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Bookanista  Miracle at Hawk's Bay

Matthew High. We knew it would be him. Even before Hannah turned him over, we just knew it.
It was Annie who saw him from the road. “Look,” she said, and when she pointed at the dark shape out there in the shallow water, there was only one thought in all our heads – please God, let it not be him. Let it be any of the others but not him, not Matthew High.

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Prospect  The Redemption of Galen Pike  

They’d all seen Sheriff Nye bringing Pike into town: the two shapes snaking down the path off the mountain through the patches of melting snow and over the green showing beneath, each of them growing bigger as they moved across the rocky pasture and came down into North Street to the jailhouse—Nye on his horse, the tall gaunt figure of Galen Pike following behind on the rope.

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Granta  Jubilee

Standing now at her shoulder, no longer caring much about his future, Arthur Pritt began to speak.
In a quiet voice he apologized for the tediousness of the day, for the marching bands and the pipers, for the choirs and the speeches and the dreadful cacophony of the morris dancers on the cobbles; for the boring gifts. In a whisper he told her he wished they’d been able to conjure something new for her, something splendid and fascinating and unthought of instead of the dull nonsense she must have seen a thousand times before in a thousand other places.

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Literary Hub  The Quiet

His name was Henry Fowler and she hated it when he came.
She hated him sitting there for hours on end talking to Tom about hens and beets and pigs, filling his smelly pipe with minute pinches of tobacco from a pouch in his cracked sheepskin waistcoat, tamping down the flakes with his little thumb, lighting and re-lighting the bowl and sucking at the stem, slurping his tea and sitting there on the edge of his chair like a small observant bird, and all the time stealing glances at her and looking at her with his sharp eyes as if he could see right through her. 

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Electric Literature  Creed

My story, Creed, is available, along with an introduction by David Constantine, for subscribers to Electric Literature. 

She could see Creed’s place now, up ahead, not more than another three quarters of a mile.
On the big flat stone at the top of the path she stopped to rest, pushed back her sticky hair and wondered again what he would do when he saw her – what he would say and how he would be and what he would look like too, close-up, after all this time.
For years now, for most of her life, she’d seen him only from afar, mending his walls or checking on his sheep or coming down off the high fell with a bucket to the spring above the waterfall, a bulky hatted figure.

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