"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.