Violane, my French lover, trained her lips on the third violin, whose legs spilled into the aisles, ruffles running up and down his shirt. She played a mean viola even on nights when she felt vile. That night she rained a valley of tears, her blossom dewy, her phial spilling its sticky orange juice. Such a beautiful name, but it means rape and hate in French. That night rain fell into the kitchen while I prepared my favorite penne sprinkling my homemade herb mix into my sauce and then emptying a green vial of love, an aphrodiasac, surefire, according to my Austrian herbalist, who told me, "Add it to your dish, then vait a vile." That night after Violane left me, I found a lovely penny caught in the crevice of the floorboard and put it in my pocket for luck, and that was just the beginning.
lives in New Hampshire and builds timber-frame barns for a living. His work has appeared in many journals, including Furnace Review, 2 River View, Otoliths, and others. He has an MFA from Southwestern Missouri State, where he won the Emerson-Tate Award for his writing.