🪞 Some mirrors reflect your face. Some reflect something else.

The Mirror is here—our first audio adaptation of an original story by award-winning author Elise Burke Brown.

🎧 Apple: https://buff.ly/KjzOsYE
🎧 Spotify: https://buff.ly/qMWK8ap

#GhostStories #SouthernGothic #FolkLife

Listening to Slim Cessna Auto Club, because @moonshinebrigade said so, and they know their music

Slim Cessna Auto Club and Lord Dwight Pentacost Didn't we Ramble
Bandcamp
https://slimcessnasautoclub.bandcamp.com/album/didnt-we-ramble

#Banjo #SouthernGothic #CountryBlues #KittysJukebox

The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor

https://www.nateshivar.com/33789/the-complete-stories-by-flannery-oconnor/

The Heretical Energy of “Is God Is”

https://fed.brid.gy/r/https://www.newyorker.com/culture/critics-notebook/the-heretical-energy-of-is-god-is

Issue 15: Fiction and Nonfiction

Photo: Self Portrait Reflection in Door Glass by Salie Davis, Issue 15.

Check out these short story excerpts from Issue 15:

FICTION

It worked. I followed the forty-day program exactly, and it worked, just as they said. I could barely sleep last night for the anticipation of it. And sure enough — morning forty-one — I got up and my body stayed in bed.

Look at it now, lying there. If you’ve ever had an out-of-body experience, this is not the same. Even out-of-body, you are fundamentally still in your body. It’s all a head thing. This is different — the real deal.

I think I expected to feel something about it. Elation, maybe. Triumph, joy. Relief. I was even prepared to experience grief. But I feel nothing; I’m not even numb. Just, absence.

My — its — eyes are still closed. … READ MORE >

— Mirjana Villeneuve, “Body”

Tasha’s face looked as though someone had stuffed a plum in it, right where her left eye should’ve been. She examined it in the bathroom mirror beneath the flickering tube light, the cracked tile still morning-cool beneath her bare feet. The room was so cramped she could hardly turn around without falling over the toilet or into the shower, but still she leaned precariously against the sink to get a closer look. Her fingertips glowed white against the purpled skin as they delicately traced the obscenity. Like a ripened fruit, the skin felt taut and, due to the humidity, had the same sense of succulence. If she opened the eye, would tears run out or juice? She could open it — though not all the way. Makeup wasn’t going to cover it. She raked some of her brunette curls down over the side of her face. That could work if she didn’t mind having cycloptic vision for the day. And looking somewhat emo, which at twenty-three she was a little too old for. A plosive sigh parted her lips, making a soft pop in the silence. She pulled her hair high onto her head and fastened it with a black band. She could figure out what to do after she sent Dale on his way. … READ MORE >

— Paul Michael Garrison, “Tasha in South Carolina”

Mama says the world’s a crooked thing, and the tree down by the creek just learned to grow with it. It sits at the edge of Cinder Hollow, bent over the water like it’s tired of keeping its head up. Folks say its roots reach straight into Hell, and maybe that’s true. Nothing green ever grows around it, just the same brittle grass that dies every summer before it has the nerve to bloom.

When I was a child, I thought it was just a tree. Granddad said otherwise.

“That tree remembers,” he’d rasp. “Every limb’s got a ghost hanging off it. The kind that asked for too much bread or too much fairness.”

Then he’d spit into the dirt like he was trying to rid his mouth of the taste of the world. … READ MORE >

— Kyler Littlejohn, “For Those Who Weep”

The hedge formed a nearly complete barrier around Bridget’s quarter-acre lot. Vines and weeds had taken root in its shade and grown up through the thorny branches, completing its ten-foot privacy screen. The only break in the hedge was the gap where a brick path ran from the street sidewalk to the front porch. The gap was so narrow and the hedge so thick, Bridget had to face the gap square on to see anything on the other side.

Bridget knew the people talking on the other side of the hedge couldn’t see her as she poured birdseed into a feeder.

“They’re doing a lot of work on that house,” one voice said. … READ MORE >

— Chelsea Barnwell, “Through the Hedge”

He awoke suddenly in a strange room. But “awoke” is a misleading term; he just came to his senses, realizing that he had been lying there, with his eyes wide open, for a while. He had no idea how long that was, what he was doing here, or where “here” was. There was no sound.
 
How did I get here? he thought. The last thing he remembered was going to bed last night. He tried to turn his head and couldn’t. There weren’t any restrictions — at least he couldn’t feel any — but he simply was unable to move his head. The fact alarmed him, so he tried to move his head with his hands to see whether there was something restricting his movements or not. This attempt did not even get off the ground, as he quickly discovered he couldn’t move his hands either. … READ MORE >

— Jack Denning, “Listen”

You took root so eagerly. Just a seed, so little, so frail. But you latched into the soil with such confidence.

Then you grew. You were pulsing with promise. You were entirely alive. If someone had bent close enough to the ground, hands and knees pressed to the grass, ear turned to the earth, they could have heard you singing, singing with expectation in every note.

Your shell opened, and your tiny head pressed upward towards the sky. You broke through your blanket into the open air. Five blue petals and a slender stem. You were vivid. You were delicate. The morning sun beamed across the world, and you lifted your face up to the light. But you were drooping by night. … READ MORE >

— Leah Johnston, “A Flax Flower”

Every evening, Elias carried a stone home.

He never chose them deliberately. They appeared in his pockets the way regret appears — quietly, without announcement. A smooth grey pebble after he lied to a customer. A jagged one after he ignored the old woman asking for help with her groceries. Once, after turning away his brother at the door, he found both pockets heavy with something that bruised his thighs when he walked.

At first, he laughed it off.

“Stones are nothing,” he said aloud, tossing them into a wooden box beneath his bed.

But the box began to fill. … READ MORE >

— Atif Nawaz, “The Weight of Small Stones”

The Father — the only color in a sea of suburban white. His accent is thick, but his joy and love are clear as day.

Missing the holy water at the entrance announces me as a stranger, but I certainly don’t feel like an intruder.

My eyes track to the red trickling from the life-size Christ above the altar, where the spear separated blood from water.

Idols are everywhere. Not sure if that is the right word for them, but statues and pictures decorate the whole chapel. There are so many, I feel like a kid in a toy shop, looking everywhere, trying my best to find one that I like the most. … READ MORE >

— Jacob W. Surface, “To Avoid an Awkward Family Breakfast, I Escape to Mass for the First Time at St. Mary of the Assumption Catholic Church, Three Oaks, Michigan”

NONFICTION

This is a true story, and I do not want it to be a spoof, but we humor ourselves sometimes to deal with our pesky anxiety. That said, I can’t help giving a nod to the humor writer Dave Barry’s line, “I’m not making this up!” I was fifty years old when I learned I had the ‘big C’, cancer. I found out when I finally went to the doctor to find out about an annoying, not-so-little red and black sore on my upper left arm that itched like crazy and hurt deep in my muscle whenever I scratched it.

My doctor told me it was malignant melanoma, which is one of the fastest spreading cancers. He then informed me that if it had already spread through the rest of my body (he actually smiled when he said this), I’d be dead in a year, and they could do nothing except help with pain. Then he told me he would have to take a sample, a biopsy, of the surrounding flesh to see if it had already metastasized; and, if it had happened, it would be ‘lights out’ for me.

(Er … ah … sniff, snorkel, snort …) “Do you mean me being dead, Doc?” … READ MORE >

— Rexford Chase Nicholson, “The Day the Whale Blew Its Nose in My Face”

The Bible tells you that there’s nothing new under the sun, especially temptation arriving on the scene in Eden. And I learned that again at the gas station, on one relentlessly dull day.

My husband and I had stopped to stretch our legs, have a much-needed coffee, perhaps a snack. A donut laced with lemon icing, perhaps, or cinnamon toast glistening with buttery flavor? More temptations.

Of course, I needed to use the restroom first, and also wash my hands. But there on the gray tiled floor was something glittery, sparkly. Intriguing.

There were no curtains at the small window, only a shabby blind, so it couldn’t be a simple brass curtain ring. No, I thought, it was too shiny, too interesting. It called to me to investigate, to satisfy my insatiable curiosity.

It didn’t disappoint. … READ MORE >

— Wendy Westley, “The temptation”

Portland in February. Supposedly it is a good time of year to visit Oregon, but I might call it bipolar. The weather had that kind of temperament. Indecisive, mercurial. Deceptively sunny, then would hit me sideways with gray rain. On a rainy Thursday, we drove to see the falls near Bridal Veil. The town (it is a town) rests along the south side of the Columbia River, and has nothing but waterfall trails and a post office. The rain there had a fresh mossy scent that provided great relief from the sour rust smell of the wet city. I cupped it in my lungs. It was sharp.

From the parking lot, we could already see Multnomah Falls. The blurry white ribbon unspooled from an abrupt cliff. So many trees, dark and green, crowded the slopes. I said our breath in the cold made us look like dragons. He said it was like we were smoking hookah. … READ MORE >

— Lucy Swan, “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?”

He came into the room and took the only available seat, which happened to be right next to me. With one hand, he pulled a package of cookies from his jacket pocket, tore it open, then held it out. “Want a cookie?” he asked. “No, thank you,” I said, and that was how we met. It was my first time attending the new church group I had just joined. After we all introduced ourselves, the first discussion question was posed, and the man sitting next to me said, “I think it’s a weak question.” He went on to explain why, and I thought, Here we go. Later, when telling my best friend about the group, I would refer to him as “the abrasive guy.” But toward the end of the night, after we had prayed, he turned to me again and asked what kind of books I wrote. I told him, and I found out he knew about Ursula Le Guin (one of my favorite authors) and that he, too, loved the Pacific Northwest for its vast and varied trees. I thought then that he might be all right.

The past year had been a bad year for me. It had been an especially bad summer. I had been pushed to the edge of wondering if there was any point to our individual lives, if God did in fact have a purpose for each of us. … READ MORE >

— Jessica Lynne Henkle, “You Shall Love the Lord Your God”

READ ISSUE 15:
Online | Download | Buy Print Copy

Our Soul’s Shelf Life

Our Soul’s Shelf Life
by Stewart Stafford

Become the Devil’s bedmate,
As sabbath witches burnt before,
Hear serpentine vacant promises,
Kiss his ring at the soulless door.

Warned of the bloody nib, you signed
The infernal contract, no appeal,
Notarised by Mephistopheles,
The cherry high of a rotten deal.

In death’s cold cowl, clarity comes,
The swaying gibbet reveals itself,
Another fool tempted between sheets,
A Southern-fried soul on the shelf.

© 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

The Yellow Menu

A grieving man returns to his hometown and finds shelter from a tornado—and his past—with the bus driver who once carried him home.

Micah Lyndon had imagined Lost Gap larger than this.

For twenty years it had remained within him as a country of pine shadow and red-clay driveways, of mailboxes leaning toward the roadside, of warm blacktop running away into trees, of small creeks swollen brown after rain. In his memory the woods were immense, the roads endless, the hills steep enough to rise beneath a boy like the back of some sleeping animal. Even after he had gone north, even after he had learned cities and interstate exits and apartment windows looking down over streets where no one knew his name, Lost Gap had retained the proportions of childhood.

It had stayed enormous because he had never returned long enough to measure it.

Now the roads curved too soon. The distances had collapsed. The hill that had once seemed dangerous when the school bus climbed it in winter was hardly more than a rise. A house he remembered as white stood abandoned behind brush and young pines, its porch listing toward the weeds. The convenience store where he used to buy candy and bottled drinks after school had been boarded shut, the paint on its sign faded until it resembled something remembered rather than something seen. Kudzu rolled over the back lot and sagged from telephone poles, covering the places time no longer intended to explain.

Micah drove slowly, although there was almost no traffic.

He had come expecting grief, though he had not known precisely what kind.

His marriage had ended the year before, not with betrayal or great anger, but with the long exhaustion of two people who had become considerate strangers. His work, once the ladder by which he expected to climb into meaning, had begun to feel like a room he had remained in after everyone else went home.

Then, three nights earlier, unable to sleep, he had typed Lost Gap, Mississippi into his phone.

The name itself had struck him with an almost scriptural force.

Lost Gap.

A place named for absence. A break in the ridge. An opening through something otherwise impassable. A home that sounded, even while he lived there, as though it had already vanished.

He had packed the next morning and driven south.

Read the rest of the story at Crawdad Epiphanies https://medium.com/@keith.lyndaker/the-yellow-menu-7056e723db66

https://medium.com/@keith.lyndaker/the-yellow-menu-7056e723db66

https://medium.com/@keith.lyndaker/the-yellow-menu-7056e723db66