My Summer in a Gospel Group We were a small Southern gospel group — more garage band than anything polished. A keyboardist who carried the lead, a guitarist, a drummer, two other singers, and me. There was an older gentleman who’d sing a featured solo. Very moving. We weren’t great. But we had something. We […]

Before I was born you knew me. You gazed on me with love and rocked me in the arms of hope.

A short work about two confrontations—one involving steel, the other exposure—and what remains after the doors close.

Death: When I am gone and not alive, my exploits never told, I hope you remember me as I was, before I grew this old.

Shortly after I arrived, the placement agency that had sent me there called. They were apologetic. They told me they could reassign me immediately if I wanted out. I told them no. I would stay and complete the job.

The web was still new then—not vastly public, not casual. Database-driven website connections were custom-built, expensive, and rare.

Most days, it was just the two of us. He was older than I was and knew the procedures by heart, the kind of person who respected every step because he understood what depended on it.

The expressway wraps the city in monotony, passing warehouses and exits that no longer bother to announce themselves. That night, the rain drenched everything.

Footsteps pass through the room. Voices spill and fade. Someone weeps. Someone prays. All of them kind, and all of them far away.

A quiet, intimate short story exploring unconscious desire, marriage, and the subtle distance between two people sharing the same room.