"On the eve of a massive golden jubilee celebration that is to fill the streets of New Delhi, I am helping my boss into the bathtub for the last time. The task is made difficult by the fact that he had a sip of liqueur after dinner. We were at a party hosted by the Kenyan ambassador earlier this evening, and as a final course they served flutes of Chartreuse with a horrible-looking pudding. He took the glass, saluted the hosts, and with a flourish made the motions of drinking it all in one go. A German delegate said, “Ho, ho!” and followed suit. But when my boss set the glass back on the table, I could see that it was still completely full. The liquid had barely passed his lips..." READ MORE
"...She checked herself in the powder room. She looked like a Cindy Sherman photograph. A woman pretending to be a woman. Thirty-five years old, hair in a practical bob, mommy arms poking out of a brightly patterned Lilly Pulitzer shift. Her image was framed by sage green wallpaper patterned with cyclode moths. 'All I need is an ax,' she thought..." READ MORE
Winner First Prize, 2009 Short Story Fiction Open. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize (Glimmer Train Press, Inc., 2010).
"...Jigme broke a sweat from the betelnut clamped between his teeth. Heat spread with an upward flush from the leaf juice in his throat to his ears and up his scalp. As he chewed, he watched an ant laboring over the gravel with the dried out shell of another ant on its back. He collected spit, took aim, and shot a red measure of betel juice into the path of the ant, not intending to harm but merely to alter the ant’s course slightly. The ant paused, rounded the bubbly red juice and continued scaling the mountains of gravel. With less intention but similar doggedness, another measure of red in the form of a hematoma was making its way along one of Jigme Wangchuk’s ventricles toward his basal ganglia. He watched the sky, the Friday plane was often late..." PURCHASE HERE
"Looking down at the bus from my window at the Tenzin Hotel, I can see my silver suitcase on the roof rack amid all sorts of other bags; the blue tarp has not yet been roped into place. I think maybe today we are going to die. Other passengers are milling around in the debris of the narrow parking lot finding lines of morning light to stand in against the cold. I count seven dogs sleeping in a pile of damp sand, still wet from last night's thunderstorm. I've come back up to my room to double check that I haven't left anything behind and now I want to stay here. Forfeit the next leg of the journey. Order some Wai Wai noodles and watch BBC with the curtains drawn. Instead I go down and climb onto the bus. Seat number four is behind the driver by the window..." READ MORE