Short Stories
My mother hands me the last marigold in existence. She’s potted it into an old mug, one with a logo of an electro rock band I saw live on the east coast as a teenager, before my music tastes mellowed and before we drew borderlines like spider legs across the continent.
“We Make the World in Our Image”
Solarpunk Magazine Issue 17, September 2024
The hotel is made of a hundred thousand living bones. That is an estimate. The exact number fluctuates as new cartilage fuses together and old skeletons wear to dust.
“The Ossification of The Space Between Us”
Gamut Magazine Issue 2, February 2024
Today I pull the knife out of my arm and crush the handle until it twists into the contours of my fingers, just so he remembers I can bleed him with the edge of my pinky. Then I spear one of the shrimp sizzling in a layer of olive oil and offer it to him on the tip of the blade, an inch from his face.
Robotic Ambitions, November 2023