"India.Ari,” Stickman Review, Winter 2026.

I’d never listened to R&B artist India.Arie when I named my blog after her in 2007 and I still haven’t. Yet there on the sidebar of my Blogspot is a verse from her song, “Headed in the Right Direction." I guess my 23-year-old self found it humorous to quote inspirational lyrics so at odds with my subdued and ironic demeanor as the leading message in the public journal I’d created to document my nine months living in India. Above the India.Arie excerpt — my name being Ari being the obvious joke — is a photoshopped image of me hanging off the wing of a plane, the sky behind me the faded pastel colors of early evening as viewed from 30,000 feet.

"I’m Finally Writing About Karl Ove Knausgaard,” Literary Heist, Autumn 2025.

I fell under the spell of Norwegian author Karl Ove Knausgaard upon reading the first pages of the first volume of his six-part, 3,600-page ejaculation of auto-fiction named after the 20th century’s most reviled book, My Struggle. Even before that, when I came across the book in a Brooklyn bookstore in 2015, I experienced a strange attraction. Displayed along a table of inviting, enticing covers, there was Knausgaard staring at me with dark eyes and flowing Nordic dark hair, in a dark shirt, challenging me to pick up a copy. To handle his pain. To immerse myself in his struggle.

“The Moral of Purse Snatching,” After Dinner Conversation: Vol. 6, Issue 10, October 2025 (p.85).

The cheeseburger was the first indication that the evening would not go as planned. Specifically, the act of ordering it. Not quite transgressive, but uncalled for and highly unusual. Everly’s big brown eyes surged forward in their sockets when I informed the waiter what I’d be having.

“I thought you said you didn’t eat red meat?” she asked after the clean shaven young man departed with our order.

I explained that I occasionally made exceptions for restaurants.

“Antiques Are Not Nostalgic,” Tales of the Unreal:Vol. 8, September 2025 (p.109).

Contrary to what you might expect, antiques are not sentimental. We’ve hardened over time and sentimentality is soft. We do hold a special spot in our hearts, which beat at the sluggish pace of a large whale’s heart, for the tiny subset of humans who look after us daily, our guardians. Without their attendance, our already rigid joints and hardened arteries would, in a word, plasticize.

“The Planetarium,” Kaytell Ink Publishing, Winter 2024 (p.57).

Daniel’s eyelids drooped as Mercury orbited the sun a few feet above his head. He wondered how long a year was on Mercury, and how long ago he’d forgotten the answer. He shifted his backside up the bench and felt a twinge where the surgery had removed a vertebrate. Recovery was going well but not as well as he let on. He glanced at Roger to his right as Venus swooped down and began its arching journey across the ceiling. Roger resembled an oversized gnome. His crossed arms rested on his belly and loose threads hung from his cutoff jeans. His hair had gone white years ago, and lately it threatened to simply go.