by Mark Poe The distant glow of flood lights gave a point to follow through the thin path amongst the underbrush of the swampy surroundings. The chorus of the creatures of the night was joined by the crackling speakers blaring a rendition of Church in the Wildwood. As the low call to “come, come, come, …
Everyone knew it as the Deep Hole. It was a spot on the edge of a sandbar in the St. Francis River that had washed out over time. The water was still and deep. The bottom was soft and sandy. Cool water, with a glassy surface like a window, would reveal a dark, green-tinted world …
by Mark Poe The first time I saw the old man he was sitting in a ragged armchair on a drooping front porch that matched his persona. Weather-beaten and worn down by time, the boards of the floor and the overhang was gray, twisted and split. To his left side was a small table that …
by Mark Poe I have a lawn chair named Matthew. Matthew is as much a part of my family as the rest of this farm. Just as every pecan tree or chicken coop or storage shed that sits on it. He’s really nothing special to look at. He’s weather-beaten and life-battled. Rust holds the spots …
by Mark Poe The next morning, the addiction tree had grown to almost six feet tall and the buds were already beginning to show signs of opening. I took the chainsaw and broke the morning silence with the grinding of the chain. Two cuts and I had a two-foot section of the trunk that Cherokee …
by Mark Poe His name was Hezekiah Adams. Ol’ Hez. That was the moniker he would answer to. He was a hard man. A man of the woods and river. Some had referred to him once as a river rat. Only once to his face, mind you. The gentleman that called out to him had …
by Mark Poe The cold air of the pre-dawn November morning burned the throat as the hum of the outboard motor was lulling me back into any outdoorsman’s dreamland. The boat ride down Maddox Bay to the dropping-off spot of the deer hunters of the Poe family was cold but quick. The morning discussion covered …
by Mat McCarter The sky looked like it might snow but just didn’t give a shit. Everything seemed eternally dreary and dismal – damned, even. The weather was insolent and bitchy, like it was on its winter rag. The streets were bare and nothing stirred on this cold winter afternoon, except for the frigid wind …
by Mark Poe My hands cradled my head as I stared at the black starlit night, searching for answers to questions I was terrified to ask. I had escaped the guilty barrage of vulgar insults into the rural quietness of my yard. The small towns were pinpointed by the lights within glow distance of my …