Author Archives: Rusty

Ry Cooder's musical journey has taken him India, Africa and, finally, Appalachia

by Wayne Bled­soe Just lis­ten­ing to Ry Cooder's cat­a­log is like tak­ing a col­lege course in music, but a lot more fun. His albums have cel­e­brated blues, folk, calypso, early jazz, rhythm and blues, rock 'n' roll, gospel and the … Con­tinue read­ing

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Buried Treasure, by Benjamin Drevlow

How you’d even react, young buck, if you knew how I ogled, like some long lost uncle, that sliver of pale flesh run­ning under the sil­ver cru­ci­fix your girl said she’d never take off, how hard you’ve tried to anoint … Con­tinue read­ing

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Burying the Johnboat, fiction by Sam Slaughter

Mary stood on her porch with a shovel rest­ing on her shoul­der. In her other hand, a tall­boy of Miller High Life began to sweat in the sum­mer heat. The sun was up and she’d over­slept, the hang­over punch to … Con­tinue read­ing

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Matt, poem by John Dorsey

played the piano read bukowski to pros­ti­tutes while sip­ping steel reserve and chew­ing on pain pills as if he was doing com­mu­nity out­reach at night he would talk about jazz, art his­tory and how he once had sex with his … Con­tinue read­ing

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Joplin, poem by Michael Thompson

Once the war ended, there wasn’t any­thing else to do except play the horses and hoist a few pints at Tin­horn Flats where the sticky sur­face of no-pest strips hang­ing behind the bar are caked with flies Wait­ing on long shot … Con­tinue read­ing

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A Long Row to Hoe, by Meriwether O'Connor

  Old Mr. Wor­thing­ton showed up at half past ten when he shoulda oughta been there at ten sharp. Miss Can­dle­man was ready for him with a cup of cof­fee, hers. She walked out, pleas­ant as pie. Hi, Mr. Wor­thing­ton. … Con­tinue read­ing

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Under the De Soto, fiction by Barrett Hathcock

We had a roof­ing job in Eureka Springs. Stu­pid name for a town. It’s up in the top cor­ner of Arkansas, almost in Mis­souri, stuck in this Ozark gul­ley, every street a down­ward spi­ral. There are no grids in Eureka. … Con­tinue read­ing

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Tipping the Jug*, poem by GC Smith

Red­necks and black­men old bud­dies and friends will stand now together with a clay jug of corn they'll drink to their health and com­fort each other with lies and com­fort each other with lies They'll talk of their dogs and the … Con­tinue read­ing

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The Hills are Alive, essay by Anna Lea Jancewicz

Yeah, every­body has a dead grand­mother story. They’re not sexy and nobody’s buy­ing. But this story is mine, and it’s not so much about the woman as it is about the place. I’m from a lit­tle coal town, McAdoo, in … Con­tinue read­ing

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Where to Buy Your Weed, fiction by Misty Skaggs

Her trailer was a ripe patch of excess, bloomed con­spic­u­ously at the base of a cliff on the edge of a bone dry, Bap­tist county in East Ken­tucky. The half-acre around it was lit­tered with faded Moun­tain Dew cans glint­ing … Con­tinue read­ing

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