Butterfly with a Sting in Its Wing

By Hareendran Kallinkeel

Content Warning: Feticide

Episode-1: Anu (1947-1963): An Evil Breeds

Sixteen years of age, when butterflies trickled down from the cocoon of heaven and snuck into her blouse, tickling her breasts, spelled Anu’s doom.

In the fringes of a forest, where bamboo and reeds grew abundantly in a fertile land, lay her village. Rich in flora and fauna, this coastal strip in the northern part of Kerala offered a variety of livelihood for families. Men, women, and children with skin darkened by the tropical climate toiled in the sun, their bodies thin and bent from hard work.

They roofed their huts with split bamboo stalks, thatched with hay, and caught fish in the freshwaters using traps made of reed slivers. Most of the catch, larger and meaty ones, always went to the landlords. Everything belonged to those masters, who claimed to be the upper caste: land, forest, fish, paddy fields; maybe, even the butterflies. They spoke of laborers as the lower caste; the untouchables, as if touch would transmit a shade, discolor their fair skin.

Father would bake smaller shrimps and speckled pearl fish, over the embers of wood Mother collected from the forest. He took an occasional swig from a mug of toddy and followed it up every time by lighting a beedi. Mother hated his smoking habit, said it caused bad breath. He just waved his hand, the beedi dangling between his fingers, wisps of smoke drifting out of his lips in thick curls.   

Despite her sadness about her family’s plight, Anu danced among the bushes, plucking wild flowers and humming to the tune of chirping birds. Sometimes, she observed a butterfly slowly squeezing itself out of its silky shelter and taking to its wings.   

“Don’t you ever wander off into the outskirts,” Mother used to admonish her. “You’d never know what animals prowled there.”  

Anu had never seen any beasts in the places she cavorted, except for centipedes, scorpions, or snakes. Maybe, perils remained hidden where Mother believed it to be safe; the predators lurking in there more dangerous, viler.

Now, as she scouted the bamboo clusters, Anu felt the eyes. Reddish and shiny, those fiery globes peered at her from inside the womb of shadows. A warm breath, as if someone was sniffing at the scent of her skin, made the tiny hairs on her nape stand up, alerting her to some ominous presence.

She swirled around. A brown bamboo-tree-butterfly fluttered away, agitated by the denial of its desire to rest on her neck. “Sorry, I startled you,” Anu said. “But you frightened me.” She loved the brownish varieties dwelling among bamboo stalks more than those brightly-colored ones flying on the wings of rainbows. 

A sound… dry leaves crunching. Bamboo stalks strained against one another as the wind persisted. More crunching, intense, urgent, like bodies wriggling on the ground. Maybe, cobras mating, or a python strangling a prey in its coils…

Or a Yakshi, that demon in an alluring woman’s form, on the lookout for a male prey, to mate with him and drink his blood; or a handsome Gandharva, her male version, hunting for a female partner, again, only for sex and the taste of blood. It might, more likely, be an Odiyan; an occult practitioner like to her father, with capabilities to shape-shift and spell-cast, waiting to pounce on his prey.  

Anu tucked back a few strands of her curly hair that fell on her cheek, and laughed. Their tantrums would begin only after night fell. During the day, when the sun shined, their fireworks wouldn’t ignite.

A sudden whoosh of wind, dry leaves got kicked in the air, dust rushed into her nostrils. The smell of sandalwood overrode the scent of flowers. A beast from one of the safe havens, or from the jungle, she’d never know. The attack came from behind; a coward’s way, one who didn’t dare stare straight into his victim’s eyes. A large hand covered her mouth, choking her, depriving her of air, pressing her eyelids to a reddish darkness.

Her assailant’s enormous palm, spreading over her nose and mouth, and the scent of sandalwood, told her it wasn’t someone familiar.

Forced to the ground, arms and legs flailing, her struggles lasted only for a few moments. Then, she felt her breath choke in her throat. A gasp escaped her mouth and she saw the butterfly hovering over a nearby thicket. It felt the burst of her last breath on its wings and took off, perhaps seeking its way back to heaven.

Episode-2: Vasu (1941- ): The Evil Incubates

Why did this man, despite his powers in black magic, not seek revenge for his daughter’s death? Vasu thought as he stood on the veranda of his uncle’s hut. It was nearly two months since the villagers found Anu dead in the woods. But Vasu hadn’t come here to speak about it. He had other priorities.

“I’d like…” Vasu’s eyes darted away from his uncle’s gaze, grazed on the hut’s thatched roof. “To learn odi vidya,” he said. A mother’s elder brother received high respect within the clan, especially when he was an Odiyan, a practitioner of the most dreaded occult craft.      

“You know what it takes to become an Odiyan?” Kanaran asked, continuing to chew the paan in his mouth. It was as if he’d rather relish that lump of betel leaf and araca nut than reveal a shady side of his occupation.

“Not much, only…” A breeze lashed across his face. His body shivered from its touch, as he watched a bamboo-tree-butterfly settle at an edge of the roof, folding its wings. Spikes of chill coursed through his body. The creature felt familiar, with that eerie glaze on its wing.    

“And, why’d you want to learn it?”

Uncle’s voice startled him, and another cold wave lapped up his torso. “I want to follow our tradition, uphold your reputation,” Vasu said. He hoped the praise evoked some positive reaction.

 He knew an Odiyan received respect in the village, not because of the profoundness of the craft, but out of fear. The landlords smeared sandalwood paste on their forehead, as a mark of respect to their benign gods. It was irony they needed the Odiyan’s service to fight their foes or kill people to settle a dispute relating to land or women. But, hiring a virtuous guru was a challenge. Odiyans wouldn’t want to breed competition.  

“It’s good you respect the traditions.” Kanaran spat the lump in his mouth into the courtyard. “Be warned, though. Being an Odiyan is a call, not an occupation. It requires the sacrifice of comforts. You’ll need to be proficient in martial arts, physically competent.”  

“I’d joined a kalari a few months ago.” Vasu took in a deep breath, hoping his prospective guru might notice the swell of his muscles. “I’m also learning the rituals and mantras.”

“Bulge in muscles and chanting mantras; not just enough…” Kanaran said. “Work hard, eat little.” He ran a hand along his chest. “Scrawny, like me; but with mettle, that’s an Odiyan. Swiftness matters, you know, fast as an arrow and sleek like a bolt of lightning.”

Vasu knew the traits required: adept in trickery, he had to move fast, to shift shape, often within a split second. Turn into a cat, a fox, or a wolf; always with a deformity – — a missing limb, ear, or eye – — to scare the target. It rather added to the lethality of an Odiyan that no matter what shape he chose, he could retain his cognitive abilities. But Vasu had a hidden agenda. He wouldn’t reveal his depth of knowledge to his uncle. Wasn’t deceit at the core of the art?

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a glare on his back. A breath, warm like the orange glow of a bonfire in the coldest of nights, breezed past his skin. He turned around. No one behind him… Would his uncle’s trickery work now, in the daylight?

A sudden surge of fear made the hairs on his arms stand. There was an ominous presence around him, and he knew it by instinct though logic defied the possibility. Maybe, an Odiyan’s home was meant to trigger uncanny sensations.

Aunty came out of the hut, like subservience literally appearing from shadows, carrying two earthen pots. “Tea,” she said, placing the mark of her hospitality on a large piece of log used as a table, and merged back into the darkness inside.

Could she be the looming presence? Vasu brushed off the notion. A woman defined by fragility, her stooping shoulders and caved-in cheeks were open narratives of the burdens she mutely carried.

“Do you think you can emulate those traits?” His uncle’s voice appeared to come from a deep abyss. “It’s not an easy call,” He continued, picking up his tea pot and taking a sip. “You’d be traversing through a maze riddled with hidden dangers in every bent and curve.”

Uncle abided by the old practices, obsolete notions. He’d never know that rather than traditional odi vidya, education was a better tool for manipulation. A combination of the two could be lethal, Vasu knew. It provided a double-edged sword to fight the landlords, to save his people from the clutches of oppression.   

“I’ll do my best, uncle, with your blessings,” Vasu said. “Under your tutelage I can attain the ability to take up any challenge.”

An Odiyan also had to be cunning and ruthless. The practice required sheer treachery to cast spell and woo a pregnant woman, preferably a first-timer, from her home and whisk her away to a secret place. And, it took nerves of steel to be able to slice into her womb with a thin, sharp strip cut from a bamboo or reed stalk, and to take out the fetus.

 “Well, let me see how good your kalari performance is,” Kanaran said. “Display to me your skills only if you’ve achieved the buoyancy of an adept martial artist, or a graceful dancer, who could defy gravity. If you think you qualify, meet me at the edge of the jungle, somewhere you can find enough open space.”

“Sure, uncle,” Vasu said, now looking straight into Kanaran’s eyes. “And, I wouldn’t want to disappoint a person I admire.”

An Odiyan also needed perseverance to preserve the fetus furtively till it dried, wait for weeks until a wee bit of oil seeped from the shrinking mass, to collect it in a small clay pot. The fetus suppliers would always be someone from his own clan or a similar one. The Odiyans, no matter what evil powers they commanded, hardly dared to charm a lady from the upper class.

But Vasu was going to change it. He’d seen how the rich exploited the men and women in his village, paying them pittance for their hard toil. He craved revenge. He’d never use women from the lower strata for his craft, but only those from upper class families. He’d annihilate the oppressors, using the same skills they hired to destroy their rivals.

Aunt appeared again, as mysteriously as she did when she brought tea, and stood by Vasu’s side, glaring at his face. A jolt passed through his body at the sight of her loose hair, straight like the thinnest slivers cut from a reed stalk. The strands flapped against her ears in the breeze. Her striking resemblance to Anu made him think of his cousin, how she laid on the forest bed, limbs splayed, eyes open, and a centipede crawling out of her ear.  

“I’ll make my move.” The quiver in his voice surprised Vasu, as he turned and left abruptly without another word to his uncle, unable to bear the heat of burning embers in his aunt’s eyes.

Episode-3 Malu (1930- ): The Evil Takes Shape

Malu held the butterfly-shaped pendant, as light in weight as a real butterfly. She had to split open thousands of reed stalks, sit with her body hunched over her knees, to make baskets and mats out of the slivers. The small piece of jewelry would’ve been a gift on her daughter’s wedding; a mother’s tribute to a daughter, parting in pursuit of a new life.

“My child,” she’d always whisper into her lonely moments, “how I yearn to see the glitter of gold around your neck.” The pendant would’ve been a nice contrast for that dusky dip on Anu’s throat. She could have seen it undulate in radiance when her daughter made her little talks about butterflies and reeds, when she was alive.

Poor choices… she’d decided to keep it away from the one whom it belonged, just to surprise her on the day of her marriage. Savory moments, lost due to a foolish notion.  

Vasu, her husband’s only nephew, claimed a right to the hand of their daughter in marriage as per traditions. She cringed thinking, would Anu have had a better fate than death if she were to marry her cousin?

Concealed narratives revealed their stories somehow. Each word now rolled in her head. Until recently, lofty phrases never made sense to her. But ever since she lost Anu, she had tried to understand the meaning of the scribblings in her daughter’s notebook.

Nearly six months ago, when Vasu left after persuading his uncle to teach him the art of Odiyan craft, Malu told her husband, “I want to learn something too.”

“Learn something?” Kanaran looked at her as if her wish was the strangest request he ever heard.

“I want to be able to read the literature in your possession.” Her husband had a small collection of books on occult practices. Those would enable her not only to learn reading, but also to gain knowledge about his craft. “I’ve learned a few mantras you taught me for your purpose. Now, I want to read them on my own, so I can gain a proper understanding of the rituals and serve you better.”

In order to perform his practice, the Odiyan had to get the potion, obtained from a fetus, smeared behind his ear. The mother or wife, the closest and most trustworthy person, was the primary choice to take up the onus. Once the Odiyan came back from his errand as an animal, the one who applied the oil had to recite certain mantras in his ear so he could regain human form. Thus, she had a bargaining power over him for an undeniable trade-off.  

“Why would you…”

“Do I have to answer every question?” Her reaction was the first act of defiance towards him in the twenty-four years of their marriage.   

Kanaran stared at her without speaking.

“You require my services when you return from your practice, don’t you?” The message was clear. He needed no more persuasion.  

“You are a pretty good learner.” In about two months-time after he started tutoring her, she received the first ever complement in her life from her husband. Defiance and threat, she learned, were productive strategies to get by in a system where oppression came for a woman from many angles.  

In the same way that an Odiyan’s body could change into any animal of his choice after smearing the potion, and keep on shifting shapes, two images kept alternating in her mind. First, Vasu, the one her daughter kept a certain distance from, for reasons unknown to Malu at that time.

A few days prior to Anu’s death, as Malu prepared to go for cutting reeds, her daughter said, “Mother, please wait until he leaves.” She was referring to Vasu, who was sitting in the veranda, waiting for his uncle to return from market. 

“Why?”

“I don’t want to be left alone with him.”

Malu looked at her daughter. “He is to be your husband, and you’ll spend a lifetime with him. So, what’s the harm if you’re alone with him for a while?”

“We aren’t husband and wife, not yet.”

On reading the scribbling in Anu’s notebook, Malu realized that Vasu had earlier made sexual advances towards her when she was alone at home.

Malu felt disgust churn in her guts. His callousness, rather than sexual advances, angered her. Her daughter’s prospective husband needed to realize that she wasn’t just an object, but a human being in flesh and blood, alive with emotions. But he chose to wield his power over her, to serve his purpose.

Malu felt the soft burst of a breeze and looked up. As usual, the butterfly had come fluttering in through the hut’s single ventilation. It hovered over her head for a few moments and flew off to a bamboo stalk supporting the roof. It settled there, eyes cast on her, its long antennae scanning the surroundings.

“Rest there for a while,” Malu said.

She split a reed stalk, cut out a sliver as thin as a needle. She retrieved a single strand of her daughter’s hair that she’d preserved. With extreme care, she wound the hair around the piece of sliver. “I won’t need the essence of a fetus to prepare my magic potion,” she spoke to the butterfly. “All I need is this sting, plugged into your wing.”

Malu cast her eyes toward the butterfly. “You know, this sliver is from a reed stalk cut out of the clusters where my daughter laid dead. It holds more power than any potion.”

The butterfly spread its wings for a moment and folded them, as if in agreement.

“Do I apply poison on its tip? No, I don’t think so.” Malu laughed. “I’d just have to equip your wing with this deadly sting.”  

The butterfly swooped down from the roof and rested on her shoulder.

“Come on now.” Malu opened the palm of her left hand. “I’m done with my rituals.”

The butterfly moved onto her palm. Malu ran her right hand gently over the creature. Then, she snipped its right wing and swallowed it. “This will give me the ability to shape-shift to your form.”

The butterfly didn’t flinch. It remained calm, as if it was rather prepared for this sacrifice.

Malu’s hand hovered over the butterfly for a few seconds. Suddenly, it grew to the size of a bird, and flapped its left wing once. “Ready?” Malu asked, picking up the sting. She pushed it carefully into the lowermost vein of its hind wing. “Now, wait while I finish my other chores.”

The butterfly returned to its original size and flew back to its place on the roof.

Malu took a bath, left her hair wet. She tied it in dreadlocks, coils of her stringy strands hanging down to her hip. She could feel each string swell with a desire to burst into life, to spring into virility, to stab the foe with its sting; straight, strong, and stubborn, to pierce not just prick. The venom of vengeance must rush deeper into his veins so that the enemy fell fast, sparing her of ugly sights of ugliness turning uglier, when his limbs flailed in the throes of death.

Malu then pondered about the other enemy, the significant and most lethal rival. She’d have to make a more elaborate plan; impart a more just and severe punishment to this foe, for which she’d need a better tactic and stronger resolve.

Episode-4 Vasu; April 1965, an Hour before Midnight: The Evil Looms Larger

Night, when centipedes crawled, snakes slithered, and vile men plundered; nights gave an advantage to an Odiyan, Vasu thought, darkness a shield that hid any vulnerabilities in him. The village lay quiet, by a side of a river on the jungle’s border. The river flowed restless, in constant motion, a gigantic serpent in pursuit of its prey.

On steps silent as a prowling cat, Vasu followed his target, the village chieftain’s son; an enormous enemy, with a bulky chest and huge limbs. An oppressor of the downtrodden, a hunter of young women from the lower strata, easy targets…

Arjun, his name, the connotation to a legendary hero he didn’t deserve. Anu died young, fell prey to a coward wearing the veil of a valiant warrior’s name. Vasu knew the authorities would do nothing; the victim being poor, perpetrator rich. The police and civil authorities remained puppets in servitude of the affluent upper class.

Vasu had approached Anu twice, the girl to be his wife, for the pleasure of a few moments in private. She denied. Was it a sin, the physical relation with someone you’re going to be bound to for a lifetime? He cursed the pretentious attitudes of his tradition.

As a young boy, he’d furtively watched the White people. They came on horseback, made love in the woods. But, did they ever marry, the ones they had sex with, would they? Notions kept changing, but the men and women who cut bamboo and reeds, only to sell their products for pittance to the landlords; they could never savor the joys of life.

Of course, he did care for Anu, but beyond his feelings for her was his revenge for men and women who degraded his folk. And, just as his physical needs were frowned upon, who’d ever understand his sole purpose in learning a craft that could risk his life?

Worms squirmed on drenched branches, leaves laden with the wetness of monsoon rain. A crescent shone, in shimmering stars’ company, a breeze carried wild jasmine’s aroma. A lone owl, on a high perch, let out a hoot.

Vasu watched Arjun get into a boat and row away. Hunting, he knew, for the next prey.

Vasu penetrated the murky shadows, dared slushy mush on the bank, entered the water, and swam without making a noise. Moonlight danced on his oily, dark skin. As he reached the shore, he heard a wooden door crash. Arjun might have kicked his way in. Vasu peered inside.  

“Who…” a tired voice from the darkness began, but it drowned in a bout of coughs.

Vasu watched Arjun move towards the direction of the sound.

“Wretched old dog,” Arjun muttered. A shuffle, a cry struggled in a throat, choked by a muscular forearm. Vasu heard the smooth glide of a razor, a splatter hitting a wall; an acrid stench of urine burst into the air. Then, a thud as the old man’s body hit the floor.

In a corner, whimpering, a dark silhouette of a girl cowered as Arjun approached. A click, as he folded the razor. His cloth rustled as it slid down his knees.

Vasu felt a cold wisp of breeze caress his cheek. The butterfly flew past. White rings, circling the tiny black spots on its wing, glazed in the night air. Wasn’t it the same butterfly he saw at Anu’s home? Vasu shifted shape into a serpent. A vile reptile would be the best to annihilate a scum like Arjun, huge in body but mean in karma. He glided into the hut, furtive like a coward.

Hiding in the hide of a venomous snake, Vasu bared his fangs and struck, aiming at his enemy’s neck.

Episode-5 Malu; April 1965, an Hour after Midnight: The Evil Takes Wings

The butterfly arrived, fluttering its wing.

It flew around the banyan tree near the cluster of bamboo and reeds where Anu was killed. Malu followed, stealthy strides masking her presence among cluttered foliage. She knew Vasu, after his act of revenge and regaining human form, would come to pay respect to Anu. Odiyans assumed homage as their duty to the dead, to visit the place of death and do a prayer ritual.

He’d be tired, exhausted by the emotional drain Odiyans usually felt after taking a life. It made them weak, weaker than they could fathom. Killing a person triggered remorse, even if he were an enemy.

Vasu came, her foresight perfect. Malu raised her arm and opened her palm.

The banyan tree’s dreadlocks sprang like serpents, scraped past Vasu’s neck. He recoiled from pain. As the hanging roots rebounded, he fell on his back, to avoid contact. He shivered, mist-drenched foliage on the jungle’s floor sending a wave of chill along his naked torso. “Mighty deities that shield me,” he prayed, “I implore you, secure me under your wings.”

Malu watched in contentment, thinking: a man who lusted, killed for gains, let him pray to gods. None would ever come to his rescue.

Vasu stood up, palms held together, and chanted a mantra, “O father, the creator of life, O mother, the mistress of life, energize me, my strength, my deed…”

“Stop your utterances,” Malu yelled, appearing from behind the trunk of the banyan tree. “No mantras from any Vedas, whether dark or profound, could ever salvage you.”

The shrillness in her voice shook him, his chanting ceased when he noticed Malu. “You, the frail and fragile, you with that stooped back.” He snickered. “I thought it were a potent enemy.” His meek voice suggested his depleting strength. “My powerful gods, who’d watched and guarded me so far, who dwelled in my soul, would protect me from harm. And, in you, I see no threat.”

“I have gods too, who I can pray to,” Malu said. “I don’t need to chant mantras, my wish the God knows. He’s bound, in ways more than one, to protect me. Dwell deeper, if you care, to ponder over your sin. Surrender, or stray into peril.”

In a yogic posture, Vasu brought his left foot to his right knee. Dreadlocks flung toward him like flying snakes. He ducked. “Your magic ends where my agility begins.” He stretched his arms, stomped the ground with his right foot, and sprang into the air, defying gravity. In the next moment, he landed, taking deep breaths, his chest rising and falling with the effort. “I’ll now unleash the power that will sweep you off to naught.”

“Can’t you see your strength wither?” Malu laughed.

Vasu disappeared. A snake swished through the grass toward Malu, like a bolt of lightning slicing through rain clouds. Dewdrops scattered, burst into glittering explosions. Pale streaks of the shining moon glistened on the reptile’s scales.

Malu vanished, a wisp of fume merging into a cluster of bamboos.

A reed stalk burst open, and a butterfly with a single wing fluttered out. Its glowing eyes spotted the snake. Its body swelled into the size of an eagle, as it swooped down with the agility of a bird of prey.

The serpent’s body rose half way into the air, hood spread. The butterfly’s sting shone in the moonlight as it landed on the ground. The snake watched, forked tongue darting out.

The butterflycocked its head and, like a kite, squeaked twice. The blades of grass curved away as the butterfly flapped its wing. The snake folded its hood, lowered its head in prostration as the banyan leaves rustled.

A whirlwind ensued, spiraling sand and dead leaves swooshing over the snake’s head. A rain of debris showered on its glazing body.

Scaled talons emerged from the butterfly’s legs. It rolled in a 360-degree angle in the air, landed on the snake, its claws cutting into the flesh, nailing bones.

The butterfly emulated an eagle’s wing span, stretched itself, and struck the snake’s head with the sting on its wing.

Drained from the kill, it rested on the ground for a while.

“You’d remain here,” Malu emerged from the shadows and spoke to Vasu, who wriggled in the throes of death, “to be devoured by vultures.”

Malu waited for her significant prey to arrive.

Her husband had gone on an errand, to do away with the village chieftain, for a measly amount paid by his son – — patricide in exchange for inheritance. The Odiyan’s craft would make it appear like animal attack. It’s good they perish this way, Malu thought, they will, won’t they, at some point in time?

Her husband would be successful in his mission today, she was sure; she’d anointed the cleft behind his ear with lavish smears of the potion he obtained from the latest fetus, one of the many in his long string of craftsmanship.

The butterfly flew in. “Oh, you’re prompt,” Malu said. “But, today we’ve no missions to accomplish. We’d just sit and watch.”

In the distance, she heard a jackal howl.

“You know,” Malu said. “In our culture, howling of a jackal portended misfortune, even death. Maybe, the animal had an afterthought… Vasu, you know. Or is it an upcoming tragedy?” She laughed.

Crackling sounds from the backyard, dry leaves crushed under furtive paws. The butterfly raised its antennae in alertness as yelping sounds ensued.

The jackal scampered in, panting from exhaustion; drain, death, someone’s wish granted. It entered on three legs, a deformity Odiyans emulated in their form, to confuse the victims. Yet, even with the handicap, the animal walked normally.

Malu stood up, a mark of respect for her husband. The jackal sat on its haunches; ears trained. The butterfly watched.

The jackal’s ears flattened, then rose. The process repeated in rapid successions.

“No,” Malu said. “You are going to stay. I threw away the left-off potion. And, I won’t chant any more mantras for you so you could regain human form.”

The jackal growled. The butterfly fluttered its wing.

“Anu cringed at your touch; hidden narratives, buried…” A single drop of tears escaped Malu’s eye.

The jackal bared its canines in a snarl, eyes scanning her throat.

“No way…” Malu laughed. “Faculties drained from a kill, your powers have withered. My butterfly’s sting, it’s viler. You’re done, so shall be all threats.”

The jackal yelped.

She felt no remorse, not a pang of conscience. “You’ll be chased away by bitches, every time you dare to enter my village.”

The butterfly hovered, its sting protruding menacingly out of its single wing.

Hareendran Kallinkeel writes from Kerala, India, after serving in a police organization for 15 years and in the Special Forces for five years. His fiction usually tends to be dark with some fantastic or magic realism elements. Most recent publications include Bryant Literary Review (Bryant University), El Portal Journal (Eastern New Mexico University), Cardinal Sins Journal (Saginaw Valley State University), and 34 Orchard. His fiction has been nominated for Pushcart Prize and he is also a finalist of Best of the Net 2020.