Upright Harmonica is a collection of embarrassing short stories. It evolves with innocence, devolves with the loss of it, and revolves around a misconception about what a desk fan can do. It makes soap seem dirty. It looks up Intimacy in the dictionary under B. It’s romanticism in spray paint and lyricism in shower steam scribbles. It will slow dance with your teenage memories. It will stand naked outside in the winter so it can cuddle you when you have a fever. In the middle of the book, there’s a paper heart in search of a kiss-marked origami envelope.

It whispers to you in bed and tells you it’s ok to fall in love. It admits that things won’t be better tomorrow—it will take an imagined lifetime and generations of fantastic ghosts to follow. It has heart. It has ache. It wishes those two words would stay away from each other. It gives you advice it doesn’t take for itself. It goes to therapy for the couches. It’s October and June in an August storm. It’s a self-portrait with three shadows. It proves there are more than three tenses. It’s a stick shift that drives the speed limit, but takes hard turns. It’s a treasure hunt for a secret chapter hidden in the hollow of a tree. It also believes this description is too long.

It’s the Alpha and the Ohhhhmega. It’s risky and risqué, particular and peculiar, creative and meditative. It has a nostalgia for the future and a reverence for the now.

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270 Pages * First Edition * January 10, 2021