Short story sent to the New Yorker, check.
Flash fiction sent to Esquire, check.
Check in the mail for my efforts, no check, not yet, but soon.
The paragraph below is from a story I'm working on.
"Every word like a tiny metal claw, pulling the shroud of night over me.
Suffocating.
Pushing me down, past sleep, past dreams, into another world.
And from this journey I know I will never return and after a time I forgot I could return."
"So," my Mother asks, "Are you going to see her again?"
