Recent Stories

There are places where the earth does not forget what men have done upon it. That is what old Mr. Harlan Pruitt…

By day, Crybaby Lane looked like any other narrow road in the old folds of North Carolina: two ragged shoulders, a seam…

By dusk, the Blue Ridge had folded itself into layers of bruised velvet, one ridge laid over another like the wings of…

By the time the last freight train came through Atlanta, Indiana, most decent folks were already asleep. It was the kind of…

There are towns that grow old the way people do: by gathering aches, by favoring one side in the wind, by lowering…

There are houses that look abandoned even when candles burn in every window. The Beattie Mansion was such a house. It stood…

By the time the sun drops behind the breadfruit trees in San Jose, the House of Taga no longer looks like a…

By daylight, Estate Whim was a handsome lie. It stood on the quiet west end of St. Croix with its whitewashed walls…

In Wilkesboro, where the hills rise blue and old as bruises against the evening sky, there stands a brick jail that has…

In Soda Springs, Idaho, the earth has never learned to keep quiet. It mutters under the streets and sighs in the cellars.…

In Concordia, Kansas, where the wind comes walking over the plains with its hands in its pockets and its mouth full of…

There are buildings that grow old the way people do—stooped, softened, full of aches in the joints and stories in the walls.…