"Across the Darien Gap."
Coming soon in Issue 55 of Cemetery Dance Magazine.
"Sumo 21"
Published in Issue 16 (Forces of Nature) of the web-zine Abyss and Apex.
"The Ghost Dance"
Published in Issue 8 of the print-zine Electric Velocipede.
"Canopy Crawlers"
Published in Issue 6 of the print-zine Full Unit Hook Up.
"Hurricane Sandrine"
First published in Issue 5 of the print-zine Full Unit Hook Up.
"The Yeti’s Hand"
Published in Issue 20 of the web-zine The Fortean Bureau.
"The Wish Mechanics"
in 2007 to the print-zine Full Unit Hook Up
Dozens of human-like forms stood motionless in the knee-deep snow, only the starlight from the moonless sky making their silhouettes discernable from the dark rock and ice of the mountain. Miami froze, wishing she could conceal her breath, but hot clouds of mist from her nose betrayed her.
I don't believe this. I didn't really believe I'd see even one.
Though she'd been hiking solo for days, only now with these presences so close, did she feel alone and vulnerable. She slowly slid her gloved hand down along her white and gray camouflage snowsuit, reaching for the camera hooked to her belt.
Sun will kill me if I run now. Somehow he'll know.
Her hand closed around the camera. She raised it to her eye and held the trigger. A series of rapid flashes lit the night, sending artificial light reflecting off ice and rock, their twisted shadows flowing up the mountain; but the forms remained unexpectedly still.
A hollow howl resounded from the rocky crags, the only motion a small whirlwind of powder conjured by the gusting wind. She flicked the spelunker flashlight on her forehead on. The beam sparkled on one of the forms, an almost human statue of ice; too-long arms spread wide like a scarecrow, animal mouth open in a frozen scream. Its melted and refrozen lower body gave the appearance of being fused with the ground.
Read the full story online (or in printable format ) for free at the Fortean Bureau / Issue 20
Asashoryu proudly marched out of the dressing room with the rest of the Sumotori as they began their descent along the path snaking to the ring in the center of the open-air stadium. Like a procession of overgrown children, the bulky wrestlers, wearing only their mawashi belts, walked two by two, careful to stay safely between the flapping red flags warning them every few meters not to misstep into oblivion. Beyond the flags the world between worlds beckoned — the nether — the ethereal sea purple and sparkling, ready to re-swallow the path forged open by their sensei, Prince Shimotori, who was running the tournament for the good of all of Japan.
Tiny white lights danced in the purple like the sunlight sparkling on the lapping surf of Tokyo Bay. Asashoryu quickly turned away. These were not benign souls, like the tranquil fireflies illuminating his memories of home that they resembled, but glowing will-o'-the-wisp forms of the Lost Ones, those who had died or lost their way while traveling between worlds.
Focus, Asashoryu told himself. He pictured a white crane — centered and balanced. Day fourteen of the tournament without a loss. One more match. One more victory and I will be Sumo21 and able to join the fight to reclaim the Emperor.
Asashoryu pictured the Emperor's ancient and withered form perched in his throne back in the waking world. The memory of his brief look at one of the bundles of tubes and wires keeping him alive sent a shudder through Asashoryu's body. The thought of the Emperor's soul prisoner in a body not his, somewhere in Japan 187531, was almost too much to bear.
"Yume wo miru toki, yume wo miruno wa wakateimasu," the wrestler next to him muttered, not aware they had already passed though into the dreamtime.
Asashoryu pictured his own teen-aged and relatively small body back in the heya, sleeping. Here, he was strong as he felt and big as he believed, every aspect of his appearance a representation of his years of training, every muscle, every inch of fat a manifestation of his will.
The path took its final curve into the stadium. Hulking spaceships, shaped like dragons, floated outside, tethered to the upper tiers: the old weapons of war. The dreamships, as Asashoryu thought of them, had been long idle. The battle with Japan 187531 had been taken to the tournaments, yet still the ships remained even though the generals and armies who dreamed them into being were just memories in the lives of their descendants...
Read the full story online, for free, at Abyss and Apex – the Forces of Nature Issue. Issue #16
Excerpt coming soon. Story to be published in issue 55 of Cemetery Dance magazine.
Like a spirit given substance, the gentle humidity of the Caribbean air touched everything, creating an unseen bond, as certain as breath, between the creeping growth crowding the runway, the locals hustling a living, and the mockingbirds scavenging near the taxi stand.
Steven tramped down the metal stairs pressed against the side of the plane. Walking to the terminal with the other passengers, he opened the top button of his short-sleeved white shirt. The sun’s heat on his exposed neck made him more aware of his body and the elemental nature of the Caribbean, even in the airport in the heart of Belize City.
Vacationers filed by as he entered the terminal; their forgettable faces bronzed by the touch of the sun. Relaxed and courteous, they waited in line to return to the States, where more likely than not their newly found Caribbean goodwill would fade with their tan. Seeing these people so full of this spirit emphasized the emptiness in his bones. He yearned to be filled, to feel the completeness, the optimism, he knew when Elise was still alive. Here, in Belize, it seemed the elements were trying to find their way in to fill that void. The sun sought to burn his skin, the air to fill his lungs.
In his mind’s eye he pictured Elise on the beach, her dark hair streaming in the wind. Six months ago they were together, sharing a carefree day on the Malibu coast. He couldn’t shake the image of her hair spread out almost the same way as they pulled her, lifeless, out of the water.
Read a review at The SF Site.
We soar above the living green canopy; rotors flitting like the agile dragonfly wings that inspired them. The jungle’s time of need had come. That’s what Presidente Marquez said, in her speech summoning the reserves to active duty. The enemy had arrived not only from somewhere in space, but surfaced from deep in the earth and the forest floors.
Times are strange, old rivals allying, like us and the Columbians- while other nations seize the opportunity to fight, hoping for some stupid, meaningless advantage as everything goes to hell. Me, I’d just as soon see the rest of the world burn, but I fight, we fight for the forest. The demons can have the cities, those concrete wastelands, for whatever it is they want, but my squad will defend the trees to the last.
“Look sharp,” my patrol-mate Juanita says, her voice tinny in my helmet’s fitted ear piece.
She dives even closer to the trees, emerald-painted top of her sleek Aztec-140 blending into the sea of leaves. She silently passes through a cloud of blue butterflies. The sparkling insects disperse, swirling in her invisible wake. I follow, without question and pull the throttle to match her dive.
Read more in Issue 6 of Full Unit Hookup
A crow bobbed its head, fluttered its wings, and took flight from its perch on the roof of the nightclub. A patchwork of hand-made band posters covered the wide glass windows. The crow squawked and flew over a circle of hundreds of dancers crowding the sidewalk and street.
The briefing said there would be crows, Erin thought. The bird’s presence made this different, more real. Erin scanned the crowd: mostly teenagers, not just from the Reservation. The last rays of the late summer setting sun cast a red glow on the closed stores of the strip mall and the growing circle of dancers. No sign of the suspect. No lucky break today.
The dancers’ feet lifted and dropped in unison, then in syncopation with the pounding bass and low grumble of guitars audible outside the small club. It smelled wrong.
No pot. No beer. Not a single one smoking a cigarette.
Her partner, John Avenco, got out of their unmarked Ford Taurus. Together they walked toward the circle of dancers and the nightclub.
“You believe it’s really him?” Avenco asked.
Erin shrugged. She didn’t know what to believe. Two days ago, agents from Squadron Thirty Seven had apprehended the girl called Sitting Bull, along with a beat-up van full of guitars and amps. All the recent chatter indicated something big was going down-- tonight. Something big enough for the director to have almost every agent scouring the Reservations and every rock and roll club in the country for the suspect, Crazy Horse.
Read more in Issue 8 of Electric Velocipede.