fiction

One crawled up the side of the bag and opened her wings, a hardtop convertible with legs.

In the story I want to write, Rockland Manchester falls in love with the woman, but she gives him some bell hooks books to read.

The place where her shoulder blades almost met was suddenly purple, and I tasted blood, slick and tangy, against my lipstick.

Alone in your apartment at three o’clock in the morning, you find yourself agreeing: you are a stupid bitch; you can’t write worth shit.

She had left him crying in his crib where she’d thrown him, a punishment for needing her more than she could stand.

fantasy scribe. globe-trotter. advocate for diversity in publishing.

Years from now, it’ll still be growing fast and long, the way it grows in summer even when there’s been no rain.

Let’s say, hypothetically, that there are people on this earth who are currently saner than you.