I carve deep grooves into the face before me, loose sand falling to the ground in small red piles. The eyes stare back at me

V isha screwed the silencer onto her Glock-19 and rested its tip on the SUV’s steering wheel. She aimed past the windshield and fixed her

I   magine Genesis, order from disorder.         I sat on the sun-warmed tarmac with seventeen other female prisoners waiting to board

Y ou do this man, we crew, yeah?” I nod, but it’s lost in the shake that has taken hold of me. I try to

O   n my desk, nestled among the chess pieces I use for paperweights, is a To Do list with a single entry.    

“…Travellers ne’er did lie,  though fools at home condemn them.” (William Shakespeare: The Tempest; Act 3, Scene 3) D aphne and Ari pulled up at

O ne day after writing a blogpost reviewing a movie, I was sent a cease and desist letter in the mail. It explained that I’d

T he first smiting we saw was Trevor Wolfson on the local weather channel. His job was mostly to point at the radar and look

G ood morning, it’s nine o’clock. You’re listening to BBC Radio Ulster. The headlines: A soldier has been shot dead in an IRA ambush on

“Goodnight sweet prince; and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”                     William Shakespeare; ‘Hamlet’