My Writing Sampler – Don’t Bite the Coconut

I remember those holidays so long ago, sitting in my parents’ living room, listening to boiling sap from split Douglas fir, crackling in the fireplace, a box of anonymous candy resting on the coffee table. I’d choose so wisely, considering shape, aroma, past encounters with the dreaded coconut – bitter white pencil shavings hiding under a coating of chocolate. And then, with wary wince, I’d bite in. Ahh, caramel. Merry Christmas to me.

Here is my writer’s sampler. Hope you avoid the coconut.

Today We Were Wolves


Truth: The Parents’ Spectrum

The Cathartic House

Today We Were Wolves

Short fiction. Today We Were Wolves. First place winner, The Pacific Northwest Inlander short fiction contest.

Excerpt: He smells coffee, thick and warm. The way the child is chattering, he wonders if she’s downed some. His mind wanders. Visions of Saddam’s retreat plan, landscapes of chaos and burning oil wells, bully their way past his frontal lobes and smear his thoughts in color — yellow folded into red into black. A hundred flaming whale spouts erupt on the horizon of his surging memory.

You can view the entire text here.


A novel, Whidbey is the tale of an accidental father and his autistic son, thrown together in the crucible of circumstance and faced with the terrors and triumphs of Autism Spectrum Disorder.

Excerpt:  “What is this word, autistic?  Maybe you tell me,”  Moysey asked. Mitchell considered the enigmatic question as he ran a clam strip through the puddle of ketchup sliding down the bevel at his plate’s edge. What did he know about autism, or his son for that matter?

You can order Whidbey here. In addition, Whidbey can be purchased at these sites, or or through your local bookstore.

ISBN: 978-1-4363-2693-3 [Hardcover]

ISBN: 978-1-4363-2692-6 [Softcover]

The Cathartic House

A short story, first appearing in …And Then What Happened? Vol. I – Spokane River Writers.

A tale of cats, fires and an aborted sojourn to Telluride.

Excerpt:  Behind him, in the dim light, are several snoozing lumps. Cats are napping in the hallway,  on armrests, even under the dining room table.  Amidst the feline slumber party, the place seems oddly empty, cold. There are no pictures, no candles and no figurines. Not even a houseplant. The fireplace is boarded up, a desk pushed against it. Multiple lumps line the two large windows facing the street, like seals on a sandbar. Drano slips away, jumping up to the window and settling beside a midsize tabby with shiny fur, slumbering in a shaft of sunlight. The tabby’s front paws dangle lazily over the sill.