From pregnant teens to concert violinists to neurotic artists and obsessive janitors, my characters attempt to understand themselves and the world around them.
A symphony violinist who gives up her career to get pregnant through IVF and an insecure young artist who negotiates the New York artwork are bound together by a fatal accident which profoundly affects both of their identities.
Grappling with the role of art and surrender, as well as the creation of families and the complexities of relationships, By Accident is a character-driven story filled with smart, nuanced women. Recently completed,I will be looking for representation soon.
Barbara didn’t look up at the blinking
“DON’T WALK” sign until the sound of car brakes skidding screeched too close to her. In an instant she saw the car, the fender, the hood, like a series of snapshots. Then she was lifted into the air and the stroller was jarred from her grasp. She hit the pavement and heard her hip crack. She heard the skidding car crash into a telephone pole, heard the whip and fizz of wires snapping, and the clatter of millions of tiny shards of glass exploding into the intersection. For a split second, she heard nothing. Then a high-pitched ringing in her ears, like the San Francisco cable car bell, but it didn’t stop. Her head was pounding and pain pulsed through her body with no clear origin. The pavement was rough on her cheek. Little bits of rock dug into her skin. She couldn’t hear anything above the ringing in her ears. She struggled to open her eyes, blinking through a stream of blood. A blur of people were running toward her and toward the car. Her groceries were littered across the street. Eggs cracked. Honey Nut Cheerios on the curb. Her travel coffee mug was rolling away from her. A tangled black shape was overturned in the road, wheels dangling in the air. The stroller?
The Masters Review Volume V Shortlist | Spring 2016
Fish Publishing Flash Fiction Prize Shortlist | 2016
"The first time I ran away it ended with:
a school suspension
a welt on my back from the belt my dad used
Why? Why? Why? repeated like the whine of a siren overhead"
Literal Latte | Spring 2015
"Mom said, it's important for me to serve, and that’s all she said about it, nothing about my dead little brother or Dad’s grief poured into the hood of broken-down cars in our front yard, or about the trouble I was in with the county and school and that other thing. …"
StoryGlossia | March 2003
"'Bingo,' Fran answered, and it was settled. …"