Here, you'll find a collection of short fiction that I have written over the years. Some of it was published in student-run literary journals Amaranth (published by Anne Arundel Community College) and Skelter (published by The University of Baltimore). Some of these works have never been published on the internet before now.

Among the Skulls (2016)

This story was originally published in the 41st volume of Amaranth on April 27th, 2016, where it won an award for best short fiction and earned me $20 (whoo hoo!).

In the basement of the morgue, there sits a special shelf. And on that shelf sits rows and rows of human skulls, staring out into the void of emptiness, of space. Their eyes are like caverns, big and dark, like the confines of a jealous heart. They watch you as you pass them by, a silent audience, judging you, questioning your moves and motives.

Sometimes, I like to sit, and wonder what filled those skulls when they walked among the living. What horrible thoughts lingered in their brains? What curses spewed forth from their mouths? What sinful sights did their eyes behold? What quality of actions made their noses wrinkle in disgust? Who were they like in real life? Were they wise, or were they fools? Did they seek the truth, or fall for lies? Did they live life to the full, partaking in all the pleasures of the flesh? Or did they forsake their natural need for fun, and live the life of a pious, fearful being?

The pious man fears what he doesn't know or understand. He sees only in black and white, a world where no one can straddle the middle line, because there is none. So he cowers like a snail in his shell, surrounds himself with the familiar and sentimental, away from the frightening change that is happening all around him.

I was like him at one point. Perhaps I still am.

When I see the skulls, I don't see bones, worn by the toils of time. I see faces, with flesh and hair, and little quirks in their features that makes each one of them unique. I see lips, prime for kissing. I see cheeks, bracing for a slap. I see noses, ready to be broken, and I see eyes, watching all the horror in the world. And finally, I see men and women, young and old, mingling in a stew of diversity, where everyone's minds conflict with each other like magnets. It is here where I begin to wonder one thing above them all: what things did they do that I will never experience?

What did they see that my eyes will never behold? What did they say that I am too afraid to speak? What thoughts did they think, that I am too incompetent to fathom? It fills me with wonder, with curiosity, but most of all, with regret. Regret that I've already wasted enough time, living not by the beat of my own tune, but to the tone of someone else's. That I have forsaken my ability to discover and learn, out of fear of what I may find. That, through their eyes of void, they have seen more of the world than I would ever know. But then, I look up, and know that there is still time. Time enough to partake life’s pleasures, to see and feel the things that all humans should see and feel. And by the time I join their ranks, in this dark place among the skulls, I would be able to say with confidence that I lived my life, to whoever else might be passing by the shelf.

Replaced (2013)

This story was originally published in the 2013 issue of Amaranth, though I wrote it in 2012 for a creative writing class at Anne Arundel Community College. It's the first piece of work that I have ever published, and it is still one of my favorite works to date.

6:00 AM. Dawn was breaking onto an overcast and dreary fall morning, thick with the rain from the night before. It was a Saturday, and the residents of the townhome would not wake for another few hours. The constant ticking of a rooster clock in the kitchen was the only audible noise in the home. When the hour broke, the clock squawked and announced the arrival of a new day.

Hearing the sudden, irritating noise, the white KitchenAid Coffeemaker awoke, expecting the owners to come down the stairs at any moment for their daily dose of caffeine. Sitting on the tile countertop between the sink and the bread box, he looked around the dim kitchen, wondering why there were no lights on. It was not until he looked at the page-a-day rooster calendar on the side of the refrigerator that he realized it was the weekend, and he would not be needed for another few hours. But going back to sleep was not an option, because Coffeemaker had something on his mind.

In the blue-white light of late dawn, Coffeemaker could see the outlines of his fellow appliances, including his best friend, a Sunbeam Mixmaster. Mixmaster sat atop a granite island counter, which was currently covered with a thin layer of flour, pieces of dried cake batter and a pile of dirty baking utensils, including a whisk, a stack of measuring cups and a set of measuring spoons on a key ring. His mixing bowl was locked onto his base, with all of his attachments piled inside, and his cherry red hide was coated in floury finger prints. Mixmaster did not even hear the clock strike six. After his workout the night before, Mixmaster would probably sleep the entire day if he was left alone.

“Hey, Mixmaster,” Coffeemaker whispered. “You awake?”

“Huh?” Mixmaster asked.

“Are you awake?” Coffeemaker said.

“I am now,” Mixmaster grunted. “It’s Saturday, Coffeemaker, what’s the point of waking me up so early?”

“Chill out, Mixer,” Coffeemaker said. “You have the whole weekend to relax. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Hit me.”

“The owner had the TV over the fridge on last night, and she had it tuned onto the live debate. Did you catch any of it?”

“What, you mean the presidential debate?”

“No, the debate between the Joker and Bane for the best Batman villain. Yes, of course I’m talking about the presidential debate, Mixer. What else would I be thinking of?”

“Forgive me for my ignorance, Coffeemaker, but I’m still half asleep. And to answer your question, no, I did not see much of the debate. The owner’s wife was making me work overtime last night.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot about her son’s birthday.”

“It’s not his birthday, it’s his wedding...” Mixmaster started. “Ah forget it. Anyway, I’m guessing you want me to ask you what happened, so that you can tell me your opinion about it, which I’ll inevitably disagree with, which will lead to a long, drawn out conversation over the topic.”

“Well, excuse me, Mixmaster,” Coffeemaker said sarcastically, “or should I call you Sherlock Holmes?”

“Just get on with it, Watson.”

“Well,” Coffeemaker said, “the two candidates took pot shots at each other, and proved to me once again that the human’s government is as dead as a doornail.”

“Hold on,” Mixmaster said. “What did you just say?”

“The human system of government is dead. That’s what I said.”

“Oh, here we go again. I’m not going to ask.”

“But you want to know why I said that, don’t you Mixer?”

After a brief pause, Mixmaster sighed. “My curiosity is killing me,” he said. “All right, let me hear it.”

“The political system the humans devised, or the great experiment as the owner’s son’s history textbook calls it, has ceased to exist. I believe the only thing that candidates care about anymore is getting re-elected, nothing more, and nothing less.”

“Oh, bologna! Sure, I agree, there are some of career politicians who fit that mold you described, but there are still some who genuinely care more about their constituents than about winning another term.”

“Well gosh, Mixer, I had no idea you were such a sheep of the system. That’s what the human government wants you to believe. In reality, every politician is just in it for the perks of the job.”

“Since when did you become such an anarchist? Coffeemaker, the world is not as bleak and grey as you think. Take, for example, the owner’s husband, who’s running for county exec next month. We see him every day, and judging from the practice speeches he gives over breakfast, he truly cares about his community. Plus, he’s a dedicated husband and father, who loves his family and would give up the shirt on his back to feed them.”

“He may be squeaky clean now,” Coffeemaker started, “but after he’s spent a few years in the political grind, he’ll become one of them. Besides, you can’t praise him like that, because you only see him when he’s in the kitchen. Just think about it, we never see him in the bedroom upstairs, or in the man-cave downstairs, or the garage--”

“And your point, may I ask?”

“What I’m trying to say is that we only see a sample of who he is. He could be an entirely different person for all we know.”

“So, what you’re saying is that the man of the house is a saint when he’s in the kitchen and a scum of the earth politician when we don’t see him.”

“No, Mixmaster, you’re putting words in my filter. I never said that he’s like that. All I’m trying to prove is that we only see one side of him. The only thing that probably knows him more than any of us is his Blackberry and believe me, I’ve tried to get answers out of her. But each time I ask, she gives me this dirty look on her screen and tells me to mind my own java.”

“Ok, I get your point,” Mixmaster said. “But I still think your wrong about his political career. You assume that just because he’s entering the world of politics, he’s automatically obliged to become a selfish monster, someone destined to become the subject of a Michael Moore documentary.”

“I hope I am wrong. I hope that this prediction of mine is just hot air rising from my steam cap. But I have an aching feeling in my warming tray that, once he gets knee deep into this political crap, things will change. Then what? He might convince his wife to replace you with one of those state-of-the-art KitchenAid mixers, like the ones used on The Food Network.”

“Or he’ll replace you with one of those coffee shop machines, the ones that use syrup packets instead of ground beans and don’t need filters.”

Coffeemaker paused, trying to think of a comeback remark. “Now that I think of it,” he said, “if the owners are going to replace anything, they’d replace the fridge. They’ve had him longer than they’ve had cable.”

Hearing his name, the-thirty-year-old, cream-colored Maytag roused himself to consciousness.

“Huh… What…?” Fridge asked. “Are you young punks talkin’ bout me when I’m asleep?”

“We weren’t talking about you,” Coffeemaker said.

“No, it was just a dream,” Mixmaster added, “go back to sleep, Fridge.”

But Fridge was already on the offensive. “Don’t lie to me,” he snapped. “I heard what you said. You think the owners are going to replace me, don’t you? Like hell they are! I was in the house when they moved in, on their wedding day. I was free of charge and because of that, they’ll never give me up. If there’s one thing in this house that they’ll get rid of, it’s that old Mercury Villager minivan that's rusting in the garage."

“Hey!” came a yell from behind the garage door. “I heard that.”

“I’m glad,” Fridge barked back, “and listen to this. Every time the owner’s wife comes home from her youngest son’s soccer practice, your rusted crank shaft makes it sound like a damn Panzer’s coming through the garage.”

“Kiss my tailpipe!” Mercury replied. “Let me remind you that, in the nineteen years I’ve lived here, I have never had to go to the shop once for a fixer. But you, on the other hand, every time your icemaker turns on, the lights flicker. And every time one of the owners come out with a can of pop, they’re always complaining that it’s not cold enough.”

“If I had hands, I’d strangle you,” Fridge started.

“That would be an issue if I had a neck, you oversized piece of scrap!” Mercury said.

“Alright, break it up,” Coffeemaker said.

“Yeah, the two of you,” Mixmaster added. “Quit it. No one’s getting replaced. Coffeemaker and I were just having a disagreement, and we didn’t mean to include you two.”

“Well, I can say with confidence that I’m not getting replaced anytime soon.” The voice was coming from the owner’s iMac computer, who sat on her own desk on the other side of the kitchen, just under the windowsill.

“Obviously,” Coffeemaker replied, “they just bought you.”

“Amen,” iMac replied, a ‘=)’ appearing on her screen. “It’ll be a while before they find the need to replace me.”

“Sure,” Fridge replied, “until the owners find out about all the naughty websites their youngest son logs onto when they’re asleep. At this rate, he’ll be blind by the time he’s twenty.”

“It’s not my fault that the owners don’t know how to set up a parental control blocker.” A ‘:P’ appeared on her monitor. “But may I ask, how did this conversation begin in the first place? I joined when you were all talking about being replaced.”

“It started with me,” Coffeemaker said. “I felt like talking about how I thought the political system in this nation was deteriorating, which led to me saying some ludicrous things about the owner’s husband and....” Coffeemaker sighed. “I judged him because he wants to run for county exec, and I never wanted to start an argument among you guys. Nothing’s going to change and none of us are getting replaced. Now, how about we put this issue behind us and go back to sleep?”

“I like the sound of that,” Mixmaster said.

“I second that,” Fridge added.

“Me three,” Mercury called.

“Um…” iMac said with a ‘:/’ on her monitor. “I think you spoke too soon, Coffeemaker.”

“Why?” Coffeemaker asked anxiously.

“I just received two emails. The first one is from the Sears appliance center, saying your LG refrigerator/freezer has shipped and will arrive next Tuesday.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Fridge growled. “After all I’ve done for those freeloading, ungrateful, selfish....”

“Cheer up, Fridge,” Mercury called. “You’ll probably be put in the garage, with me.”

“Don’t even get me started, Merc,” Fridge replied. “Spending every day in there, with you to keep me company? I’d rather spring a leak.”

“That’s not the only email, guys,” iMac said. “I have one more, and this one’s from a loan center, in response to an auto loan.”

“I think the younger son’s inheriting you, Merc,” Mixmaster said.

“Lovely,” Mercury groaned. “I can’t wait for him drive me at seventy in the fifty five, hide blunts in my glove box and have wild, promiscuous orgies in my back seat. I’d rather trade places with the T-Bird from the climax of Thelma and Louise. What did they buy, Mac? Don’t lie to me. Did they get an Odyssey? A Town and Country? A Sedona?”

“Hold on, I’m looking,” iMac said. “Let’s see… Oh my!” ‘:D’ came up on her screen.

“What?” Coffeemaker asked. “What did he buy?”

“He bought a Suburban, didn’t he?” Mixmaster added.

“Wrong,” iMac said. “He bought a Range Rover Evoque! I think I’m in love.”

“Guess I won’t be sharing the garage with you,” Fridge said. “You’re gonna be left out on the curb.”

“Shut up, Fridge,” Mercury responded.

“I guess you’re right, Coffeemaker,” Mixmaster said. “Things are changing around here.”

When Coffeemaker did not respond, Mixmaster pressed on. “Now’s the time you would typically say I told you so.”

“No, Mixer,” Coffeemaker sighed. “I hope this is just one, big coincidence. But if it’s not, then I’ll just say this: I don’t know if Democracy is dead, but I just hope Mercury is kind to us when we’re left on the curb.”

The End

Go Tell it on the Clap Chart (2014)

Another Amaranth story, published in the 2014 issue. Inspired by the MH370 disaster and my enduring love of cinema, this is an experiential story with a twist ending.

The sea churned as chunks of singed metal and baggage floated to the surface of the water, the remains of the crash tossed about in the waves like toys in a bathtub. Plumes of black smoke bellowed from what was left of the fuselage, its battered metal hide slowly filling with seawater, the ocean preparing to make a place for it along its dark, decaying bottom. There the plane, along with the remains of its crew, would join the ranks of hundreds of other lost craft, living within the grim realm of Davy Jones’ locker. Not a single passenger or crew member survived the chaos, their bodies condemned to a watery grave among the wreckage, victims of a cruel, yet unpredictable fate.

Floating a long ways off from the crash zone, separated from the other pieces of wreckage by countless rows of choppy waves, was one of the plane’s wings, the first bit to fly off during the violent decent. With water splashing over its glossy surface, there was a sudden splash, followed by a hail of coughs and gasps of breath as a young man emerged from the water and pulled himself onto the wing’s surface. Free from the water’s grasp, he rolled onto his back and panted, the sun glaring down onto his scorched, cream-colored skin. Black soot covered every inch of his body, while the remains of his blue polo and black khakis clung to him like torn rags. Amazingly though, his thick, black rimmed glasses remained intact, albeit with a slight scratch on the left lens.

Sitting up, the man shook water out of his spiky, hazelnut hair, as he scanned the surface of the water for someone.

“John?” he called. “Where are you? Where’d you go?”

“I’m over here, Greg,” John said, his head poking up like a thimble in the choppy surf.

“You were right behind me a second ago. What happened?”

“I had to get the black box recorder,” John replied, waving the orange cube over his head as he treaded water.

“Why’d you need that?”

“It was in the production notes. The director wanted the recorder to be found on land--” A sudden wave splashed over John’s head, cutting him off.

“Tell me all about it up here,” Greg replied, but John had disappeared from view. Seconds later, John emerged from the water near the wrecked wing and handed Greg the black box recorder.

“Take it,” John said, coughing up mouthfuls of the sea as he struggled to keep his head above water. “But be careful, this sucker is heavier than it looks.”

Greg took the recorder and moved over to make room, as John pulled himself out of the water and onto the wing. John was, perhaps, a little older than Greg, a fact made obvious by the touch of grey in his mostly black hair and the deep, spider web wrinkles that crisscrossed his face. John’s dark blue business jacket was still intact, despite being saturated with seawater, and his overall appearance was less frazzled than Greg’s, with no burns or traces of soot present anywhere on his figure.

“Where’s your tux?” John asked, looking his partner over.

“It got covered in jet fuel and burned off,” Greg replied.

“Shame, shame,” John said, shaking his head. “No one would ever know that we were a team before this whole operation began.”

“Hey,” Greg said, slamming the recorder down impatiently, “I told you before the director said ‘action’ that I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

“And you weren’t lying,” John said, taking a quick glance at his Rolex. “It’s still a little after eight in the morning… when did the director say he was going to pick us up?”

“I think around noon,” Greg replied. “At least that’s what Moe said, probably to give us time to drift to shore and hide this recorder.” Greg looked at the recorder, turning it over in his hands and glancing the words do not open, which were printed on its side in large, black letters.

“Why did the director want to hide the recorder?” Greg asked, handing it back to John.

“The director wanted an original ending,” John said, taking the recorder back. “Yet again, I don’t see how hiding this little orange box of ours is going to make that much of a difference.”

“Why not?” Greg asked. “When a black box goes missing from a crash, people always take notice, and then when they discover that the box has been hidden miles away from the crash site, they immediately start to think crazy ideas, perhaps even theories on divine intervention.”

“I doubt it,” John said. “The last time the director asked for the black box to be hidden, Alex Jones started spouting off about a major conspiracy. Somehow, mankind is always quick to believe his haphazard ramblings, over any kind of evidence of angelic interactions, so I doubt the director intended to blow our covers when he added this part to the screenplay.”

John leaned back on the wing and looked over the sea, just as the fuselage disappeared beneath the surface of the blue waves.

“To be honest with you,” John said, “I don’t know what to make of anything today. I mean, everything went well and all, but there’s something about this operation that just doesn’t fit.”

“It think it went well,” Greg replied. “The plane went down, there were no survivors and we were able to get the black box. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” John said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s just that when Moe was describing this whole shebang, his eyes got all wide and he was acting like it was going to be the highlight of our careers. But I’ve been a reaper for over thirty years, and this will probably go down as one of the most forgetful operations I’ve ever completed.”

“I guess I don’t understand,” Greg replied, “since I’ve only been in this job for a few months, but just be thankful the recorder can’t pick up our voices.”

Suddenly, a voice that resembled Charlton Heston emitted from John’s pocket.

“Let my people go!” the voice said.

“Ah crap…” John said, scrambling as he reached into his pocket. “It’s Moe, I bet we did something wrong.” John took out his cellphone, whipped the remnants of seawater off the screen and answered:

“Hey Moe,” John said. “What’s that? Oh… He wants a retake?”

“Who wants a retake?” Greg asked.

“The director,” John replied. “What’s that, Moe? Huh? You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“What’s going on?” Greg asked, but John held up his finger.

“Got it,” John said. “Yes, will do. See you later. And yes, I won’t call you Moe anymore. Bye, Moses.”

John hung up and looked back at Greg.

“We got things a little turned around,” John said. “The director wanted us to crash the plane on land and hide the black box in the ocean.”

Greg smacked his forehead and shook his head.

“And if that wasn’t complicated enough,” John said, “he wants us to crash into an abandoned softball field in Rockingham, North Carolina.”

“That is a lot more original,” Greg asked. “But does that mean we need to do all of that again?”

“Yep,” John said, tossing the recorder back into the ocean. “Come on, let’s get this over with, only this time, try to keep your suit on.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Greg replied, as he and John slid off the wing and disappeared under the water.

Moments later, a sudden, violent tremor shook the surface of the waves, as the fuselage emerged from its watery tomb and suspended itself in midair. Suddenly, the wings and all the little bits and pieces of metal, which were once connected to the plane, sprang up and flew toward the fuselage, reassembling itself, until it began to resemble a massive 747, hovering over the water. The flames died out and the smoke disappeared, while the plane backed up and rose into the sky, repositioning itself at the exact spot where everything originally went wrong. The engines started up again and the plane continued forward, its passengers and crew unaware of the tragedy they were about to meet.

This is Where God Lived (2017)

Content Warning: This story contains profanity and may not be appropriate for younger readers.

This was published in the 2017 issue of Skelter, a literary magazine published by The University of Baltimore. It remains my most provocative work of flash fiction to date, and offers a taste of my future content.

This is Church. This is where you’ll go on a Sunday afternoon for an Easter egg hunt. This is where you’ll meet new kids your age. This is where you’ll go every Sunday afterword. This is the reason why you’ll have to get up early on Sunday. When you ask your mom why you can’t just sleep in, she’ll tell you it’s because it is time for worship. This is where you’ll go to sing hymns and songs of praise. Up there is where the preacher sits. Over there is where the old ladies sit. In the corner there is where your friends sit. You sit with your mom and dad at first but eventually you’ll want to sit with your peers. This is the baptismal. This is where you’ll be dunked in water, water that will wash away your sins and bring you into the world like a newborn. Everyone cheers, thinking that you’ve just taken an important step in your faith, but really you’re just doing it because your elders told you it was the right thing to do, and because that girl told you that you would go to hell if you don’t get baptized. You’re afraid of hell. Hell scares you more than any horror movie or work of fiction. To you, hell is real, and everyone is at risk of falling headlong into its depths.

This is where you’ll see a grown man break down and cry mid-prayer. This is where you’ll see an old lady start speaking in a gibberish that you cannot understand. You’re afraid, because you don’t understand what is going on. This is where you see men and women hug each other, grab each other, hold hands and cry. They raise their hands in the air, close their eyes and sing with righteous fury. They sweat. They get on their knees and bow their heads. Then they get up and go on like nothing ever happened. You have no idea what’s going on. You just want to go home. You just want these people to act normally. You tell yourself that this is a good thing, but deep down inside you know that it’s not normal.

This is where you’ll meet a pretty young lady one Sunday morning. This is where you learn about abstinence. This is where they tell you that condoms don’t work and that if you have sex, you’ll almost be guaranteed to have a baby. This is where they say that lust is always a form of adultery. You’ll ask them if it is still considered adultery if both lustful parties are single, but it’s no use. They’ll just tell you that ‘it’s what Jesus said and move on. This is where you’ll learn that birth control is not effective, and that abortion is murder. This is where you’ll learn that all forms of birth control are murder, and that God intends for you to have as many children as He wants you to have. You live for God. Your life belongs to God. You are God’s slave, God’s servant, God’s bitch.

This is where you feel guilty. This is where you feel tested. This is where you go after finishing your college exams, exhausted both mentally and physically, and wonder if perhaps this whole God thing is real. This is where you start to question your faith. You have a lot of questions, but you’re too afraid to ask them. This is where you start to realize that religion isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. This is where your faith begins to unfold. This is where you feel as though the whole world is judging you because you’re having second thoughts. You’re told that these thoughts are natural and are a part of growing up, but you can’t help but feel that you’re damned already. This is where you tear up, confess your malicious thoughts, ask for forgiveness and hold on to whatever shred of faith you still have. You say that you want to remain faithful, but really you’re in denial and you know it. This is where you go to hang out with your friends. You no longer care about God or salvation. You still believe, but it occupies a small corner of your mind. This is where you go to have some kind of social life, because you have no friends outside the walls of the sanctuary. This is where you go when the real shitstorm of life starts and you turn to God for guidance. But all you get is fear and guilt. You fear that God is screwing you over because you haven’t been a fateful child and because you haven’t read your Bible in a year and because you voted for Obama and because you believe in women's rights and because you support gay marriage and because this whole concept of religion is starting to sound like a fucking joke.

This is where you’ll go for your last Sunday in church. After that, no more. You won’t go next Sunday, or the Sunday after that, or the Sunday after that. You’ll never step foot in a church again. Instead you sleep in on Sunday, because the world is cruel and sleep is precious. And one day, you’ll wake up and realize that God is dead to you. You stand up, take a deep breath, and walk away from the guilt, the superstition, the torment. And you can rest easy at night knowing that there is no hell, and that there is no damnation awaiting you after you die. That you can enjoy the pleasures of the flesh without the fear of damnation. You feel more whole, more fulfilled, now that you are fully in control of your life.

This is where you’ll drive one Friday afternoon. You’ll pull up to the parking lot, turn off your radio, kill the ignition, and step out. You look upon the building that for so long used to be the center of your life. You’ll look on it fondly, and smile at all the memories, both good and bad. You don’t want to go back, but the past is the past, and it is our past that defines us, that makes us who we are now and today. This is where God lived. But to you it’s just a building, now and forever more.

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