Currently---before our recent discussion about Cronenberg with my book-club friends, I've been finessing a 1,600-word short story about a boy's relationship with his father, in particular his admiration for father's working-man hands.

Short stories have a way of seeping from my pores. I can't help myself. I'm addicted to writing speculative narratives that feel weird, violent and heart-breaking, yet truthful in representing our humanity.