Moths

New fiction.

Z.H. Gill’s Burial Mag has published my new story, Moths.

Here’s how it starts:

The moth is dead at the center of my pillow, brown wings folded, little legs curled like plastic straws. I bend down and touch one of its wings. For a few uneasy minutes I wonder if the moth died in mid-air and fell, if moths become ghosts when they die or if people become moths when they die. Then I decide there’s no way I can sleep in my bed tonight. A light breeze wanders in through the open window. It’s always breezy here in Fallston. I sit on the edge of the bed and pray the moth goes to Heaven, and for me to find some rest somehow because it’s past 2 a.m. and I’m tired, broke and desperate for temporary closure until the unoiled engine of my life starts up again.

Then, an orange flash, and a hot boom that shakes the building. I crawl to the window. Smoke coils from the door of the Avenue B laundromat across the street. Inside, a fire alarm whoops and strobes a frantic pulse of white. A nearby minivan yowls and its headlights blink with terror. Driven by onlooker instinct I tug on my shoes and rush downstairs, then out the front door to Avenue B. The air stinks. Old eggs, burnt rubber, gasoline, enough to make me sick. I puke on the wet grass and watch as someone tumbles out of the smoke-choked laundromat door. It’s Charlie McDonough carrying a big change machine.

And here’s a little bit from the middle:

I wonder if the fire has spread, if the whole neighborhood is gone, if I'll ever see my little room again. I've never been an accomplice and I don't know the first thing about being a criminal.

You can read the full short story here. Burial Mag is a great lit mag run by a great human being, and you folks should read it/send Z.H. work.

Moths began as part of a bigger story before I broke it off into its own little thing; I’m hoping to publish the other piece one day.

I’m mostly focused these days on the novel manuscript inspired by Dispatch, tentatively titled The New Times, writing in libraries and breakfast joints. It feels good to be busy and a bit obsessed with the work.

I hope that you’re doing well, that you’re reading and/or writing good and fulfilling things, that you’re doing a better job than I am at finding or maintaining full-time employment, that you’ve got access to fresh air and clear skies and places to walk and swim.

Thank you for reading.