Stories
I Am Coming to Asheville to Kill You
The gun was in the passenger seat where I used to sit. It was rattling and the windows were rattling too because they were half-open. The gas tank was almost empty again, which seemed impossible. But the truth is, I’ve gotten poor at keeping track of time. The more I try, the more rows of teeth it grows. Some say this is normal but it doesn’t feel normal.
Kenforth's Baptism
My brother Kenforth's second baptism occurred on a sunny spring morning when the air was warm but the creek still cold, and it wouldn't have happened at all if he had just trusted me. “There is no money in Pentecostals,” is what I said, my exact words. “Nor Baptists either. Don’t waste our time.”
The Pantry
Emily carefully set the last jar on the shelf, watching the collagen-thick bone broth quiver in the pantry’s dim light. She ran her fingers along each neatly labeled jar; bone broth in beef and chicken, green beans and red tomatoes like Christmas decorations. Some of the women in the Canning Club used jars they traded or bought at the ReUse Center, but that meant they weren’t uniform. The uniformity was key. It allowed her to plan, form straight lines on all her shelves, know what she had without worrying whether she was missing a jar that might be stashed behind the others.