Jerry Gabriel, "Deserters"

Jerry Gabriel's first novel, Deserters, was published in May 2026 (Acre Books). He is the author of two collections of stories, The Let Go (Queen's Ferry Press, 2015) and Drowned Boy (Sarabande, 2010), which won the Mary McCarthy Prize in Short Fiction, was a Barnes and Noble "Discover Great New Writers" pick, and was awarded the 2011 Towson Prize for Literature. His stories have appeared in One Story, Epoch, Fiction, The Missouri Review, and Alaska Quarterly Review, among other publications. He has received grants and fellowships from the New York Foundation for the Arts (2004), the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference (2011), and the National Endowment for the Arts (2016). He lives in Maryland with his family and teaches writing at St. Mary’s College of Maryland.

About Deserters, by Jerry Gabriel
A clerical error has placed Robert Riley’s name on a list of men who have committed a particularly abhorrent form of desertion from the Union Army: bounty jumping. President Lincoln has said that such men—those who have cheated the system by accepting signing bonuses, or "bounties," for multiple enlistments—should be hanged.

It is fall 1864, and Riley has in fact deserted, though just the ordinary way, and is in flight toward the territories, having collected his two sons from their homestead in Southern Ohio, as well as an orphaned girl he met on his way across the Appalachians. As the four move across the lower Midwest, they are pursued by a surly private detective who seeks the reward for bringing Riley in. With the man eventually on their heels, they are forced to divert by train into Chicago, where Riley knows a place to hide. And it is here, in this cold and dangerous metropolis, in the weeks leading up to the 1864 election, that things begin to unravel for the party.

You can read more about Deserters on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an excerpt from the novel. 

From Deserters

From Chapter 3

Robert Riley woke in a panic, blood drumming in his ears and throat. He saw Abigail holding infant Michael, shushing him to sleep. Abigail, he thought. And then: Michael.

He rose to his sweaty elbows, gripped by an urgency. Outside, the swampy August din of the Tidewater: deafening crickets and a dozen kinds of frogs. At least three of the men in the tent snored loudly.

He dressed and quietly gathered his bedroll and knapsack. Marcus Trask stirred from the rustling and opened an eye, catching Robert’s own for a beat, neither judgment nor envy fully in his gaze, but possibly some blend of those things. Robert shrugged back his own complicated feelings—he had eighteen months ahead of him still and knew the risk. He slipped out into the muggy night.

It was foggy and moonless. There was no trouble getting past the watch. Rarely did a runner get chased these days, anyway. He pointed himself far to the east of Richmond, the big Rebel guns blasting away miles behind him, ineffectual but for the disruption of sleep. He made a wide arc around the city, reversing the trip south months before, when, even before the arrival of the letters, the ill-feeling had first crept in and darkened his usually imperturbable mood. This hadn’t gone unnoticed.

"She ain’t paying the neighbors any visits, like in your head," one man joked at chow.

Robert barely knew him, and though he offered an inscrutable smile, he weighed whether or not braining the man would be worth the punishment. His fellow soldier, of course, could not know how freighted the reference to Robert’s dead wife was. But that’s why you didn’t speak of such things to strangers.

As they had inched south that summer, the hardship of the war and all its uncertainty was abetted by the sweltering days and the close nights. On the march, it had in fact been less Abigail on his mind than the boys. With time to think, he worried about them, and particularly about their future.

In moments of honesty, he admitted that Sean had already slipped his grasp. Even before Robert had joined the fight in February of ’63, the conflict between them had come out into the open. It was in part his own fault, he knew, for taking too severe an approach. But Sean’s zeal, his righteousness, had a hand, too. Sean already considered himself beyond Hollis—he was, he thought, a scientist—yet he was still a boy, making a boy’s many mistakes. Even so, with Sean, Robert at least understood the contours. 

Chris Parker, "Nameless Lake"

Chris Parker is a screenwriter who has written for shows ranging from EastEnders and Coronation Street to Bedlam, a Sky TV drama series he co-created for Red Production Company. He is also a prolific animation writer,  with credits including Peppa Pig and Shaun the Sheep. He was born in South Wales and lives in Cambridge.

About Nameless Lake, by Chris Parker

Nameless Lake is about the unspoken pressures of gender and desire, told through the shifting dynamics of a lifelong friendship. Emma and Madryn grow up with dreams of escaping their seaside hometown, sustained by an obsession with photography and secret acts of vandalism. But adulthood brings its own limitations, and Emma yearns for connection beyond the constraints of her family. Drawn deeper into Madryn’s private life, Emma feels new possibilities awakening within herself, but when Madryn faces a backlash from her controlling partner, Emma must finally break out of her role as passive observer.

You can read more about Nameless Lake on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an excerpt from the novel. 

From Nameless Lake

When we carried out our next act, which was to break the arcade window, we were excited by the tiny slice of time we had given ourselves to carry it out – I had agreed to go with you to collect a textbook from a friend’s house, a round trip of no more than twenty minutes. I allowed myself only a few mouthfuls of the cider you carried in your bag so that I was affected less by the alcohol than the alien taste of orchard rot in my nose and throat. I was happy to stretch the swimming pool wristband across two of the seafront railing spikes because it meant the next job must be yours – to pull back the ball bearing you had found in your father’s toolbox until the royal-blue rubber turned pale and we had compressed thought and action into one sharp moment, not of decision, but of simply letting go, giving way to something inevitable so that the rubber band itself became the real culprit. 

Afterwards we threw ourselves down the concrete steps to the beach and scudded along the rocks until we were almost at the harbour, where the waves threatened to come and come without ever arriving, and I thought of a horse I had seen on the common when I was very small, a glorious and terrifying creature with a chestnut shine that appeared just at the moment when I happened to be thinking about horses, and I felt certain it had been made by the force of my own wishes

Mahsuda Snaith, "The Things We Thought We Knew"

 

Mahsuda Snaith is winner of the SI Leeds Literary Prize and Bristol Short Story Prize. Her debut novel The Things We Thought We Knew was chosen as a World Book Night Book and her second novel How to Find Home was read on BBC Radio 4. She was named an "Observer New Face of Fiction." Mahsuda has led Creative Writing workshops in universities, hospitals, schools and in a homeless hostel. She is a commissioned writer for Colonial Countryside and her short story "The Panther's Tale" is included in Hag: Forgotten Folktales Retold. Find out more here.

About The Things We Thought We Knew

On the eve of the millennium, two girls’ lives changed forever. 

Ten years later, eighteen-year-old Ravine Roy spends every day in her room. Completing crosswords and scribbling in her journal, she keeps the outside world exactly where she wants it; outside. But as the real world begins to invade her carefully controlled space, she is forced to finally confront the questions she’s been avoiding. Who is her mother meeting in secret? Who has moved in next door? And why, all those years ago, when two girls pulled on their raincoats and wellies and headed out into the woods did only one of them return?

From The Things We Thought We Knew, by Mahsuda Snaith

2010

I wake up to find my room has been entered ninja-style during the night. Streamers line the ceiling, balloons are taped to the corners in clusters and a giant holographic banner dangles crookedly on the wall. Below it a dozen photographs are tacked in a row. It’s like a museum timeline done on the cheap.  

Photo 1: 1992 - Birth of Ravine (shrivelled new born with too much hair) 

Photo 3: 1996 - Nativity Play (girl dressed as sheep, straw hanging from mouth) 

Photo 8: 2009 - New Year’s Eve (teenager lying in bed, party hat perched jaunty on head).  

If there were an award for the World’s Worst Listener my mother would win hands down. Give her the simplest sentence and watch the cogs of her brain pull in the words, twist them up and spit out a new meaning. You say you want a kitten: she buys you a coat. You say you don’t like cabbage: she cooks seven different cabbage recipes that week. You say you don’t want a party and you wake up to a sight that makes you sweat so heavily your pyjamas glue to your skin and you have to check your knickers to make sure you haven’t wet them. 

I rub my eyes as the smell of onion bhajis floats up from the kitchen. It’s mixed with the heavy scent of citrus breeze air freshener. I hope this is a nightmare. As I prop myself up the twisting of muscles and stabbing pain along my arm confirm the truth. This was real.

Rachel Eliza Griffiths, "Promise"

 

Rachel Eliza Griffiths is an artist, poet and novelist. Her recent hybrid collection of poetry and photography, Seeing the Body, was selected as the winner of the 2021 Hurston/Wright Foundation Award in Poetry, the winner of the 2020 Paterson Poetry Prize, and a finalist for the 2021 NAACP Image Award. Griffiths’s work has appeared widely, including in the New Yorker, the Paris Review, Best American Poetry, Tin House, and many others. Promise is Griffiths first novel. It was written for her mother who died in 2014 and took seven years to complete. She lives in New York City. 

About Promise

Set in 1957, at the beginning of the Civil Rights Movement, Promise is a luminous celebration of sisterhood, family, and love set in a village community in New England. 

Ezra and Cinthy Kindred have grown up surrounded by love; love from their parents, who let them believe that the stories they tell on stars can come true; love from the Junketts, the only other Black family in the neighbourhood, whose home is filled with spice-rubbed ribs and ground-shaking hugs; and love for their adopted home of Salt Point, a beautiful New England village perched high up on coastal bluffs. 

But as the sisters come of age, they are increasingly viewed as threats to their white neighbours’ way of life and, amidst escalating violence, prejudice and fear, must find new ways to celebrate their love and power, as the world attempts to strip them, and their families, of dignity, safety, and hope.

Promise is a story of resistance and hope. A rich, evocative and universal celebration of sisterhood, family, mothers and daughters, music, food, joy and love; it is also an unflinching exploration of race, class, identity and power, and the search for freedom and belonging. 

You can read more about Promise on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an excerpt from the opening of the novel. 

From Promise, by Rachel Eliza Griffiths

The day before our first day of school always signaled the end of the time Ezra and I loved most. Not time like the clocks that ticked and rang their alarms every morning; we knew that time didn’t really begin or end. What we meant by time was happiness, a careless joy that sprawled its warm, sun-stained arms through our days and dreams for eight glorious weeks until our teachers arrived back in our lives, and our parents remembered their rules about shoes, bathing, vocabulary quizzes, and home training.

More than anything, we prayed that the air would remain mild for as long as possible, mid-October even, so that we could retain some of our summer independence, free to roam the land we knew and loved. We weren’t yet grown, but even the adults could pinpoint when time would tell us we would no longer be young.

We mourned summertime’s ending and made predictions about autumn and ourselves. Mostly we repeated all the different ways that summer was more honest than the rest of the year. It was the only time we could wear shorts and cropped tops with little comment from our mother. Ezra and I were allowed to walk nearly anywhere we wanted—in the other seasons, we needed permission even to walk to the village docks. And the eating! How we could eat! Mama loosened her apron strings about salt and sugar. Each day, it felt like we were eating from the menu of our dreams—fresh corn, ice cream, sliced tomatoes with coarse salt and pepper, chilled lobster, root beer floats, watermelon, oysters, crab and shrimp salads, fried chicken, homemade lemon or raspberry sorbet, grilled peaches, potato salad,

and red popsicles.

In the summer, the wildflowers returned, even in the village square. Arranged around a small pond with a handful of benches, some dead local official once believed the village square was a civil idea. Indeed, it would have been charming except there was the sea. Steps away from the square, down the narrow central passage of our village, the main street opened into a slender, shining pier where everything happened.

Michelene Wandor, "Orfeo's Last Act"

 

Michelene Wandor is a playwright, poet, fiction writer and cultural critic. She has taught Creative Writing for over three decades, currently as tutor on the Distance Learning MA at Lancaster University. Her most recent poetry collection is Travellers (Arc Publications). She is editor of the anthology Critical-Creative Writing: Two Sides of the Same Coin. Her new novel is Orfeo's Last Act (Greenwich Exchange, 2023). Her website is here.  

About Orfeo's Last Act: A Novel in Two Parts

Set against the backdrop of seventeenth-century northern Italy in the Golden Age, Orfeo’s Last Act brings the magic of Mantua, Florence and Venice to vivid life.

The Gonzaga Duke objects to the violent ending of Monteverdi’s opera, Orfeo. With the help of Jewish composer, Salamone Rossi, Monteverdi supplies a new happy Act V. The original ending is lost.

In twenty-first-century Britain, amateur musician, Emilia, discovers a faded musical manuscript in an East Anglian stately home ... Across the centuries, harmony and discord vie for resolution in a story which thrills and shocks.

A triumphant debut from the poet and critic, Michelene Wandor, Orfeo’s Last Act is a must read for anyone interested in historical fiction or classical music.

You can read more about Orfeo's Last Act on the publisher's website here. Below, you can read an extract from the opening of the novel. 

From Orfeo's Last Act, by Michelene Wandor

One

The mist mixes with spatters of mud, the stench of shit and sweat, wet and warm, mud drops on my arms, my face and round my eyes, till I blink and breathe water, human and animal detritus, the fertile muck of the fields. It reminds me of the rains of 1599. Mutazione di secolo. The end of the century, or the end of the world.  

I climb up the bank from the lake, skirt the Castello di San Giorgio, and walk round the Cattedrale di San Pietro. I stand for a moment: across the Piazza di San Pietro, I see the Palazzo Ducale. 

I walk along the side of the piazza, thinking I must be careful not to tread on any of the cracks in the cobbles. If I do, the ground will heave and throb under the sucking impact of my soft, silent shoes, and I will be sucked down into the marshes until there is nothing left of me but my voice.

I know this is ridiculous. First of all, the cobbles are so small, that I can’t help treading on the joins between them, and nothing happens when I do. Anyway, it is a long time since the marshes threatened anyone at this end of the island, this fiercely covered and protected end. The marshes have long been drained, filled in, built upon. 

There are still canals, remnants of the many rivers and waterways which criss-crossed the island. And yet, I am safer here than in Venice, where canals haunt at every turn, where it is easy to disappear in the middle of the black night. I am safer here than on the hills of Florence.