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Ivy’s stomach felt queasy as Paula returned with the bottle. Ivy stared, unblinking, as Mrs. Maxwell poured boiling water over the bottle, and the air filled with steam wafting from the glass. The water spilled into the grass filling Ivy’s nose with the pungent smell of the greenery. Paula’s mother set the pot on the cement . . .Continue Reading

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Emily Singleton is a multimedia artist, concentrating in painting, from Plumtree, North Carolina . . . Her artwork most often depicts personal experiences significant to life in Appalachia . . . Continue Reading

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. . . on Sunday morning to church. The preacher was
half-way through his sermon, when I felt something

crawling on my back. Thinking it was a fly, I rubbed
my back and realized it was . . . Continue Reading

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I had to pry the details from her that night, like gently loosening rusted hinges on an ancient door. She kept dodging my questions as if something compelled her to keep the whole ordeal buried deep. But after a few hours she came out with most everything. Or at least with everything I will ever know . . . Continue Reading

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In: Canning & Recipes, Nonfiction, Way Back When
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My husband, imported from the Midwest, corrects me every time I call them stove eyes—he calls them burners—but we’re not cooking on gas and we’re in the South, my South, and I’ve always heard them called eyes and continue to do so. I grab a large-mouthed funnel, place it in a wide-mouthed jar, and . . . Continue Reading