Current work and work in progress:
The Trinity Trilogy: The story of several families and the effect those decisions make on past and present lives.
A Middle Grade series.
Stand alone novels: The first is about some friends, and the others are primarily literary historical fiction.
Book of Short Stories: Based upon several that have been published and many of the stories and people fit around a central theme.
Play: a three act play that utilizes the music of several 1960’s musicians as a historical background for two main characters.
I don’t usually publish my work here but a writer I admire has a sort-of contest and he wants a piece of flash fiction (this is 178 words), so here goes (this has been published in the past (no stealin’ – write your own stuff!):
Not nearly enough for a place to sleep and barely enough something to eat, but it is what the White man offers for a photograph.
Five dollars. Just to stand still and let him take a picture. Grandfather’s spirit leans close, his dusty breath on my ear as he laughs.
His own father, Wind-in-the-Sky, long dead, frowns, afraid I will lose my spirit to the White man and his camera.
I look at the man and shake my head. No one will ever take my spirit.
The White man smiles and moves closer – one step, then two – the last of the sun spilling like blood across his shoulder as he moves the focus ring in and out and stares at me through the camera.
“He thinks you’re Navaho,” whispers Grandfather who is not there.
“Or Zuni, maker of the rings with the blue stones,” says Wind-the-Sky, his dust again in my ears.
The White man asks my name and I take a moment to read his eyes.
“James Benson,” I tell him, making up a name from the signs I see over his other shoulder.
He nods, but I know he cannot hear that which is rising in me.
“Okay, hold still. Look right here.”
I stare into the camera’s dark eye, only four generations away from the killer of many soldiers, stealer of many horses, the stories still told Apache children at night when no White man is around.
“The Zuni called us Apachu. The enemy,” whispers my long dead father, and the click of my knife opening is the only thing heard over the growing wind.