My work
“the 71%”
narrative essay
In the afternoons, I run in Prospect Park. Two or three days a week, I tie up my laces and hit the pavement, taking the long loop between the trees.
Love — for our customers — in the time of corona
technical blogpost
I hear weird sounds coming from the walk-in closet we've now turned into an office.
Shots fired. Ambulances screaming. The sound of jazz music behind the voice of Steve Buscemi.
false starts
narrative essay
In 2020, the number of false starts I’ve encountered have been dizzying. Blame it on this Covid, this president, this year, but it’s like my brain is fragmented and I only have access to one compartment at a time.
We all fall down—an excerpt
fiction
Duke was close. Nikki could always tell.
His body would stiffen, the veins in his neck popping out like rigid worms, and then he’d make that noise— that deep, guttural groan like someone was stabbing him—and he’d collapse on top of her, wet and heavy like a sack of used towels.
Dim-witted
nonfiction essay
Where I am is a tight, 100 square foot home office with a small closet and cat toys scattered on the floor. It’s just off the left of my long, gray hallway, and I’ve ornamented it in soft yellows and pinks, photos of pastel cactus, and a large green hanging plant placed in a gold bowl.