Another one of my stories has found a home: Dancefloor Tragedy, an urban retelling of the Red Shoes fairytale, this time unfolding inside a goth club. It is dedicated to everyone who’s ever been snubbed for not being one of the Beautiful People.

Here’s a taste:

“You know, Jen really likes those boots you’re wearing.” Pointed. Pissed. Not letting her walk away from the slight. Spidey was usually just a smartass, didn’t know he found such mousey chicks so worthy of a pedestal.

Ravina’s smile was painfully fake. “Thank you.” She tried to walk away again, but Spidey didn’t let go.

“You know what? All this time you’ve been coming here, I ain’t never, ever seen you out on that floor. Whatsa matter, too much primp jammed up your ass?”

Ravina hardly had a chance to muster up her trademark withering glare before he laughed, stepped aside.

“Oh come on, baby. Don’t take yourself so seriously.” He brought his face to hers. “Have a good time tonight, be more than just the wallpaper. Dance til you drop.”

And he squeezed her hand, before letting her go.

Ravina’s scarlet heels twitched. Her mouth fell open as her boots fell into the beat, matched the sliding bass perfectly.

Her first instinct was to reach for an insult, a command, but the way her body channeled the grind, through the roll of her hips…moving not to pose, not just to be seen, but for the thrill of movement itself.

Spidey smiled sweetly and led Jen away.

She didn’t even have to think about what the next move was, it just came, and she flowed into it. Tatiana returned, cocktails in hand. Ravina grabbed hers and downed it without a pause, unmindful for the first time ever of smearing her lipstick.

“Are you OK?” asked Tatiana, a strange look of concern on her face.

Ravina ignored her, watched the girls downstairs. Flat hair, mascara running, laughing and two-stepping and completely unmindful of how scraggly they looked. Why should they get to own the floor?

Her boots traced patterns on the worn carpet, begged for a taste of ballroom parquet.

“I’m going out there.”

Enjoy!

My short story “American Nightmare” has just been podcasted at Well Told Tales.

Small-town misfit Trisha Bell is awakened from her grave by mysterious forces, and there are only two people in the whole world she needs to see: her also-undead greaser boyfriend Sammy, and her still-alive derbygirl best friend Soraya. Sammy joins Trisha in gleefully turning the tables on the small-minded locals, but Soraya is all alone in a town that took its post-9/11 terrorist paranoia out on her family. With gun-toting bullies aiming for her head, Trisha has to be sure her friend is strong enough to handle the panic – while craving a bite of her brains herself.

Come check it out!

My short story “Let Them Bleed” has just been published as a podcast on horror blog Pseudopod.

They started out wanderers, leaving their hometown in search of adventure. Tragedy made four become three, and the boardwalk offers a sordid refuge for the desperate, a corrosive world of hopeless addictions and sadistic saviours lurking beneath the neon lights. The dream of a better life dances within reach, but the way out is a path of knives and needles. Escape promises deep scars – how much will they sacrifice when they run away, this time?

Want a taste?

She went through her closet, not the one with the leathers and silks, but the other one. The one that held the clothes Frankie brought her. Pilled cotton crop tops, cheap vinyl miniskirts, scuffed go-go boots. She searched for something without stains and pulled out a long pink dress, spandex stripper’s number, and dropped it on Liddy’s lap.

Click here to listen.

Fantasy Magazine has just published a short story of mine, “Sweetwater.”

It features a tattooed, beer-swilling mermaid :)

Here’s an excerpt:

She tiptoed around the cattails and found herself gawking at a thick fall of pine-colored hair, skin like matte jade. A woman was sitting in the water, reclining against the bank, a decadent smile on her lips like a lucky gambler lazing in a VIP jacuzzi. Oilcloths and the remnants of a Van Halen t-shirt were knotted together in a ragged bikini top. Behind her, a pile of driftwood, discarded soda cans, pieces of a broken mirror stacked with seashells.

She gazed at Shawna with sapphire eyes and leaned back on her elbows, flashed a shameless grin, and lifted an emerald fish tail up from the water. Dazzling scales caught the starlight, dripped water as she showed off.

Shawna tried to stammer a greeting, an apology for invading her space, anything, but she was speechless.

“Beautiful night, isnt it?” casual as cocktails, as the mermaid lowered her tail back into the water.

Read more at Fantasy Magazine.