Taryn the Contortionist

 

                 

Casey was not a contortionist.  Although most never dream to exploit it, every day scores of people are born double-jointed with pliant, rubber-like bones.  Not Casey.  To compensate, she’d tried everything imaginable to increase her flexibility, but she was no closer to being a contortionist than she was to being elected president of Liberia.  Yoga, Pilates, dance class, guided meditation, you name it, and she rushed at it with maximum effort only to be gravely disappointed.

 

She even tried lying on The Rack, the medieval torture device Anvil designed.  She focused on her reflection in the mirrored ceiling as the tightly-bound leather straps twisted around her wrists and ankles.  Casey gave a desperate nod and sucked in as much oxygen as her lungs would allow while Anvil turned the primitive wooden wheel.  The cracking and snapping might’ve all been auditory hallucinations, but after she limped out of his apartment, she felt like her whole structure had been sledge-hammered.  She spent the next week in excruciating pain, but worse than that, she was still no more flexible than a glass window. 

             

No, Casey was not a contortionist and other than the fact that she looked sexy in a sequined leotard she had few valuable attributes.  She couldn’t juggle, was terrified of heights, and had no control over animals.  The one time she attempted fire-breathing she singed a bald patch into her scalp the shape of Ohio.  She had also tried swallowing swords, walking on crushed light bulbs, and hammering nails into her nasal passages.  Luckily for her, Zero, the handlebar-mustached MC, was also pre-med.  Otherwise you’d be reading a much different story.

             

Casey was not a contortionist.  She was a sidekick, a hype chick, eye candy, a pusher, and about a dozen other degrading nicknames that the talent whispered behind her back.  Her sister Taryn was born with the ability to manipulate herself into impossible positions that dropped jaws night after night, but Casey couldn’t even touch her toes without wincing in pain. 

             

Taryn, of course, was a contortionist.  Let me re-phrase that.  Taryn was the contortionist who put asses in the seats.  Two years ago when Zero rented out the ground floor of a roach-infested warehouse to start what he christened “The End Times Collective,” the group would pop bottles if they sold enough tickets to cover the electric bill.  Now, thanks to Taryn’s hyped performances, they were waiting for the Peep Show place upstairs to bankrupt so they could expand.  

             

Since May they’d been doing a show every night (except Mondays) to standing-room-only crowds that were shoveled in so tightly that if the fire department weren’t afraid of stepping their boots into the crime-ridden neighborhood, they would’ve shut down the show and handed Zero a binder full of fines.

             

No, unfortunately Casey was not a contortionist.  Don’t get me wrong.  She wasn’t a complete waste of DNA.  True, she couldn’t hold a job, sew a button or drive a car, but she had timing, mic skills, movie star glamour and a body that was mannequin solid.  Even after a sweaty performance, her hell-fire red hair was Japanese-straight.  Her skin was naturally bleached and under her right eye was a galaxy-pattern of freckles that guys had lustfully fixated on since high school.  If you were the nitpicking type you might say her nose was too flat or her smile was too crooked, but other than those minor details she was about as knockout as they come. 

             

Aside from sharing the same devious green eyes, the two girls couldn’t be more different.  Casey burned if she even imagined the sun, but Taryn’s was naturally dark-skinned and had frizzy, black hair.  She often spent hours flat-ironing her hair to mimic her older sister’s.   Casey also towered over her sister, who stood five foot in a pair of combat boots.  The two both could’ve been models, but while Casey had the skeletal perfection that belonged on a runway, Taryn had the seductive curves of a pin up girl.

             

In private, the two were equally outgoing and engaging, but unless she was on stage, Casey rarely spoke above a whisper.  Taryn, on the other hand, would cartwheel around the room, making friends with everyone.  Tagging along was often exhausting for Casey, who had trouble finishing a sentence unless she was speaking to someone one on one.

             

Now as life-changing as the moment was, Casey couldn’t remember the day her mother drunkenly informed her that she was going to be a big sister.  She had erased from her memory the shrieks spilling from her mother’s esophagus as Taryn popped out of her womb.  She had also completely forgotten the hours she spent crouched on an emergency room floor, watching a stranger yank a crying mass of gore out of her mother. 

             

The things she couldn’t block out, however, were slightly more damaging.  Casey was five years older than her sister, but due to bizarre biology, it was Taryn who had her period first.  Casey was sixteen, and flat as a chalkboard, crying while her mother scooped chocolate ice cream into a giant bowl to celebrate her younger sister’s journey towards womanhood.  It would be five months before Casey would share a similar experience; only in her case there wasn’t any chocolate ice cream.  There wasn’t even a congratulatory high-five.

             

Their lives were scattered with all sorts of anomalies like that.  Taryn was the first to swap tongue with a boy, the first to graduate high school (Casey was expelled for allegedly starting a fire in the teacher’s lounge), and the first to lose her virginity.  But instead of harboring jealousy and resentment towards her younger sister, Casey felt something much darker.  The two sisters were inseparable and often shared the same bed, only while Taryn was dreaming about faeries and cotton candy; Casey was twirling her hand under the covers, imagining her sister scrubbing herself in the shower. 

             

Demented, I know, but Casey’s nighttime habits went far beyond misplaced teenage lust.  Psychiatrists might argue that her sexual confusion was caused by fraternal competition or pent up rage over her late development, but if you explored her subconscious, you wouldn’t uncover a single negative emotion.  No, it was deeper than that.  As wrong as she knew her feelings were, Casey had accepted one simple fact- that she was madly in love with her sister.

             

She had been with boys and even a few girls, but at the end of the night, after the sweat had dried its stink into the sheets, she was an empty canyon of hurt.  It wasn’t that she hadn’t yet met the right person, or that everyone she spread for treated her like landfill; it was that there was only room in her heart for one soul.  Thanks to a twisted joke designed by her creator (Jesus, Allah or whomever), that soul also happened to belong to her sister.

             

As improbable as it was, Casey tortured herself trying to learn if their love was reciprocal.  When the two played with their dolls, Casey created scenarios where two sisters were married and living in a dream house in the Caribbean.  Taryn often played along, but grew bored quickly, crushing the game by saying, “Sisters can’t get married, silly.”

             

Every time Taryn was devastated after a football player or a band geek broke her heart, Casey would crawl in bed beside her and hold her as she emptied her tear ducts.  She’d lean her face into the back of Taryn’s neck and promise things like, “I’d never cheat on you.”

             

Taryn was there for Casey also.  Casey was fire, but she had her moments of weakness too.  She often lied about the reason, but it wasn’t uncommon for Taryn to sneak through their bedroom window, with fresh grass blades still in her hair, to find Casey crouched in the bathtub burying her face in her knees.  Taryn would do her best to alleviate her sister’s pain, but her hands never wandered to the places Casey’s did.  Her comforting was innocent.  Casey, on the other hand, was a little too forceful, as if she were some jock shoving himself on his prom date.

             

Still, the two were sisters, and after the post-sex smile faded from her face, Casey was all Taryn had, and while she didn’t share the same lustful devotion, she couldn’t sleep without her body beside her.      

 

What kept Casey sane (at least as close to sane as she could be) was that she wasn’t forced to bury her feelings.  Well, not exactly.  Believe it or not, working for The End Times Collective Casey was actually encouraged to embrace her perversion.  You see, The End Times Collective wasn’t your typical circus side-show.  Not even close.  What Zero had assembled was perhaps the most deviant spectacle to perform on a stage since Caligula was entertained by midgets fellating a horse.

             

Let me give you an example.  While Taryn dangled on a trapeze thirty feet in the air, Casey would be grinding lap dances in the third row.  When it was time for the finale, Casey would rush back to the stage to watch her sister twist her body into a swastika.  With Taryn swinging above her in the vilest symbol of our century, Casey would be kneeling below simulating masturbation.  

             

Between you and me, if you looked closely enough, most of the time she wasn’t simulating.

 

As long as it was part of the act, Casey was permitted to lust after her younger sister without repercussions.  She could flirt, drool, grope; anything was fair game and audiences swallowed her deviant acts with a landslide of applause.  The crew often joked that Casey could violate her sister with a broom handle and the crowd would still roar for an encore.  Under the glaring green and yellow lights, there wasn’t a single perversion the sisters couldn’t embrace.

 

But when the lights went down, Casey was forced to shove her emotions deep in her stomach pit.  This was difficult as Taryn was an easy lay, and Casey had to watch her sister slut herself around with practically every fan who asked for her autograph.  But even more crushing than that, what really shoved Casey off the ledge was when Taryn fell for August.

 

August was new to The End Times, but his star was rising rapidly.  His specialty was pain, and his performances were known to end with the stage resembling a battlefield.  His shows were different depending on his tolerance that night, but what he was most famous for, was stapling balloons to his chest and then ordering audience members to throw darts at him.  

 

He was only a few inches over five feet, and spoke with a cartoonish voice.  Acne scars pocketed his face and every inch of his skin (including the webbing between his fingers) was unevenly discolored.  Imagine the dork reading Tolkien in the back of study hall, the loser whose brown-bagged lunch stunk up the whole room.  That was August.  But years of locker room beat-downs had turned him fearless and this made him incredibly desirable to the The End Times misfits.  

 

Taryn and August had been exclusive for three months when Casey officially imploded.  One night, while the boys at the E.R. were stitching August up after a garden shears’ accident, the two sisters stayed in to have a girl’s night.  After several pinot noir bottles, Casey spilled her guts.

 

“I love you,” she said, gazing into her sister’s dreary eyes.

 

“I love you too,” Taryn responded, her head rolling heavy on her shoulders.

 

“No, you don’t understand.”  Casey held her sister’s hands and squeezed.  “I really love you.  Like more than a sister.”

 

“And I love you too,” Taryn slurred, growing annoyed.  Casey was infamous for dripping overly emotional and sappy.  “I love you too,” Taryn continued, hoping to shut her sister up.

 

Whether she completely misread her cue, or just didn’t care is debatable.  Either way, Casey leaned in and planted a sloppy kiss on Taryn’s lips.  Frozen by confusion and alcohol, Taryn didn’t react until Casey’s tongue slithered into her mouth.

 

“What the hell are you doing?”

 

“It’s ok,” she whispered.  Casey leaned in again.  Taryn dodged and her sister’s lips slid along her cheek.  “Don’t be afraid.  I love you.”

 

“What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Nothing’s wrong.  I thought this is what you wanted.”

 

“Why on earth would you think that?”  Taryn jerked her hands out of her sister’s grip.  She stumbled backward and tripped over an empty wine bottle.  She smacked the back of her head on the ground and lost consciousness.  When she came to, she was laying in bed, still wearing her outfit from the night before.  Normally she woke up to her sister’s warm body pressed up against hers.  But that morning Casey was curled fetally on the floor.  A lone mouse sniffed at her leg.  She reflexively kicked and scared it back into the wall.

 

The sisters never discussed the incident but their whole circle sensed the new barrier between them.  Even during their performances the two never made eye contact, with Casey staring into space as she rubbed her tits during the climax.  What was once an audience favorite quickly became filler, with half the crowd rushing to the bathroom during their set. Zero tried to patch the gap between the two in order to save the show. 

He forced them to agree to work on new material.  He figured if they were working together at least they’d be speaking.  He was wrong.  Other than barking orders, Taryn didn’t say two words to her sister.  Even when Casey developed a new opening that she considered brilliant, Taryn only said, “Fine.”

 

The new opening was simple yet effective.  Casey would drag a large box to the middle of the stage.  She’d pull out a double-sided dildo and tap on the outside of the box.  The sides would fall away leaving a smaller box in its place.  She’d repeat this until one final box remained, a box too tiny for any normal human to fit in.  Then she’d start up a chainsaw.  When the saw blades were inches from the lid, she’d pretend to hear a voice inside.  Casey would tap the dildo one final time and the box would split revealing Taryn.  She’d tap her gently on the shoulder and Taryn would spread her limbs like a blooming flower.

 

It was quite poetic.

 

When she was in the box, Taryn had to remain perfectly calm.  Otherwise she’d quickly lose oxygen and there wouldn’t be an encore.  Through meditative hypnosis, she slowed her heartbeat to a crawl, only to be awakened by her sister’s signal. 

 

Taryn had been practicing her dismount for four hours when Casey finally snapped.  She wasn’t sure if Taryn was aware of the outside world when she was entranced, but she didn’t care.  She was humiliated over being rejected and desired vengeance.  It was almost too perfect that August stopped by their room the second the box was shut.

 

“Hi,” Casey stammered, covering the box with a bedsheet.  August stood in the doorway, gauze taped around his right wrist.  He was holding a bottle of wine and two glasses. 

 

They clinked together as he entered the room.

 

“Hello.  Is Taryn around?  She told me to meet her here at 9.”

 

“Sorry,” Casey soothed, “She already left.  She went out with Zero.  Dinner, I think.”

 

“Really?  That’s strange.”

 

“That’s my sister.  You’ll see if you stick around long enough.  She’s notorious for flaking out as soon as something better comes along.  Not that Zero’s something better than you, of course.  To her maybe, but not to me.”

 

Casey sat on the box, and seductively crossed her legs.  She twirled an inch of hair around her index and smiled.  August stood in a shadow.  He was used to being rejected, but this time the sting sucked the life from his soul.

 

“I guess.  Tell her I stopped by.”

 

“Wait,” Casey called.  She needed to do damage control and fast, tears were already pooling behind his eyelids.  “I don’t have plans and it’d be a sin for you to down all that wine by yourself.  Let’s drink it together.”

Feeling the spikes of dejected anger, August was easy prey for Casey.  She had years of practice, stealing every boy Taryn had shown even the slightest interest in.  She was older, more experienced and had the strength to exploit the weakness of anyone.  Taryn might’ve been the prettier of the two sisters, but Casey was the most vicious.  It only took half a glass of cabernet to get August’s hands fumbling with her breasts.

August waddled towards the box with his pants around his ankles.  His belt buckle dragged behind him with a dull scrape.  Casey laid back on top of the box, her hair stringing over the sides.  A few inches of wood separated her from her sister.  She imagined Taryn crouched as compactly as her body would allow, the squeaks and moans above hammering into her skull.

 

Casey spread her legs and guided August inside her.  She said all of the dirty lines she’d memorized from porno films, anything to make him pump hard enough, to scream loud enough for Taryn to hear.  His knees knocked against the box with every thrust.  Luckily he was an expert at ignoring pain.

 

“I lied,” Casey hummed in his ear.  “Taryn didn’t go out with Zero.”

 

“What?” he muttered.  He was near the point of no return, his hips shoving faster into hers.

 

“She didn’t go out with Zero.  She’s in the box beneath us.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“I’m teasing.  About the box.  She did go out with Zero, but it was too meet with some people about expanding our show.  She wanted me to tell you she’s sorry for cancelling and that she’ll make it up to you this weekend.”

 

“Why are you telling me this now?”

 

“Because she’ll be back soon.  Don’t worry, I can keep a secret.” 

 

August tried to pull away but it was too late.  He finished and weakly shriveled inside her.  A chalky trail of fluid trickled down her leg, painting the box with a river-like stain.  August hurriedly pulled up his pants and rushed backwards out of the room.

 

“Don’t you want to finish your wine?” Casey yelled.  She shrugged and finished both glasses with two long gulps.  She poured two more and then tapped the red X on the box lid.  The sides fell apart, revealing Taryn’s body.  Her limbs wilted as she fell forward on her face.  Her flesh was still warm, but she was no longer breathing. 

 

Taryn’s heart stuttered faintly against her ribcage.  Like everyone else in The End Times, Casey knew all about C.P.R.  She tilted back her sister’s head and breathed life into her lungs.  Taryn convulsed and coughed a phlegm splatter into the air.  Casey pressed her ear to Taryn’s face and listened to the scattered breaths wheezing through her nostrils.               

“What happened?” Taryn asked.  The room around her spun.  A black shape hovered above her.   She didn’t have to squint to know it was her sister.

 

“You passed out.  You were in the box too long.”  Casey rubbed her knuckles under her nose to catch the snot bubbling under her nostrils.  When Taryn stopped breathing it was as if she, herself, had stopped breathing.  The fresh oxygen stung her lungs.  “I’m sorry.   It was my fault.”

 

“What are you talking about?”  Taryn grabbed the side of her face.  She blinked her eyes hard trying to kick-start her brain.  Her vision cleared and the sorrow on Casey’s face sparked her memory.  The grunts of August’s guttural moans and Casey’s orgasmic shrieks pounded her ear drums.  “You cunt,” she sneered.

 

“Taryn, I can explain.”

 

“You selfish animal.  I could’ve suffocated in their.  All because of your god damn jealousy.  I didn’t say shit when you balled Timmy Gennaro after my senior prom when I was passed out on the floor.   Or when you sucked off Gar in the men’s room ten minutes after I told you he was the one.”

 

“Taryn, I made a mistake.  I couldn’t help myself.”

 

“That’s the story of your pathetic life.  You can’t help yourself.  Every time I’m the slightest bit content, you have to swoop in and destroy everything.  I’m so sick of it.  I’m sick of you, sick of you shadowing me everywhere I go.  Sick of looking at your weasely face every morning when I wake up.”

 

“Stop it.  I love you.”  Casey began to shake uncontrollably.  Her face scrunched itself as she twitched, her eyes darting diagonally in their sockets.  Taryn bared her teeth.  She squeezed her fists tightly, her fingernails drawing blood from her palms.

 

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” she snarled.  “You love me.  You sick fuck, you don’t even know what love is.  You know why?  Because no one loves you.  No one’s ever loved you.  The only thing you’re good for is the wet hole you have between your legs.”

 

Casey covered her face with her hands.  Tears streamed between her fingers into tiny puddles on the floor.  Taryn stood and marched to the door.  She took one last look at her sister and spit at the back of her head.

 

“I’m done with this.  Good luck finding someone else to deal with your shit.”

 

“Taryn, wait,” Casey turned and reached out towards her sister.  “It’ll never happen again, I swear.”

 

“You’re right, because you’re dead to me.  Enjoy your life.”

 

“Wait,” Casey lunged forward but it was too late.  Taryn was gone.  Casey fell onto her face.  She laid there motionless for three days.  Even when the spit dried into her hair, she still felt its phantom presence, a constant reminder of her sister’s venom.  

 

On the fourth day, she lost consciousness, the demons in her head finally ceasing their torment.  When she finally rejoined the world, Zero was spoon-feeding her lukewarm tomato soup.  She flinched as the spoon clacked into her top row of teeth. 

 

“Where’s Taryn?”

 

“Taryn’s gone.  She quit.  You really screwed things up.”

 

Casey slouched into the bed.  Zero forced another spoonful against her closed lips.  She twisted her head spilling the soup onto the sheets.  A scarlet stain grew between her knees.

 

“You have to eat,” he said, his hand shaking.  The night before, he’d closed the show by snapping a bear trap on his wrist.  He could barely close his fist around the spoon. 

 

“Open wide.”

 

Casey opened her mouth and let Zero guide the spoon inside.  The metal rattled against her teeth.  She swallowed and almost gagged on a chunk of celery.

 

“What am I going to do?” she asked, shrinking under the blankets.

 

“We can still use you,” he answered.  “August needs a hype chick.  I’ve already discussed it with him, so you’re in.  You two should meet up this afternoon to rehearse.”

 

“I can’t.  I have to find Taryn.”

 

“That’s not a good idea.  She’s in a vicious state right now.  She took a swing at me, and I’ve been nothing but golden to her.  She’ll be back.  She just needs time to calm down.  You did some serious damage.”

 

“I’d never hurt her on purpose.”  Casey sunk more into the bed, her body melding with the damp sheets underneath her.  She felt her insides turn to ooze.  “I have to get out of here.” 

 

Zero pressed down on her shoulders and held her to the bed.  “You’re not going anywhere.  I’ve already lost one star, I’m not losing a second.  You’re going to finish this soup, then August is going to come down and you’re going to work on your routine.  Understood?”               

 

Zero stared ice into her eyes.  Casey was beyond feeling fear, but she was so broken that all she could do was follow instructions.  She nodded weakly and opened her mouth.

 

That night, while August stapled balloons to his flesh, it was Casey’s job to hand out darts to the crowd.  She tiptoed throughout the first few rows wearing a Little Bo Peep costume and carrying a basket.  As she passed, guys and girls stretched out their arms to grab a dart, their hands often groping under her skirt.   

Cell phone cameras flashed in her face.  Someone spilled beer down the front of her shirt.  Casey looked back at the stage.  Not seeing her sister she panicked.  She reached into the basket and grabbed one of the darts.  Without hesitation, she plunged it into her throat.         

 

Casey awoke to the sound of artificial breathing.  In the bed next to hers, a cancer patient’s heart was struggling to pump blood from rotten organ to rotten organ.  She hadn’t been bathed in weeks and smothered the room with a mildewy odor of hopelessness.

 

Casey opened her eyes expecting to see the angel of death hovering over her.  But there was no one standing by her bedside.  In the hallway, the soft shoes of nurses trampled by her door.  She tore the I.V. out of her bruised wrist and climbed out of bed.  If she were on a high floor, she was going to leap out the window.  If she wasn’t then she was going to smash the glass and slash her wrists.

 

Her legs, sore from lack of use, collapsed underneath her and she tumbled to the ground.  The floor felt cold on her cheek.  She stayed perfectly still, internally crying rivers.  She drifted in and out of nightmares as gossiping nurses past by without as much as glancing in her direction.  The cancer patient coughed phlegmy death into the atmosphere.

 

“What are you doing on the floor?” Taryn asked.

 

Casey’s neck cracked as she turned her head.  Taryn stood in the doorway, a black faux fur coat wrapped around her torso.  She crouched down and helped Casey back onto the bed.  Taryn slid a pillow behind her head and motioned for her to lie back.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“I should ask you the same question,” Taryn scolded, pointing to the gauze taped over Casey’s throat.  A pale blue hospital gown stuck to her flesh, the paper crumpling with every breath.  “What were you thinking?”

 

“I couldn’t live without you.  It hurt too much and I couldn’t stand it.”

 

“You’re crazy.  You had to know I’d come back eventually.”

 

“I didn’t think you would after what I did to you.  I’m so sorry.”

 

“What you did?  I was about to die and you saved me,” Taryn grabbed her sister’s hand.  It was cold like a surgeon’s.  Both sisters shivered at the touch.  “You saved me just like you always do.  Thank you.”

 

“Stop it.”  Casey jerked her hand away.  Taryn quickly clutched it again.  She crouched down to Casey’s level, so that their lips were an inch apart.

 

“When I was six and I swallowed laundry detergent, you were the one who shoved her fingers down my throat to make me vomit.  When mom died and I was going to slash my wrists, it was you who wrestled the razor from me.  Do you remember?  You locked me in the closet until I calmed down.”

 

“Yes, I remember.”

 

“I cursed you.  I hated you.  I couldn’t understand how you could be so together when everything was so fucked.”

 

“I had to be,” Casey said.  A loose hair dangled in front of her face and tickled her nose.  She pushed it to the side and held it behind her head.  Tears dripped down both girls’ cheeks.  Casey sniffled and tried to blink them away.  “You needed me.  I couldn’t fall to pieces.  I had to be strong.”

 

“I know.  You’ve always been there for me and I love you for it.”

 

“You don’t understand.  I almost killed you.  I slept with August just to strike at you and I almost killed you.”

 

“No, I do understand.  When I was in the box and you were on top of me, I felt you.  At first, I’ll be honest, I wanted to claw your box out.  But then, through the wood I felt you.  I felt your sweat mixing with mine.  Your anger, your pain shot through my body and I understood.  For the first time, I understood.  Even when mom was alive you were all I had.  You were my whole world.”

 

“And you were mine.  I know how I feel is messed up.  It’s twisted and demented and I need to be locked away somewhere.  I need shrinks and anti-depressants and electro-shock therapy.  I need to be straight-jacketed in a room somewhere far away.”

 

“Where you need to be is right where you are.  With me.”  Taryn wiped another tear underneath Casey’s eye.  She smoothed it between her index and thumb until it was gone.  “Besides, August is only a boy and you’re my sister forever.  I’m sorry I rejected you.  I was afraid to admit it, but I love you.  Sisters are supposed to be close, but we’re so much more than that.  Casey, I love you too.”

 

She pressed her lips to Casey’s and smacked a gentle kiss.  It wasn’t a friendly gesture or the kind of romantic kiss that you’d see in a Hollywood ending.  It was something more.

 

 

 

 

 

Bio: Rich Mallery stays pale in the summer, prefers pencils to pens and is easily distracted by ice storms.  He refuses to look both ways before he crosses the street, colors outside the lines and dreams about living in a post-apocalyptic world.  He writes every free second he has.  He writes on walls, the stack of bills on his dresser, his arms- anything that has room for words.  Although he deeply loves the city of New York where he’s from, if the boroughs started burning, he wouldn’t stop dancing.  Rich is currently a writer for Fangoria Magazine and has been published in several literary journals including Evergreen Review, Metal Scratches, 10,000 tons of Black Ink, Foliate Oak, and Drops of Crimson.