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The bells at Saint Agnes had not rung in thirty seven years. Not since the night the river took the Caldwell girl. Blackwater Hollow lay where Mississippi folded in on itself, a place of slow water and slower forgetting. The town sat on a rise above the Yazoo, but the old Caldwell house leaned toward the river as if listening for something it had lost. Its white paint had long ago turned the color of bone. People said the girl had been mad. People said she had been holy. Most

The first time Michele Ferrero came to Lourdes, he felt as if he had stepped out of time. The grotto was not grand like a cathedral. It was a hollow in a cliff, damp and dark, with water trickling from the stone like tears. Candles burned by the thousands, their flames trembling as if they, too, were praying. He removed his hat and whispered, “Madonna mia. This is where You came.” His wife, Maria, stood beside him. “It is so simple,” she said. “I thought it would be magnifice

On St. Brigid’s Eve the house stays still Cold pressed tight against the pane We set out cloth by habit and will And ask the dark not to break our name The fire remembers what we forget Milk on the stove bread rising slow She walks these rooms with mercy yet Where tired hands learned how to sow We do not ask much just warmth to hold A steady road a faithful sign For hearts get weary before they get old And hope needs tending same as a vine Come morning winter may

St. Anthony, My LED Light St. Anthony, you’ve been my LED light, Steady and calm through the longest night. When Corinth froze and the power fell, You burned where fear and silence dwell. Not a blaze, not loud or grand, Just constant glow at your gentle command. While wind struck hard and ice held tight, You kept my courage wired with light. Saint of the lost, of keys and peace, You helped my racing heart to ease. Each flicker said, You’re not alone, Even when the dark felt o

Ode to the Ice (And My Frozen Assets) (We are without power in North Mississippi due to Ice, Ice Baby, 2026) The midnight ice came sliding down the pane, To freeze the yard and rattle through my brain. The lights went out, the heater gave a sigh, I watched my comfort wave a cold goodbye. Now North MS is draped in frozen grit, And it’s colder than a well-known witch's tit. I’m layered up like Dostoevsky’s crew, But even they had vodka to get through! Oh Ace, oh Fiber, hear my

If you were asked to name the happiest book in the New Testament, you might guess something written in peace and comfort. You probably would not imagine chains, guards, or a prison cell . And yet. The Apostle Paul’s letter to the Philippians, often called the happiest book in the New Testament, was written while he was imprisoned. That fact alone changes how we read it. A Prison Letter Full of Joy Philippians is short, only four chapters, but it overflows with joy. The words

On Roe Day, A Mother’s Lament By A Rachel, Anne Hendricks On Roe Day, I take to verse, To name the blessing and the curse. In ninety-one, a winter's chill, They broke my body and my will. Lorelei Elisabeth was the first, A mother’s heart, a bubble burst. The "D and X" left scars within, Where all my sorrows would begin. The damage done was deep and wide,  With nowhere left for life to hide. Because of what Dr. James Gay did to me,  I lost my future family. I miscarried three

(Source: Magnolia Dynamic Solutions, Corinth, MS last year) The second the meteorologist on Channel 6 starts pointing at those jagged blue lines over the Gulf, my internal "Dixie Preparedness" alarm starts screaming. But let’s be real. My kids are grown and gone, so I’m no longer worried about entertaining bored toddlers or making sure there are enough chicken nuggets to survive a forty-eight-hour freeze. No, my concerns have shifted to the much more terrifying reality of mid

He wrote more songs than Cash. He made a guitar weep (and have orgasms). He loved his Minneapolis. Oh, yes, who else? It's time for a PRINCE BLOG! Where were you when you heard the news that Prince had died? On April 21, 2016, the world stopped for so many of us. I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing. I had been out of town that day and was driving home to Griffin, Georgia, on I-75. I was hitting Forsyth when the report came over the airwaves. I felt gutted. The

The young man speaks of light and grace, A smile across his unlined face. "I think all men are good," he cries, With Anne Frank’s hope within his eyes. The skeptic feels the winter chill, And keeps his weathered spirit still. "You claim to know the inner soul, To see the part and grasp the whole. But acatalepsy is the truth, A lesson hidden from your youth. The human heart is never clear, It’s masked by pride and veiled by fear. You cannot grasp the hidden mind, Or know the

After decades in classrooms and libraries, I’ve learned one unshakable truth about poetry: students don’t hate poetry—they hate being told there’s only one right way into it. Poetry is not a locked room with a single key. It’s a house with many doors, and when we teach students the variety  of poetic forms available to them, something remarkable happens. Fear gives way to curiosity. Resistance turns into play. Even the most reluctant writer eventually finds a form that fits t

Yes, I used AI to generate a graphic for the blog. Get over it! Today, the third anniversary of Pop’s death, I am quiet. I am reflecting on a journey that took me from a hospital room in Corinth to the depths of a broken heart, and finally, to a place of reclaimed grace. I have fought to be a phoenix rising from the ashes, and today I stand on solid ground. . The First Year: The Battle and the Break The first year was defined by a brutal fight for Pop’s dignity. I had failed

When a son chooses no contact, it can feel like a sudden, painful silence in a mother’s life. The absence is not just physical but emotional, leaving questions and wounds that seem impossible to heal. Yet, this difficult season can also become a powerful turning point. It is a moment when a mother can decide: I am worthy — and claim this as my season of growth and self-discovery. This post explores how mothers of adult sons who have chosen no contact can navigate their feel

Time travel stories have fascinated readers for decades. They offer a unique way to explore history, imagine futures, and challenge the limits of reality. Writing a good time travel or time slip story requires more than just moving characters through different eras. It demands careful thought about the rules of time, the impact of change, and the characters' emotional journey. This guide will help you create engaging science fiction adventures that capture readers' imaginatio

We all love a good Victorian romance. We imagine the sweeping gowns, the brooding dukes, and the tension of a stolen glance in a candlelit ballroom. But let’s be honest: those novels are heavily filtered. While we imagine our protagonists smelling like lavender and living in pristine marble halls, the actual Victorian era was a lot messier, smellier, and frankly, more hazardous than fiction suggests. If you’re ready to ruin the magic just a little bit, here are the top ten un

My husband kidnapped me from my bad day! You have to admit, a man who does that while his wife is breathing fire, crying sideways, and throwing full Southern hissy fits because her dish ate her plate (still can't find it), she has writer's block, and her teenager sassed her. To do so, a man must be brave, stupid, or deeply committed to marriage. Probably all three. So, what do you do when your wife has officially lost it? You feed her chocolate and Mountain Dew like she’s a r

Bartholomew "Barty" Butterfield adjusted his phone, trying to get the perfect angle for his profile picture. His reflection in the cracked screen showed a man-child with a perpetual deer-in-headlights expression, clutching a slightly deflated inflatable flamingo. "Needs more… enigma tic allure," he muttered, tilting his head. "Like I'm deep, but also ready for a spontaneous pool party. With... this flamingo." His bio, carefully crafted after an hour of intense self-reflection

“ERROR ERROR” BASED ON A TRUE STORY! It was warm weather in 1976, and I was being my usual mischievous self, or as to quote my MeeMaw, “Fanny is being bad (again).” My mother cleaned me up for the third time that morning. Hair in pigtails with green bows, she put me down with a pop on the tush to stay put. My brother, Robert, who is two years older, snickered. The minute she left the room; I showed him what my front teeth could do. “Mom, Fanny bit me… AGAIN!” he cried, biting

Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton holds a special place in the hearts of many, especially today as we honor her feast day. As America’s first native-born saint, her story is one of faith, resilience, and dedication to education and charity. This blog explores her remarkable life, her contributions to the Catholic Church in the United States, and the lasting impact she has made as a patron saint. Early Life and Conversion Elizabeth Ann Bayley was born in 1774 in New York City into a w

My newest story, a novelette that will be online soon, focuses on the relationship of two amazing men during the early twentieth century: Lovecraft and Howard! #Lovecraft #RobertEHoward #Fantasy #WeirdStories In the golden age of the pulp magazines, two of the most influential minds in speculative fiction built a bridge across the American landscape, spanning the distance between the ancient, cobblestoned streets of Providence and the rugged, dusty plains of Cross Plains, Tex