Atalanta
By MEGAN CLARK FICTION HONORABLE MENTION When Toby, Beeville Junior High’s best wrestler, snatched George’s glasses off her face during
Read moreBy MARY POPHAM FICTION FINALIST There was no rain, but the wind rattled the single-paned storm windows. Flashes of lightning
Read moreBy LINDA L. DUNLAP FICTION PRIZE WINNER Judge: Angela Jackson-Brown, author of Drinking from a Bitter Cup “‘A.J. and Crazy
Read moreBy JULIE WHITEHEAD FICTION FINALIST Trey Parker sat in his darkened hotel room staring at the gun he held in
Read moreBy LENORE WEISS FICTION FINALIST Bryan Thurmond cantered down to the river wearing a pair of khaki twills, a man
Read moreThe 2015 New Southerner Literary Contest opens August 1 and runs through September 30. In addition to publication in the
Read moreThat was the summer I fell in love. 1977—the hottest summer in 50 years. The heat lay in our holler like somebody had left open a window in hell. Days were so long, the sun never really set, only napped a few hours before waking up full of red-hot fury. At night the darkness wasn’t true, not the black of a winter’s night, but rather faded like the negative of an old photograph.
Read moreI am jobless and homeless, with a teenage daughter to support, which is why my daughter, Katie, and I have driven to the property of an 85-year-old woman I barely know, where I am prepared to wheedle, grovel—whatever it takes—to convince the old lady to give me a roof over my head. The woman stands before us in overalls, arms folded, waiting. She has a real name, but everyone in the valley calls her Ma. She is a wizened tiny creature, with thick unruly gray hair. After decades of working outdoors, she is brown and crackled like pine bark. I remembered her and her empty farmhouse when the sheriff’s deputy showed up at my door with an eviction notice.
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