. This thing is smooth and, as you can see, of cylindrical shape.”

Tom’s image of the object was reinforced with Pierson’s quick description. He hoped he was putting too ominous an image in his head, but each new bit of information reinforced his gut. Tom’s chest welled with fear, thinking a form of intelligence sent the cylinder.

“Just a minute!” Tom’s body tensed in its rigid form at the haste in Phillips’ voice. “Something’s happening! Ladies and gentleman, this is terrific! The end of the thing is beginning to flake off! The top is beginning to rotate like a screw! The thing must be hollow!”

Tom figured the thing was hollow when Phillips said the humming noise was coming from the inside. But what was humming? He wanted to discredit the cooling theory just because Pierson suggested it.

Voices in the background started shouting at the wonderment of the cylinder opening up to reveal its secrets.

Tom heard a clanking sound. The shouts confirmed the top of the device was completely off and the hollow interior was visible. He wished he was close enough to Grover Mill’s to make the trek to see the mystery. Policeman continued to shout for the crowd to stand back. No one knew what was inside the cylinder. The excitement of the top falling off was too great, like the excitement itself was enough of a distraction from the thing they were excited about.

“This is the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed,” Phillips said. “Wait a minute!” Tom’s heart double-beat. “Someone’s crawling out of the hollow top.”

Tom forgot to breathe.

The intelligent life didn’t send this thing. They rode inside it.

His arms felt rubbery. The rigid stiffness of his body turned into sandbags.

Tom needed remind himself to breathe.

He sucked in his apartment's stale air.

Just breathe.

Remember to breathe.

Breathe.

My Brother Justin

I had an essay published at The Big Smoke US in May.

You can read it here.

DMC Reviews Learn to Swim

The website Drunk in a Midnight Choir posted a very nice review  of Learn to Swim. I was blushing the whole time.

Thanks so much!

Signing and Articles

Hello Internet and beyond!

I will be doing a signing at Auntie's Bookstore located in downtown Spokane on Marxh 5th from 1:pm to 3:pm.

In addition to the event the two local papers published articles about 'Learn to Swim.' It's very exciting and surreal, and I can't thank them enough.

The Spokesman Review

The Pacific NW Inlander

Learn to Swim Now Available

I'm a little behind on this, and for that I apologize, but my new book is out!

University of Hell Press did a stellar job.

You can purchase the book at any of the links below:

Powell's

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

The book looks great and is gorgeous. I love it and I hope you'll love it too.