You only had to tell us once that there were water snakes about. Or that back on terra firma, there was quicksand to look out for. Swinging vines were eager to snap, and adorable bear cubs were sure to be followed by outraged mamas . . . Continue Reading
. . . shucking fresh corn
atop the shaded steps of the back porch
recounting childhood dolls with hair made from
the same silken threads I pulled from the husks . . . Continue Reading
Unseen magic happened within the baler. Then dense gold bricks were launched out of the womb, torpedoing toward me as I scrambled to stack them in the wagon. By the time I’d wrestled a bale into position . . . Continue Reading
During the war, over 425,000 Axis prisoners of war were held in the United States, with 378,156 being German and the rest Italian. Tennessee housed more than 8,000 of these prisoners, with the largest group located at . . . Continue Reading
Down at Mullens every porch has a puffed couch
or wooden rockers where locals sit for a spell
watching gravel trucks rumble on past
Coal Country Bar and Grill, always crammed . . . Continue Reading
But that is precisely what one should never do when they happen to hear their name echoing through the deep in Appalachia. Should one hear their name or even a simple ‘hello’ in the silence, it’s understood by locals to keep pressing forward without . . . Continue Reading
The ghosts lie prostrate in the land
While I cross where berms were planned
As monuments to great last stands
And retreats tinged with shame.
Cannons cross at the Dead Angle,
Where North and South were once entangled
And Southern hope was slowly strangled.
Then . . . Continue Reading
Horace, calm as always, loaded his muzzle-loader rifle, just in case, then gathered some deadfall tree branches, and built a roaring fire on the riverbank. Abby and his family huddled by the fire while Horace looked all around, watching for predators. Having only an axe, an adze, and a handsaw for tools, Horace created a lean-to shelter on the steep . . . Continue Reading
He stowed the treasure in his pants pocket and began to search the creek. He waded up and down, turned over rocks, and dug into the mud with his fingers, but he didn’t find any more marbles.
The heavy feeling in his chest that had become so familiar began to settle back over him, making him realize that it . . . Continue Reading
. . . for now, I find shallow water
and sit on a rock facing west,
a creek exhilarates my bare feet
as it . . . Continue Reading