After Dinner Conversation, Issue 59. May 2025.

Look at you. On your knees on the floor of your apartment under some guy you met by the bar less than an hour ago after you shared the last of your Manhattan and then left together, your tummy all tumbles, your muscles all mush, your tongue all wet.

The Good Life Review, Issue 15. April 2024.

I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve never wished death on a person, not even Cody Willis. Now he’s gone. That’s not on me. Him and four other classmates of mine, plus a teacher. They’re dead, I’m not, and that sucks.

Interview for The Buzz, June 2024.

Change Seven, Spring 2024. April 2024.

Huey had never been home alone so late before. His parents had gone to the city for a Johnny Cash tribute concert, and decided that he was old enough to go without a sitter. He was halfway through fifth grade after all.

Finalist, 2023 Iowa Review Award in Fiction.

Mania Magazine, Issue 3. March 2024.

Queer. Sad. Alone in the dark. Pitiful. Predictable. Honestly, pathetic. Drinking vodka straight from the handle? Messy. And the vomit? Delicious.

After Happy Hour, Issue 21. December 2023.

Start small. Clock him checking you out. Serve that shit. Note his blush.

The Q&A Queerzine, Issue 4. June 2023.

Andy went down at drag brunch. That’s to say, he had two too many mimosas, followed a leery salt-and-pepper wolf to the bathroom and never came back. We went after him after a few drinks, but he was long gone. Hung, we figured. Or rich. But why not let us know before bouncing out?

New Millennium Writings 55th Annual Award winner for flash fiction, June 2023.

We’re all throbbing together in a gross, sweaty, sticky 808 grind. Miss Lapel struts the floor, taking all the eye. She’s everything. Hips, lips, face, glamor. She’s giving us everything. Serving. Burning down the house. Singles are flying, whistles and whips of attitude. Step and lean and turn and walk and yaaas. We are proud. This is lights, culture, scene, and then—