“Finding Solitude in Jordan’s Desert,” Nashwaak Review, Vol. 38-39, Winter 2018:
It’s early morning in Rum village, gateway to Jordan’s Wadi Rum desert. Camels idle at the roadside, boys play nearby in an empty square, a sweep of austere one-story brick buildings springs up just beyond. Bedouin villagers stride with purpose in the street. Rum bursts with activity as our taxi pulls into a parking lot brimming with other vehicles and sightseers.
“Cleo,” Flash Fiction Magazine, December 2017:
Every part of my body is sweating—my forehead, my armpits, even my delicates. The guy had professed a love of surprises and old movies, so I roll myself in a carpet for our first date. What the hell, I’m always up for a little drama, and my genuine Afghan rug hadn’t seen much action since I became single.
“I’m here to meet Paul McCartney,” I say, assessing the bartender as a potential friend. It’s my first time in New York City and I want to be careful. “I mean, Sir Paul.”