"When Chung kicks us out we think about returning to the U.S., but to leave now would feel like giving up. Late one evening he announces he’s getting married. 'I’m sorry! You are living another home,' he says. English is not his strong point and Korean is not ours. We exist in this ambiguity of language; a riddle of verb tenses. We are living in the home of another; we will soon be living in another home. We are not at home; we will never be at home here."

— "Kibun," an essay in the 2015 Fish Publishing Memoir Prize Anthology, judged by Carmen Bugan

"For weeks now, Martine has wondered how she ended up this way. One day her left hand held the bar on the Skytrain, steadied her camera, and formed the asdf to her right’s jkl. Now, her wrist has grown a ring of blonde hair, and out of that comes the hoof, gray and waxy. A miniature-pony-sized hoof at the end of her otherwise normal, human arm. She fights its weight. She tries, again and again, to wiggle her lost fingers, but she can only make the hoof bob up and down. The effort shames her." 

— "Family Mart," a short story, published December 2012 in Unstuck Vol. 2

"Robert had stopped bothering with weekends. Sometimes he didn’t leave the apartment at all. He watched movies that came in the mail. And he drew. He’d filled a tall stack of notebooks with his sketches — heads, faces, the joints in countless hands — an assembly of body parts that might some day make a whole. “Do you only draw people?” she asked once, and he had heard “Is that it? Don’t you draw anything else?” but was unapologetic. He craved the motion of his pencil rasping out the crook of an elbow or a bulbous nose, long muscled calves or the gentle roundness of a skull. The human form is the only thing worth drawing, he thought at the time, but did not say. He yearned for those bodies in his sketchbooks; they were place settings at a fancy table he wasn’t allowed to join. 

— "Hunger," a short story published Fall 2010 in Clare Literary Journal Vol. 11

"As light began to slip away, more and more chimney swifts arrived, until a great swarm of chipping birds circled and dove around the limestone pipe. The sky above us was black with their numbers. From a distance, they might have resembled bats, the way they dipped erratically toward the chimney and then away again."

"A Last Summer, A Slow Dance," an essay published December 2008 in the Minnetonka Review