Morning came slow over Terrapin Creek, dragging its light through a thin, gray mist that clung to the trees like ghosts reluctant to leave. Sheriff Cole Tatum drove the back streets out to Lily Pea…

Morning came slow over Terrapin Creek, dragging its light through a thin, gray mist that clung to the trees like ghosts reluctant to leave. Sheriff Cole Tatum drove the back streets out to Lily Pearl’s old place with Sadie Mae riding shotgun, her coffee thermos steaming up the truck cab. “Lord, Cole,” she said, squintin’ out the window. “You sure he’s out here?

If the revival preacher was the spark that set your nerves to tinglin’, the traveling evangelists were the blaze that burned the fear right into your marrow. They came from out of town, usually from places with biblical names like Calvary County or Jordan Mills, and they carried reputations that traveled faster than they did. Folks spoke of them in hushed tones.

For a spell, there was nothin’ but the quiet.The kind of quiet that’s not an absence of sound but the presence of it, a hum under the skin, a whisper in the bones. The kind that makes a man feel li…

For a spell, there was nothin’ but the quiet.The kind of quiet that’s not an absence of sound but the presence of it, a hum under the skin, a whisper in the bones. The kind that makes a man feel like he’s standin’ at the edge of something holy or terrible and can’t tell which. I didn’t move.Couldn’t.

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When I was growin’ up in northeast Alabama, revival season arrived with all the subtlety of a freight train in a thunderstorm. One day, the church bulletin board was hangin’ there mindin’ its own b…

When I was growin’ up in northeast Alabama, revival season arrived with all the subtlety of a freight train in a thunderstorm. One day, the church bulletin board was hangin’ there mindin’ its own business. The next, it sprouted a sign three feet tall that hollered REVIVAL STARTS MONDAY. GET YOUR HEARTS RIGHT WITH GOD. I don’t know whose job it was to pick the dates, but they had the uncanny ability to choose the hottest week of the entire year, and they chose it with the enthusiasm of a man layin’ out picnic blankets on the surface of the sun.

The old place sat at the corner of Ladiga Street and 5th Avenue, still shouldered by oaks that leaned too close, like they were whisperin’ warnings. The front gate hung crooked, the latch long rust…

The old place sat at the corner of Ladiga Street and 5th Avenue, still shouldered by oaks that leaned too close, like they were whisperin’ warnings. The front gate hung crooked, the latch long rusted through. I pushed it open slow, and it gave out a sound like a sigh. Like it’d been holding its breath fifteen years waiting on me to come back.

A Piedmont Lantern Story Oh lord, Beulah Mae had been waiting on this. There she was, sat at Pearl Albea’s kitchen table with her coffee cooling untouched, hands folded so tight in her lap you’d th…

A Piedmont Lantern Story Oh lord, Beulah Mae had been waiting on this. There she was, sat at Pearl Albea’s kitchen table with her coffee cooling untouched, hands folded so tight in her lap you’d think she was holding something alive. Pearl noticed it. Pearl always noticed. She took a slow sip, set her cup down gentle onto the delft blue saucer, and said nothing at all.

A Piedmont Lantern Story Well, Y’all, I’m just gonna tell you what happened right off the bat. Twenty minutes before the wedding, I found my brother kissing my fiancé. I bet that got your attention…

A Piedmont Lantern Story Well, Y’all, I’m just gonna tell you what happened right off the bat. Twenty minutes before the wedding, I found my brother kissing my fiancé. I bet that got your attention, didn't it? It wasn’t a polite kiss. Not a startled, oh-God-you’re-here peck. Oh no! This was the kind of kiss that had some weight to it, the kind that rearranged breathing and made a body forget time itself.

When you leave a place like Piedmont, you think it’ll stop changin’ once you’re gone, like a photograph pinned in time. But it don’t. It grows crooked in your absence. The hardware store where I wo…

Title: Impulse Control Author: Emily Carrington Publisher: Changeling Press Cover Art: Angela Knight Genres: Contemporary, Mystery /Suspense /Intrigue, New Releases, Romance Themes: 2nd Chance Romance, LGBTQ+ Gay, Multicultural & Interracial Series: Marisburg Chronicles (#8) Multiverse: Sticks & Stones (#3) Book Length: Novella Page Count: 77 Synopsis Spontaneity can be both exciting and terrifying for everyone involved.

When you leave a place like Piedmont, you think it’ll stop changin’ once you’re gone, like a photograph pinned in time. But it don’t. It grows crooked in your absence. The hardware store where I worked summers with Clyde still smells like oil and dust, though the sign’s faded and the bell above the door doesn’t ring anymore. The church steeple leans a little to the west now, and somebody painted over the water stain on the ceiling, but I can still see the outline where it used to look like the face of Jesus if you squinted just right.

Piedmont Porchlight Stories — Mrs. Delphine’s Dixie Boarding House By dawn the next morning, Piedmont was a different town,though most folks didn’t know why. They only knew the air tasted sweeter,l…

Piedmont Porchlight Stories — Mrs. Delphine’s Dixie Boarding House By dawn the next morning, Piedmont was a different town,though most folks didn’t know why. They only knew the air tasted sweeter,like the sky had been rinsed clean in well water,and sounds carried farther,as though the world was a shade lighter on its feet. Mrs. Delphine and Percy DuBar were the only two who had the truth tucked tight inside their chests:

You ever walk back into a place that still remembers your sins better than your face?That’s Piedmont for me. Every porch, every mailbox, every sigh of the wind through the pines says my name like a…

You ever walk back into a place that still remembers your sins better than your face?That’s Piedmont for me. Every porch, every mailbox, every sigh of the wind through the pines says my name like a warning. I been gone fifteen years, most of it spent trying not to remember why. But the thing about the past is, it waits.

Piedmont Porchlight Stories — Mrs. Delphine’s Dixie Boarding House The rails in the cellar glowed bright as noon.The air shimmered with coal-scented memory.And Samuel T. Norwood,once a living, breathing conductor-in-training,now stood tall beside the child he’d tried to save,lantern raised in a final call. Mrs. Delphine clutched Percy DuBar’s arm as the room’s temperature dropped,