Published Work
This is where you'll find what I write for grown-ups. More often than not, it's just as fun to write as Smelly Davis! I've been published in several undergraduate literary journals and various literary magazines over my lifelong writing career, and I look forward to this page expanding as I continue to create and pursue worthwhile storytelling. Here are all my publications that are available online.
Route 7 Review
That happiness had something to do with the stickiness of sweat against my skin, chilled by the November evening, and the rasping vibrancy of breaths smuggled between the swirling blue night and the white-yellow stadium haze as we gathered like children who have nowhere else to go around the band director, a key figure in the Bullard community who had just checked the news.
Blue Marble Review
The Zoom call makes Papaw’s face look redder than usual, and he’s shaved clean, which isn’t usual for November. All throughout the year, Papaw keeps clean shaven, but in November up until New Year’s, Nana allows any sort of facial hair he desires. By far the most popular among the grandchildren is the Santa beard. He can grow his white beard out into a jolly triangle and, with his rosy red cheeks and German nose, all he has to do is throw on a red T-shirt and take off his USAF ball cap and he’s Santa.
APPLAUSE
Chris woke up late Sundays and holidays, which gave Lee time to make tea. He microwaved the water; they didn’t own a tea kettle. It didn’t really boil, but the steam drifted up after four minutes or so, licking his clean-shaven cheeks with welcome softness. If Chris had eaten leftovers the day before, the steam carried a faint smell: barbecue, marinara, greasy undertones of shredded cheese melted on nachos. But when Lee dipped the teabag into the mug, the steam-smell altered to heady spices, soft herbs. Quiet flavors.
Coffee People Zine
His eyes alight as he tries to recall honorable deeds and heroes long dead. This is the storyteller’s currency. It’s how he pays off time to leave him alone while we sit in the coffee shop, surrounded by the heater’s quiet hum and warm, roasted bean smells and forget who we are. “Did you know?” the storyteller asks, and I never do, and it’s wonderful every time.
