Publications

fiction / non-fiction / poetry

The Reformer — Winter Papers (Issue 9)

The cliff-top is mostly thin, patchy grass and heather. Occasionally, the upended remains of a rabbit burrow or a bird nest. Mysterious deposits of sand. I’ve been told there are puffins hidden here and my minimal puffin knowledge is thus: puffins lodge cliff-side, not cliff-top. On my belly, I shimmy to the edge and peek. Imagining what could go wrong is natural. Imagining the way down, the skullcrack on foamy stones, the watery perspective, is natural. The falling distance is thirty, maybe forty feet. Grandad’s reformer was as tall as this.

I’ve been working on this story — HAD

Imagine an archive, upside down and emptied out.

love/debt — HAD

do you remember we once made a pact: to watch one episode of your show followed by one episode of mine, back and forth like that until sleep or sex took us, but your show was forty minutes long and mine only thirty

if you can, listen — X-R-A-Y

First off, endings are quiet. As something/somelove dies, a spacetime wound will appear to you and crickets will come out.

unearthed — Banshee (issue #14)

We hadn’t planned on the terrain. We were offered a clean road around the long mountain, but you wouldn’t take it.

taxis (biology) — Overheard Lit

The lightning storm approaches through the long grass. I fasten the two dozen windows, the one dozen doors, ready to wait out said storm in case of strikes and the death which follows.

gormless — Tír na nÓg (issue #3)

‘This toothache will have me dead soon,’ I say.

blue grass — Emerge Literary Journal

He was a tree, the only tree in the blue grass field

and what of the moth — Wrongdoing Mag (issue #1)

And what of the moth who is afraid of the light?

And where do pensions go when we die?

And when can I leave this queue?

attached — Overheard Lit (issue #3)

After I wrote you six pages about the disaster of a family hike up Carrauntoohil, you said something nice about lampposts and how they show the rain. On the shore of the Devil’s Looking Glass, there were purple stones overrun with blonde veins. I etched one with our initials. I chose a big one, oddly shaped, so nobody would think to skim it.

felling — Tír na nÓg (issue #1)

On the Earth’s very last Sunday, I sat on a mossed lake rock—the one with the incomplete Neruda quote pebble-scratched in its skin—and mulled stubborn thoughts to stew.

Fade Away — the Under Review (issue #3)

Two amateur teams battled for the national basketball championship in 1962—it was not televised. We cleaned up, Grandad would say. He loomed at center, colossal and Greek.

to the starling living in the bush in the tesco car park — Versification

we aren’t normally like that.

she was exhausted and I can be a cunt,

Gravity, Always — Daily Drunk Mag

My cat thinks she’s Jeff Hardy
and I believe it too.

The Prostitution of Truman Burbank’s Wife — Daily Drunk Mag

My girlfriend and I watched ‘The Truman Show’ half-plastered on Connemara whiskey and asked the question about Truman’s wife, Meryl Burbank/Hannah: she was a corporate sex worker, right? Was that legally stipulated?

pub woman — perhappened mag

The pub woman with tarot cards and antique knives read my palm and predicted an imminent encounter on my love line.