Where to start...

Púca are tricksters, they say. That be so, my short story by that title runs true to form. I finally honed it down to lean, had all the story and words and images I felt it needed. It seemed a fine little tale, but just didn't quite flow as it should. Like when a ruthless child throws a big rock into a small stream and distorts its song.

I dreamed about it last night. Saw all twenty pages of the manuscript spread out in front of me. A gust of wind came from somewhere and blew them out of order. The beginning landed in the middle.

That's the problem. Easy to fix now that I can see it.


Henry's books.

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