by Laura Sobbott Ross

Not lilies for lovers, or roses
the color of blood cravings—pacts
mingling between velvet, thumb and thorn,
or all those daisies, posies, or pansies—
elfish, stained like Siamese cat faces;
he brings me resurrection ferns.

by Billy P. Hall
In 1948, most poor folks (and most people fit that description) raised chickens and hogs for food. In a mostly agrarian society, most folks around Winnsboro still clung to the lifestyle they grew up with. Many could recount the hungry times during the Great Depression and it was a life-changing event for many of them. Genesis 12:10 says “…the famine was grievous in the land.”

by Noelle A. Granger
The South seemed like a nice place to put down roots, and those travel magazines can be pretty convincing. My husband and I first thought about moving to North Carolina thirty years ago after looking at pictures of the eye-popping fall colors in the mountains and the crystalline  sandy beaches and cerulean blue waters off the Outer …

by Andrew Alexander Mobbs
The Blues have been collecting dust
for years
in Malcolm Bart’s record store
on Beale

by Kelsey Savage Hays
Christine started the shoplifting. Until Saturday night they’d stuck with make-up: fancy lip gloss in flavors like blueberry cheesecake and mint chocolate chip embedded with fine pieces of glitter that left their lips sparkling like a disco ball. They swiped sample blushes from the Clinique counter, tossed perfume test bottles into their purses, snatched grape purple eye shadow from the bins at Claire’s.