Short stories published from 2004 to present, starting with the most recent:
The March Wind
LCRW, July 2015
An occluded town had its own laws of nature. You could only walk there at night. Only someone born in the town could leave and return freely. The name of the place was lost, unreadable and irretrievable to memory, even outside. Inside, the machines were broken. Its constants were its own, but it had its constants.
A Spotter’s Guide
Betwixt, October 2014
They come back for weddings, for funerals, for birthdays. For stupid reasons and for good ones, too.
Lightspeed, April 2012
The apartment was in his name, and the Accord was in hers. It took Lauren less than a minute to step out one door and into the other. She put her suitcase in the floorboard and her laptop bag in the passenger seat. Her container garden fit snugly in the back.
Lightspeed, May 2011
He wasn’t the roughneck sort who usually came around looking for a guide. Right age, maybe: Seventeen, eighteen. But the boy had a pressed, conservative look to him. Skinny, clean-shaven, all done up in slacks and suspenders and a white, sweaty shirt. I didn’t know what to make of him, and I didn’t like that I didn’t know.
Miguel and the Viatura
Futurismic, June 2010
Miguel knew so little about his brother’s life: it spun in a wild, elliptical orbit which now and then intersected with Miguel, tugged him onto brief, strange paths.
The Earth of Yunhe
Shine: An Anthology of Optimistic Science Fiction
Solaris Books, April 2010
The jail was lit by a single yellow bulb. I strode down the hall of open doors to the lone locked cell at the end, and my shadow pitched across the walls like a drunk. There was a tripod stool outside of Xiaohao’s door; I rapped twice on the thick metal and sat down. After an uncertain moment of silence, I heard my brother stir on the other side.
Strange Horizons, August 2009
As far as he could tell, the servitor was wild. That was rare, but not unheard of — now and then an electrical storm mixed up the things’ programming, left them running on instinct or wild AI or dead memories. Where it had come from was anyone’s guess. Perhaps the estate of a nearby technocrat, perhaps the Little City itself. The old man had briefly (very briefly) considered asking around in town—had anyone heard about a lost servitor? But he was afraid it might be put down or recycled. Besides, it suited him to have something strange to care for.
The Transmigration of Aishwarya Desai
Interzone 223, July 2009
Blood God Blood
Black Static 7, October 2008
The Redaction of Flight 5766
Sybil’s Garage 3, August 2006
You and I in the Year 2012
LCRW 16, July 2005