The 2022 Writers Competition

Thank you to all who participated in the 2022 Writer’s competition! This year we honored our Henry County Bicentennial by including Henry County historical elements in our stories! Please take the time to read the stories below!

• JUDGES CHOICE - Addie’s First Adventure, written by Annette French Hall

  The train is going to be late today, thought Addie Foust as she sat on the bench outside the Mansfield train depot. She was anxious for the train to arrive so she could start her adventure. Today, Mama was allowing her to travel to Paris all by herself to get baking supplies they would need for the next month. Ever since the big fire on December 21, 1937 that burned Gregson’s general store in Mansfield, she and Mama had to travel to Paris to get their supplies for the month. The train would pick them up at 7:00 in the morning and they usually wouldn’t get back home until 5:00 that evening. Although it was exciting to visit the big city, this thirteen-year-old was a little scared to be traveling by herself.

  Her brother, Ray, had been sent home from Mansfield Academy where they went to school. The snake he tried to put on Sally Webb at recess didn’t sit well with her or her teacher, Miss Rubye Hastings. Mama had to go smooth the situation over so he could return to classes. Papa was away at work on the NC&StL railroad or he would have had to do it. Luckily for Ray and his behind, Mama would have to stand in for Papa. The crazy boy was always doing something naughty! Once, he almost fell in front of an oncoming train after putting a banana peel on the railroad track. When he finally got clear from the track, Addie had asked him why in the world did he put a banana peel on it. “I wanted to see if it would derail the train,” he answered haughtily. Heaven only knew if the boy would ever amount to anything.

  People were beginning to join her at the depot for the train ride into town. “Where is that blasted train?”, Addie thought. She was glad to see Miss Mary Beth Carter would be riding the train today. Although she felt grown up traveling without Mama, it was reassuring to see that a familiar face would be with her on the trip if she were to need any help.

  “Good morning, Miss Mary Beth,” greeted Addie. “Are you going to town to buy groceries like me?”

  “No, child,” Miss Mary Beth said. “I’m going to see Dr. Veltman this morning. I sure wish she still lived in Mansfield instead of me having to take this train into town. I’ve got lots of laundry I need to be washing today instead of traipsin’ all over Paris.”

  In the distance, they heard the sound of the train whistle announcing its arrival. Finally!, thought Addie. We can get this show on the road! The train rolled up to the platform clanging its bell and blowing its whistle. It gave one last belch of steam as its wheels screeched to a stop. The engineer jumped down from the train steps wiping his forehead with his red handkerchief. Addie recognized him from the Bruceton station where they took Papa every Sunday night to catch a train to New Johnsonville. He would spend the week painting railroad bridges. From Sunday to the next Friday, he belonged to the railroad. But come Friday night, he was home taking care of a week’s worth of work in two days. He and a few other men from the neighborhood were lucky enough to have good railroad jobs where mostly the rest of the community were farmers. Papa was always telling the Lord how thankful he was for that job whenever he was called upon to pray in church.

  “Miss Addie, how are you and how is that rascal brother of yours?” the engineer inquired.

  “Well, Mama is trying to save Ray from getting a paddling at school. I’m doing fine, thank you,” said Addie.

  “If I see your Papa this week, I’ll tell him to cut a bundle of switches to take home with him. He’ll probably figure out what I’m talking about,” the engineer said, laughing.

  Addie gathered her satchel containing the sack lunch Mama had packed and the little hand purse hidden in the bottom containing her grocery list and money to buy the supplies. Mama warned her not to take her eyes off the satchel, emphasizing how hard that money inside was to come by. Addie definitely didn’t want to let Mama down.

  She boarded the train and took a seat by the window where she could see the countryside and houses roll slowly by, then faster as the train gained speed. She counted the little towns that would eventually get her to her destination in Paris. When they reached the crossing at Van Dyke, she looked in her lunch sack and saw that her Mama had packed some sausage and biscuits from breakfast, so she unwrapped one from its waxed paper and took a bite. Boy, it sure is good even if it is cold, thought Addie. When the train came to the crossing at Reynoldsburg Road, Addie started getting her clothes straightened up and crumbs brushed off her dress. She wanted everything to go well today so Mama would let her come to town by herself another time.

  When the train pulled into Paris station, Addie gathered her satchel, smoothed her dress and stood up to get ready to exit the train. What she didn’t count on was the train coming to a hard stop, then lurching forward again before hitting the brakes for the final time. She lost her footing and fell face first in the dirty aisle covered in dust and dirt from the travelers’ shoes. A farmer who had ridden to town from Haglersville picked her up from the floor and asked if she was all right. She told him she was and thanked him. Golly Bill, she thought. Between me and Ray, I don’t know how Mama keeps her sanity.

  She gathered herself, took a deep breath and took herself and her satchel to the train steps that would lead her to the depot platform and the beginning of her first big adventure alone. Smiling to herself, she crossed the road leading to the court square and the stores surrounding it. You can do this, she thought to herself. After all, you’re a Mansfield girl.

• FIRST PLACE - The Sniper, written by Gene Gulish

  The mid-afternoon summer sun bathed the Robert E Lee School/Paris Academy for the Arts in its light, providing the building with an almost surrealistic image, as it stood its ground in Henry County Tennessee. The building did, indeed, have a history. Its predecessor was initially built in 1848 and added to the National Register in 1988. It was constructed of brick with 18 inch outer walls. It was operated as a private school, Paris Male Academy, until 1881. In 1891 the school building burned. A movement to rebuild the school started in 1892 and it was reopened in 1893. The school became known as the Robert E Lee School in 1910. In 2020, when Robert E Lee became less of a hero, it became known as the Paris Academy for the Arts. It’s titles, images and functions changed through the years.

  Jake sat on the steps of the Robert E Lee School. His scraggly, unkept, graying hair hung over his ears. He had an unkept beard. On his head was a faded United States Air Force cap. He was wearing a gray, tattered T-shirt and shorts. He appeared generally disheveled. His obese belly rested on his thighs as he leaned forward. His eyes darted from side to side. Under his left arm, holding her tightly, was a small black dog, Mia. He was initially alone, and his conversation was only with the dog.

  As his friend approached, he looked up and greeted him.” Hi, what’s up?” “Hey, man,” responded the friend. “What are you doing?” “Planning my day,” Jake answered. “And marveling at this place’s history. You know it was built in 1848-before the Civil War? Do you know it was an all-boys’ school? I couldn’t have gotten in here. I am too much of a hillbilly. Got to get my truck fixed today. But I was a jock in high school. I was buff with a six pack. Did you know that?” And so, the topics of conversation jumped from one subject to another. “I joined the Air Force when I was 19. Did you know that? I was in the military for 13 years. And after basic training, I was sent to Afghanistan as a tail gunner. Did you know that?”

  And then everything changed. He wasn’t just telling a story; he was living it. “Do you know what tail gunners do? They take out terrorists. We watched him for a while as he shot holes in the military planes.” “Okay, hillbilly, you’re on.” My commanding officer said.” Jake climbed out of the airplane into the grass and crept toward his target. He could feel the gun in his hand. Although he could feel his heart pounding, for some reason, he felt remarkably calm. The terrorist crept toward him in a similar fashion not knowing Jake was there. They rose up together as if choreographed. Each facing the other. Each with a gun in his hand. His adversary was young, bearded, Muslim. Their eyes met. Thoughts flashed through Jake’s mind with lightning speed. “He’s young. He is someone’s son. He may have a wife. He may have children.” And then Jake raised his gun, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The missile appeared to move in slow motion as it entered the terrorist neck under his chin and exited by blowing out the back of his head. Blood everywhere. The man fell. Jake had just killed a man! He turned with bullets flying over his head and ran back to the safety of his airplane. What was he thinking? What was he thinking? He was thinking of the quiet green hills of Henry County Tennessee. He would deal with his actions later.

  And, so, his time in the military passed. This would not be the last human life he would take. It never got easier and his reactions never changed. Sometimes he observed suffering before death. But always he put off the inevitable, by remembering the quiet solitude of his home. For some reason the ultimate organization of Robert E Lee school often came into his head. He thought of the school named after a Civil War military leader. He thought of its organization as a first private school and then city school. He thought of it’s renaming as Robert E Lee became less of a hero. And, for some reason, in the mist of his chaotic life, this gave him solace. But somewhere in his head, what he had to do to his fellow man did not escape. And then, as if to add an exclamation point to the soliloquy, as he was running to the safety of his airplane he tripped over a helmet. He picked it up to find an open eyed head lodged in it, appearing to stare back at him.

  Often at bedtime, when he closed his eyes, he would see the young face of his first victim followed by the others and the helmeted head. And sometime when he opened his eyes they did not vanish, haunting his soul. And, in the dark, he would feel a tear running down his face. What had he done? What had he become?

  “Why-how could you do that?” His friend asked. “I had to do it, because I love this country. I love the green hills of Tennessee. I love the organization and the history of this country. This, we must always protect. Have you ever killed a man?” Jake asked. A rhetorical question. “No”, his friend answered. “ I have never even shot a deer, a squirrel, a bird.” Silence. Jake reached into the holster on his hip and brought out his gun. He held it and gazed upon it as if it were a sacred object. He gazed into the eyes of his friend, blinking back tears. He then replaced the gun into its holster. Momentary silence. “ I guess I will never again be that 19-year-old boy who entered the military. I guess loud noises will always startle me. I guess I will always be untrusting. I guess I will always depend on Mia for solace. I guess this building, on whose steps I am sitting, and I are similar. We both progressed from a hard, no nonsense structure to a softer structure with a more acceptable title. But I guess, in the end, I will simply be known as a serial killer.”

  They rose together as if choreographed. Their eyes met. One awkward, Southern male hand reach for the other. And the handshake turned into an awkward male hug. “You are not a serial killer, Jake. You are hero! You have to always remember that. Do you hear me?” Indeed, heroes come in many sizes and shapes. They sometimes sit on the steps of historic buildings. They sometimes hold a dog on their lap and ramble on about many subjects. They often search their souls to understand what they had done and why they had done it. Jake was a hero!

• SECOND PLACE - The "Silents" of Dunlap, written by Paige Craig

  This story is dedicated to Dr. David Webb. Thank you for your extensive work in researching Henry County’s history, as well as fact checking my work.

  BY THE 1880s, the town of Paris, Tennessee, was growing. The war 20 years prior had largely overlooked the small settlement, with the only exception being a short skirmish that was vehemently romanticized by the locals. This lack of attention left the city in one piece by warends, and prime for expansion. Such came in ‘60, when the railroad finally reached the town, bringing with it prosperity and opportunity. New businesses and stores appeared on the court square overnight. Theaters sprung up to entertain, photographers emerged to capture images of the locals, and telegraph wires finally connected the town to the outside world. This growth also brought many new residents with it, some moving in from the local area, while others came from much more distant lands. However, it would be inaccurate to claim that every newcomer was the average, hardworking southern.

  The train would regularly bring a number of strange individuals. Some would have odd hobbies, while others would exhibit behaviors considered unusual at the time. Such levels of bizarreness often left Parisian opinions just as diverse as the settlers themselves. Some would try to accept them into their close-knit community, while most would happily escort them out of town, armed with firearms and bad attitudes. But no matter how long they resided in Paris, many of these odd newcomers would become key figures in regional history.

  William B. Cox, an eccentric ex-stage actor from Paducah and well-known womanizer, partook in a street duel with the town's sheriff, after reportedly having sensual relations with his wife. The encounter ended with a .45 diameter hole through Cox’s heart, and with the sheriff being placed on trial for murder. But even with such hefty charges, they were quickly dropped, as the district attorney believed the whole incident to be an “honorable, Shakesperan affair between two men of valor and courage.” Unsurprisingly, the locals believed him to be quite strange as well.

  Solomon P. Fuller, a wealthy, hated, landowning carpetbagger from Ohio, had a strange fascination with porcelain dolls. Whenever someone would visit his manor on Wood Street, they would be greeted by dozens of fragile, yet intricate dolls, lining the multiple shelves of his living room, kitchen, and bedroom. Such strange behavior, along with his donations to the Henry County Training School, a school for the black children of the area, made him an outcast amongst the ex-plantation owning elite, but quite adored by the town’s lower classes.

  The Hunt family were immigrants that came from the new Empire of Germany, and quickly became rival monopolists to the wealthy Douglas Gray, a popular store owner in the town. Despite the competition, the Hunts quickly made a name for themselves, opening various shops and stores across the local area. The family was met with animosity, at first, many offended by their different language and their relation to the Hessians of the Revolutionary War. But because of the business they brought to town, many began to view them in a more positive light, with the exception of Mr. Gray.

  All in all, many curious characters had at some point made the little Tennessee town their home, and made sure to leave their mark. But out of all them, perhaps none were more queer and mysterious than that of the town’s only other German immigrant family.

  The Schreiber family.

  They came on the local service around the winter of 1880. Although arriving from such a far away country, their luggage only consisted of a few suitcases and a large truck. This small oddity was just one of many that would soon surround this foreign family of four.

  The father was a rough skinned, weary eyed gentleman, with a thinning hairline, and speckles of white plastered in his black beard. He wore a worn, gray frock coat, and muddied, black trousers. Hanging off his white, striped undershirt was a recently bought red puff tie, vehemently displayed in an attempt at appearing proper.

  The mother was a plump, freckled older woman, who, similar to her husband, had eyes that exhibited exhaustion. Her toffee blonde hair was cut short and mostly concealed by the white head scarf. She wore an uninteresting striped dress, with green, cloth blanket wrappings around her upper chest. Out of the four members, she also appeared to be the sickliest of all of them.

  The eldest of the two children was a young man, perhaps in his late teens, early twenties. On his asymmetrical face resided a large birthmark that stretched from his right cheek to the bottom of his crooked nose. His deep gray eyes made some fellow passengers believe he was blind, yet his dexterity with the family’s luggage disproved this theory. The clothing he wore and his hair color was similar to that of his father, although he lacked the coat and “proper” demeanor of the patriarch.

  The daughter seemed about the same age as her brother. She shared the same toffee hair as her mother, yet was almost out of place amongst her unsightly, tired family. She was a petite, beautiful young woman, with a blue, flowing dress, similar yet more appealing than her mother’s. However, those not charmed by her looks would notice that like the rest of her family, her eyes appeared worn and fatigued.

  These particular details were not what left the townspeople in bewilderment, however. It was the fact that from the moment they stepped off the train, the Schreibers never spoke a word.

  The first to learn this was John Livery, the owner of the Livery Hotel on Blithe Street. Upon arrival, the cheerful hotelier happily greeted the family, and presented a document listing the various rooms and services his enterprise provided. After finishing his lengthy testimony, the caretaker then queried the family on what they desired, but was answered only by the father pointing at the word ‘room’ on the giving sheet. Such an action greatly puzzled Mr. Livery, but who was he to question his customers' communication methods.

  The next were the Hunts who, happy to learn that some fellow Germans had settled in the town, decided to visit the Schreibers just after they arrived. They meet them in the hotel lobby, and begin speaking to the newcomers in their native language, introducing themselves, and asking questions about their adjustment to American life. These inquiries were only met with silence and cold stares from the Schreibers, almost as if they couldn’t understand a word the Hunts spoke. The atmosphere quickly became tense and awkward. The Hunts tried in vain to make conversation, but such advances were only answered with the Schreibers’ continual reticence. Eventually, the Hunts decided to leave, both offended, and somewhat uneasy, from their interaction with the new family.

  The remainder of townsfolk began experiencing the strange behaviors of the Schreibers as well. The father had landed a job at the Lassiter Lumber Company, which led to the family’s behavior becoming even more prominent amongst town gossip. Stories of a logger who only communicated through hand gestures and would never scream a warning after sawing down a tree were widespread. The mother also became a familiar face at the various shops on the square, well known for her complete silence when browsing, and buying groceries. The children were never seen attending any of the local schools, and only appeared on shopping trips with their matriarch, or with their parents at the Catholic church. Such odd behavior not only led to a sharp increase of hearsay throughout this southern township, but also caused the residents to give the family a nickname: the “Silent” Family.

  It wasn’t until a year after their arrival that the “Silents” finally had the money to move out of their hotel room and into a plot at 29 Dunlap Street. The small property was surrounded by woods, with a white board fence, an incredibly sized oak along the pathway, and a newly constructed, quaint, one story home. It was a white, wooden building with a red brick chimney and shingled roof. Yet, despite being new to the street, many neighbors to the property viewed it with suspicion. The forested, fenced nature of the property, its shadowy appearance during the day, as well as the large owl residing in the oak tree, made many fear the house. The “Silents” choosing it as their permanent residence, however, surprised very few, with its isolated nature seemed very fitting for such a family. Although, this did lead to something the locals didn’t expect: the “Silents” began acting even more strange.

  After moving into their new home, many neighbors noticed that the “Silents” seemed to leave their house less and less. While they would usually be spotted at a store on the square, or attending church, the family became even more reclusive. The father’s commute to work, or the mother’s now monthly shopping excursions became the only exception to the family’s newfound seclusion, with the son and daughter now rarely, if ever seen.

  Rumors were quickly accepted to explain the family’s bizarre nature. Many believed the family were extremely religious, and had taken a vow of silence to prove their worth to God. Some thought they came from the Germanic backcountry, and were thus illiterate in any forms of modern communication. A few eccentrics even claimed them to be from outer space, hellbent on world domination. But even with these valiant attempts, none of these theories could be proven, and the “Silents” seemed like they would forever remain a constant mystery within the town of Paris, Tennessee. Such a notion, however, was not to last.

  In October of 1886, a young schoolboy named Jay Lewis, had found himself alongside the humble home of the “Silent” family. Despite his secretive nature, though, his motives were not that of mischief. Rather, they were some of the noblest in the entire county. The town bully, Bill Wilson, has stolen a handmade doll from Jay’s younger sister, Annabelle. Now Jay, being the son of a Civil War veteran and loving older brother, was a boy whose opinions on justice and family far outweighed his ability to think critically. And so, without much thought, he went to confront Bill on Market Street, like the hero from a dime novel. An argument quickly turned into a scuffle, leading to the two boys both becoming bloodied and bruised. Although their civilized discussion seemed to be getting somewhere, Jay was surprised to find Bill quickly calling the brawl and offering an ultimatum. The deal was simple:

  The doll would be safely returned to the Lewis family residents, if Jay could bring him a slice of apple pie.

  Upon first hearing the offer, Jay opted to just continue bashing Bill’s skull in. After all, why should he do anything for the kid that dishonored his family? Asking him to do Bill’s bidding was just a desperate attempt at control, to show that Bill was still top dog. With consideration, however, Jay agreed to the bargain. The two battered warriors then dusted themselves off, shook hands, and left each other to uphold their end of the deal. In Bill’s eyes, he had managed to cleverly hold his position among the school children of the community. To Jay, however, he had just found a way to topple Bill for local power. After all, what would bolster your popularity more than stealing a pie from the “Silent” family?

  Regardless of their many oddities, there was one tradition of the “Silents” that appeared quite normal: every Friday afternoon, they would always leave a pie out to cool. No one knew why, nor what type of pie it was, but many accepted it as a more boring aspect of the family’s culture. Whether it was actually apple flavored or not though, Jay was determined to snacth a slice and return it to Bill. In his mind, the story of successfully snatching a slice from such a weird, creepy family would alone make up for Bill’s potential dissatisfaction and anger.

  It wasn’t long until the young man found himself staring down the property at 29 Dunlap, with the expected pie sitting on the kitchen window. Despite his determination to achieve his goal, Jay still found the house quite foreboding. The ever present shadows casted by the trees, and the haunting visage of the large oak, would birth fear in the heart of any schoolboy, with only the frightening hoot of the barred owl missing from the display. But despite his concern, his desire to one-up Bill and make his sister happy, overcame his unease, and he hastily strolled over to the window.

  Hiding behind the adjacent wall, Jay gazed at the simmering confection before him, pleasantly surprised that it was in fact apple. He then carefully inched closer toward the window seal, before reaching its edge. Jay listened for any sign of the “Silent” family, but couldn’t spot a disturbance. He then took a deep breath and stuck an eye out from the window frame, frantically searching for any member of the family. To his relief, no one was in the kitchen. Seizing the opportunity, Jay slid beneath the window seal, and prepared to rip a piece out of the pastry. Before he could, however, in the corner of his eye, Jay noticed something odd.

  Down the hall in what appeared to be a living room, Mr. Schreiber could be seen sitting in a wooden chair. This alarmed Jay, but he quickly noticed that the patriarch was distracted. His eyes seemed focused on something out of Jay’s line-of-sight, a look of annoyance plastered on his worn face. His arms and mouth moved as if he was talking to someone, but, strangely, not a word came from his mouth.

  Before Jay could properly take in the perplexity of the situation, a loud stomp could be heard from the room, making both the patriarch and the young man jump. Mr. Schreiber gripped the arms of his chair, as his face became more agitated. He then moved his hands and lips with conviction, silently demeaning whatever he was arguing with.

  More loud sounds followed, as well as a figure, stomping to the far left side of Mr. Schreiber’s chair. Jay believed it to be Mrs. Schreiber, red in the face and her arms tightly crossed. Her lips quickly moved in response to her husband’s firm remark. Mr. Schreiber simply watched, seeming disinterested in whatever point his wife was attempting to make. This did not go unnoticed however, as she quickly turned to face him with a look of utter fury and wrath. Her hands and mouth began to move more frantically, only to be met by a confused and perturbed expression from her spouse. This was enough to send the Mrs. Schreiber in a rage, and she stormed over the fireplace mantel, grabbed a picture frame, and smashed it against the floor.

  The gesture was enough for her husband to arise from his chair, now angry and making an accusatory gesture. He walked towards his wife as she silently berated him. This quiet, short distance screaming match continued, until another figure, their son, appeared in the hallway, his back facing Jay. He rubbed a hand through his hair at the chaos before him, and although Jay could not see his face, a sense of sorrow and annoyance manifested from the young man. Hastily, he made his way into the room, waving his arms maniacally, trying to stop this mute argument. Both guardians turned to him, both dismayed and disinterested, ushering him away from their conversation. Their son only slammed his foot in response, and continued to reason with his folks. This noble effort, however, only made things worse, as his father seemed to only get more agitated, while the mother barely cared for what her son had to say. Seeing the pointlessness of the situation, the son angrily stomped out of Jay’s view and slammed a door in the adjoining hallway.

  The husband and wife then grimaced at each other, with the wife soon following her son down the hallway, while the father returned to his chair. The creak of another door down the hallway could then be heard, followed by the shuffling of the family’s daughter, appearing teary eyed and frightened. She peered into the living room, giving a gentle knock on the door frame to alert her father. Mr Schreiber then turned towards the sound, and upon seeing its architect, quickly arose from his chair again, and wrapped his arms around his daughter. Jay watched the young woman with pity, as she sniffled in her father’s grasp, while he gently stroked her hair. Such a display distracted him, and he addressed the scene with a quiet, sorrowful sigh. Unfortunately, the pair in the living room somehow heard.

  The father’s head quickly turned in Jay’s direction, his comforting expression now twisting into one of shock and rage. Jay jumped in shock, while he set his daughter aside, and began approaching the window seal. Now in a rush, Jay quickly stuck his hand into the pan, grabbed a gooey chunk of pie, and ran as fast as he could. He could hear the front door open and slam shut, with an accompanying sound of loud footsteps. This only encouraged Jay and he bolted past the oak, and onto the dirt street. Despite the fear rushing through him, though, Jay’s mind wasn’t just occupied by the fear of being caught, or how he would embarrass Bill, or how he would bring joy to his sister. Rather, it was the whole affair that just witnessed that bothered him the most.

  The “Silents” weren’t just quiet in public, but also didn’t even talk under their own roof. They appeared to communicate only through certain gestures and lip movements. Their dynamic was also strained, with conflict seemingly a regular resident within the house. Such details had never been known before and Jay knew it. Upstanding Bill was now an after thought; he had information the locals would have killed to know. It could boost his street credibility far more than such stealing from the oddities. He was going to make a major name for himself now.

  Still running, Jay then turned and could see the father, red faced and angry, at his property line at the end of the street. Satisfied that he had escaped, he slowed his pace and headed back towards the square, a toothy grin present on his face.

  After triumphantly returning the doll to his younger sister, Jay then relayed what he saw to his parents. Despite being somewhat mad that he had stolen from the “Silents”, the information about the family was still intriguing, and they quickly spread it around to those they knew. By Saturday afternoon, about half of the town was already discussing the family, with many even planning to stake out at the property to find out more about them. Unbeknownst to the Parisians, though, this would be the only look anyone would see behind the closed doors of the “Silent” family, as only a couple days after Jay’s discovery, another mystery would baffle the locals.

  It was the early morning of November 1st, when the town’s fitter, Braxton Taylor, was awakened to the distant smell of ash. Arising from the cot he shared with his wife, he could see smoke entering his room from his bedroom window, and began to choke on the fumes. With a hand over his face, he moved at a snail's pace towards the window, a warm, orange light from outside adding in this journey. Upon reaching it, Braxton began his search for the source of the smoke. This task was quite simple, however, as he quickly realized that the house directly next to his, 29 Dunlap Street, was on fire.

  It wasn’t long until the entirety of Dunlap was either awakened by the choking soot, or Braxton’s desperate cries for help. Some panicked, others tried fighting the blaze with buckets of water, and a few rushed to alert the volunteer fire and sheriff department on the square, who later arrived on scene with a hose wagon, and sleepy lawmen, tired but willing to help. By this point however, the house was already engulfed, as the use of buckets proved very ineffective at fighting the blaze. The volunteer firemen and authorities then took over, and began the long, slow process of fighting the fire.

  The hoses were rolled out and set to work on extinguishing the flames. However, the flames were proving to be very resilient, and before long, the wagon had to be rewatered. While the wagon crew began searching for a well to pilfer, the other volunteers and the sheriff began attempts at entering the home. Some progress was made by the individuals, with a couple making it as far as the building’s mudroom, but the intense heat, and as well as the thick, black smoke made it nearly impossible to safely traverse the burning structure. These attempts were then called off, when part of the shingled roof fell in, proving the structure was no longer safe to properly search. Shortly afterwards, the wagon had been refilled, and the smothering of the fire continued. Despite this newfound hope, it wouldn’t be until morning, and over five more trips to the local wells, that the fire was finally put out.

  By morning, the house was little more than a few charred frames and a blackened chimney. Smoke blew off burnt planks and large heaps of ash were strewn across the house’s interior. The earth around the house had also been burnt by the fire, reduced to ebony strands of grass and bare soil. The only parts of the property untouched by the fire was the surrounding forest, the old oak, now lacking a well-known hoot, and the wooden fence.

  Shortly after nine, the recovery commenced. Most of the town, waking up to the distant smoke, had already arrived at the scene, and many decided to aid the volunteers and lawmen. They all approached the destroyed property, and dug through piles of scorched wood and hot roof tiles, hoping to find the family. With this extra help, it wasn’t long before two family members were soon discovered in the remnants of what was thought to be a bedroom.

  One of the cadavers laid alongside the remains of a window seal, slumped down and naked. It was burned jet black, with large, oozing cavities bursting from its shoulders and chests. Gelled blood seeped from these orifices and trickled down its purplish, leathery skin, dripping onto the floor. Its face was shriveled and stretched tightly over its skull, with its eyes and nose entirely gone. Similar to its face, the arms and legs were more skin and bone than human flesh. Its acrid smell, mixed with the presiding smoke, made many of those who observed it vomit. It was unknown which family member it was, but the charred numb resting between its legs led most to assume it was one of the men in the family.

  The second corpse was curled in the middle of the room, and was in a much worse condition than the first. It was little more than charred bones and black, shrived flesh. Parts of its arms and legs lay storm alongside it, the ligaments having melted away. Its chest cavity was wide open, with discolored and deflated organs still resting in place. It no longer had a face and was just a dark, shattered skull. Unlike its gasly counterpart, this body only smelt of ash, but its appearance more than horrified the volunteers. Sadly for the investigators, it was reduced to such a basic state, that no one could even try to identify it.

  Unsurprising, most of the locals decided they had seen enough and left the rest of the recovery to the authorities. With the first ‘bedroom’ completely searched, they then moved to what they believed was the second. They sorted through the rumble, until someone noticed something covered by a seared support beam in the corner of the room. Removing it revealed a saddening sight: a body huddled against the wall, with its head shielded by its arms and knees.

  It was of similar appearance to the one found alongside the window seal, having cracked, leathery skin, as well as holes leaking from its back. It did, however, have less burn damage than the other corpses, with the remains of a nightgown still present, as well as its chest and face, while burned and missing appendages, still appearing human. Despite this good condition, a facial identification could not be made, caused by a combination of fire deterioration and the locals struggling to remember the faces of the reclusive “Silents.” It was, however, identified as a female, confirmed by the charred mounds on her chest, as if the nightgown wasn’t evidence enough.

  With the third member now discovered, focus was now entirely placed on finding the last relative. Wood was sorted. Tiles were thrown into heaps. Burned furniture was cast aside. And yet, a fourth body could not be found. At first, many were hopeful that someone had somehow made it out of the house alive. But due to their absence, thoughts soon shifted towards a more grim conclusion. Was this really an accidental tragedy, or was this murder?

  The remains of the other family members were then wrapped up in bed sheets provided by their neighbors, and carefully removed from the final resting place, to a stretch of grass left untouched by the flames. The recovery now was completed, and the town sheriff began his investigation. With help from neighbors, the property was extensively searched for any clues to the fire, and surviving family members. The house itself proved useless, as most of its interior was burned beyond all recognition. However, the outskirts of the property did bring in a lead, which was a note, shoved between a fence post. It was written in a language none of the spectators understood, but was inferred to be German. The sheriff sent Solomon Fuller, a member of the crowd and longtime friend of the Hunt Family, to fetch one of their members to translate the writing. He soon arrived with the family’s aging, yet jolly patriarch, who then revealed the notes contents:

  It was hopeless to try to fix things. I’m so sorry, Angelika. May God forgive me.

  The cryptic nature of the message gave few answers. The only conclusion that it provided was that one of the victims was named ‘Angelika’ and that the perpetrator was remorseful for their actions. But with no other evidence being discovered on the property, the mystery of the “Silent” family tragedy was proving to be as confusing as the family themselves.

  To fill in these gaps, gossip and rumors acted as popular explanations. Perhaps the father burned down the house and killed his family, due to their dysfunctional nature, and ran to avoid the consequences. Perhaps the family accidentally left the gas oven on overnight, and the son was the only one to escape, and survivor's guilt made her skip town. Perhaps ‘Angelika’ started the fire, and left the message on the fence to throw the police off her trail. Such leads were considered and quickly dropped by police, as there was little evidence there was to support any theory, and the case only grew colder and colder. But even with the mysterious deaths of the “Silents” remaining unsolved, life in Paris simply moved on.

  After the three members were buried in the Paris City Cemetery, the townsfolk continued with their daily lives. Mr. Schreiber’s job was quickly remanned, the remains of their house were soon removed, and the only talk of a German family in town was that of the Hunts. But with their tenure at 29 Dunlap Street now over, the “Silents” still left one, everlasting mark on the town. Its impact, however, was one that greatly haunted the residents of Dunlap Street for decades, and its discussion was entirely a sealed lip affair. It was a detail that was so minuscule, yet so poignant to those who experienced it first hand. For if you press a neighbor about what they remember the most from the night of November 1, 1886, they will always respond that it was the fact they couldn’t hear a single cry for help from within the burning house on 29 Dunlap Street.

• THIRD PLACE - Sulphur Well Swamp, written by Susan White

  August 29, 1944, Paris, TN

  “Hurry up, Ruthie! Let’s get your stupid water!”

  Ruthie fought the urge to stick her tongue out at her brother. And she would have too, but then he might leave her behind as a cruel joke. He’d forget about her, and then the lake would swallow her up tomorrow. 

  She tugged at her braid, staring at the fresh mud puddles on the ground. Mama would skin her hide if she got her new shoes dirty. Mama would skin both their hides if she knew where they were right now. She nervously searched for her older brother, finding him between two hickory trees. “Eli, wait for me!”

  Eli let out a frustrated yell but stopped to wait. “You’re lucky I missed my knife. Otherwise I wouldn’t take you.” 

  “It’s not your knife. It’s Daniel’s.”

  “Well, it’s mine now!”

  Ruthie took a nervous step back. At twelve, Eli was almost as tall as Mama, though still not as tall as Paw or even Daniel. He could certainly belt Ruthie if he wanted to.

  Eli cleared his throat. “Now hurry up. We have to be away from here before dark.” He trudged forward through the mud, his long legs moving faster than Ruthie’s short ones could manage. 

  The land steepened further on, inclining up a hill then down into a flat-base valley. Daniel said that a hundred years ago, people would come from all over Tennessee to drink from the Sulphur Well water. Some came from even farther. But now the land was just one big, muddy pit. And tomorrow it wouldn’t even be that, which was why Ruthie desperately needed the last of the magic well water.

  Ruthie smiled, excitement coursing through her as she spotted buildings in the distance. “Eli, we’re home!” she shouted.

  “Not our home anymore!” he shouted back, but Ruthie wasn’t paying attention. She raced down the hill as she had many times before, minding the mud. Down below, piles of wood and metal littered the ground, covering up the dusty streets Ruthie used to walk down. The people were long gone. And no one could come back either. But Ruthie secretly hoped maybe someone stayed. 

  Further on were several shamble houses, splintered doors left open, disarrayed items thrown about. Though, some people took everything, even the boards on the walls. Ruthie remembered Mama crying when she had to leave her growing-board behind. It had all their heights and ages through the years. Mama even had a picture of Daniel standing next to it in his army uniform…

  “There it is,” Eli said, pointing.

  Ruthie couldn’t help but laugh at their old house. Leaves covered their small porch, smearing dirt and animal scat on the splintery wood. The inside wasn’t much better: scattered papers, muddy boot prints. They’d left their couch, their stove, and most of the cabinets. “Only the essentials,” Mama had said. She had really hoped they wouldn’t move the new Kentucky Lake out here. Her and Paw had even stayed until the rangers came and made them leave. Ruthie didn't like their new house. It smelled funny, and the city air burned her lungs. She missed having a bed too. 

  Eli was busy searching for Daniel’s knife. He threw down papers and old toys to the floor, stuffing a few items in his pockets as he went. Ruthie went to her own room, deciding to pick through her toys too. She had cried when Mama said she couldn’t take all of her dolls with her. After several minutes, she had Ester, Margaret, and Monique ready to take with her. She especially held tightly to Monique. She was a gift from Daniel on her last birthday.

  “No, no, no!”

  A crash sounded across the hall, followed by glass breaking. Ruthie raced into Eli’s room to find his bed upside down, his window broken. “It has to be here!” he shouted. 

  Ruthie started to scold him for being messy, but then she saw the tears in his eyes. “Eli… what’s wrong?”

  Eli didn’t turn around, but he let out an angry sniff. “It’s not here.” 

  Ruthie tried to think of something nice to say. It was hard since Eli was always so mean. “Maybe Paw will let you have one of his knives?”

  “No! It has to be Dan – It has to be this knife. He left it to me…”

  “When Daniel comes back, maybe he can–”

  “Daniel got himself blown-up, Ruthie! How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  Ruthie clutched Monique closer to her. Eli gave another sniff then sat down on the edge of the lop-sided bed. Ruthie cautiously crept closer.

  “Just get out of here!” Eli shouted, hiding his face.

  “But what about the well water?” Ruthie asked. 

  “Go by yourself.”

  “But Eli –”

  “Get outta here! And don’t come back! If I ever find Dan’s knife, I’ll cut you with it! Now scram!”

  Tears sprang to Ruthie’s eyes as she rushed out of the room. She didn’t stop until she was outside, and even then, she kept running. It was only after she’d run clear back up the hill that she realized she’d forgotten Monique, which made her cry all the harder. Why was Eli so mean? Why did he always want to hurt her? Daniel had always belted him for it when he was around. But who would protect her now? Eli really would leave her out here all night. And in the morning, when the rangers opened the new dam, he’d leave her to drown in the lake. 

  Ruthie wiped her face. If Eli could be mean, then she could be mean too. She’d leave him out here to drown. But first she had to get the magic water.

  The sun was setting by the time she made it to the well, spotting the large, broken stone wall marking the entrance. A long time ago, the well water was magic. Daniel said that it healed a whole town in 1837 when yellow fever broke out. That’s why every year, on December 31, Mama would take the whole family down to the well to draw up a bucket of water. Then they’d drink the magic water into the new year and no one would get sick. Daniel didn’t drink anything last year. He was already gone for war. Ruthie wondered, if he had, would he still be here?

  “Ruthie, where are you?”

  Ruthie stuck up her nose at the sound of Eli’s voice. She didn’t need his help. She found a heavy bucket on the ground and heaved it onto the stone wall, tying the end to a rope. With one great shove, she pushed the bucket inside the well, hearing a loud thunk as it hit something solid far down.

  “Ruthie? There you are! Come on, we’ve got to go –”

  “I’m not leaving without my water!”

  “Ruthie, we don’t have time –”

  Ruthie ignored him, hoisting up the bucket from its rope. 

  “Ruthie, you can’t lift that.”

  But Ruthie could, and she did. After several grueling minutes, the pail was finally visible above the wall. Eli stepped in front of her and grabbed the bucket, tilting it so she could see inside. “I told you, Ruthie. That well dried up a long time ago.”

  “But… but it’s magic! Daniel said –” 

  “That was our well water, Ruthie. Daniel just… he made that up for you –”

  Ruthie started bawling. There had to be water. There just had to be! This was her last chance to get it. Tomorrow everything would be underwater, and the magic would be gone. Maybe the magic was already gone…Just like Daniel.

  “Ruthie…”

  Ruthie cried until her throat hurt and her handkerchief was drenched in snot. Tomorrow everything would be gone. And she could never come here again.

  Eli pushed something soft against her arm. Ruthie looked up for a split second and saw Monique. Eli had rescued her after all.

  “Thank you,” Ruthie mumbled, clutching her tight. Eli didn’t say anything, but she heard him sniff a couple of times.

  “Let’s go home, Ruthie,” he finally said. Ruthie could only nod. This place wasn’t home anymore after all. Eli was right.

  They stood up to leave, Ruthie keeping her head down as she walked. Paw really would belt them for staying out this late. It’d be dark by the time they got home. 

  Suddenly, a light caught her eye, the sun reflecting off something silver near the well pit. Ruthie bent down to pick it up. “Eli! Eli! I found your knife!”

  “What?” Eli raced over, frowning as Ruthie deposited the knife in his hand. Eli fingered the wooden casing in amazement, and sure enough, found Daniel’s name carved down its side. “How in the world –”

  “Told ya the well was magic!”

  And with that, Ruthie skipped back the way she came. The magic was real here, even if the well wasn’t. Now she’d just have to find a new well.

• A Penalty of Conscience, written by Mary Ann Claxton

  The letter was from a lawyer in Albuquerque, NM. It said that Mr. Samuel Winns had died in a local sanitorium. Tom read the letter and a feeling of deep sadness and loss came over him. But, at the same time, a great sense of relief could not be denied. The year was 1942.

  Tom was postmaster in the small town of Midway, TN. He started as a route carrier and moved up to postmaster a few years later. His background in engineering with an interest in architecture did not particularly qualify him for the job, but the “powers that be” knew of his abilities and dedication to a job once he took it. For Tom, though, there was more to having this job than just a paycheck and good retirement. A hint about this was the address on the letter: Mr. W. C. East, c/o postmaster, Midway, TN. Not unusual in that day to have the postmaster hold mail, but Mr. East also was not in the telephone directory; evidently a very rural resident . . .

  The train trip was taking a long time, but James Foster knew that every turn of the drivers was moving him away from a life that had become intolerable for him. He had finally made the decision to cut those ties forever, to find a place where the choices he made each day affected only him and didn’t destroy the lives of his friends. It was not an easy decision – he was leaving the home he and his loving wife Lily had made for their two sons; leaving lifelong friends and family. Even now the thought of it, of the magnitude of the decision, gave him a sick feeling that was hard to shake off. He clutched the bag he carried as though it was a life ring thrown to a drowning man. He made no conversation with other passengers, but his thoughts carried him through his life and what had brought him to this long train ride.

  War not only takes the lives of soldiers, it also leaves destruction for the land and people in its wake. It was into our country’s Civil War that James Foster was born in 1862. James recalled a sense of unease in those around him and times they were hungry. He thought about growing up working on the family farm as the family and the country struggled to rebuild. He learned to work with the sun – “early to bed and early to rise” – working at whatever needed to be done until the job was done. He had learned respect for his elders and the value of honesty and fair play, but the farm did not hold his interest. His interest lay in numbers and finance – what he knew of it from school – and he had wanted to try his hand at being a businessman.

  His thoughts turned to his family. He met Lily Winslow at church. She was strong but also practical and, he thought with a wistful smile, a really wonderful cook. They married in 1898, and then, with their first child on the way, they bought a house in town and James started a lumber business where he learned accounting. He recalled their joy at the birth of their second son and his decision in 1920 to take a position as an accountant in the local bank. But here an overwhelming sadness engulfed him. The bank taught him other lessons contrary to his early farm upbringing. The promising job would soon upend the careful, responsible life he had been building for his family.

  The “Roaring Twenties” had set the stage for an economic collapse that James was sure was coming soon. Several stock market dips had alarmed the officers at his bank and, fearing a run on the bank, they had started working to shore up their cash reserves, not unlike many banks across the nation. One change was that the bank was foreclosing on loans in hopes of selling properties at a quick profit. People James had helped to get loans were finding themselves without homes or businesses, their lives turned upside down, all in the name of “good banking decisions.” James took his work seriously and loved helping people make their dreams come true. Now he found himself turning their dreams to nightmares. He grew more miserable with each passing day. And so, with no word to Lily or their sons, he now found himself moving farther and farther away from the life that had become more than he could bear. . .

  On January 12, 1929 James Foster boarded a train headed for Nashville, TN. He carried $5,300 of cash from the Bank of Midway which was to be deposited in a Nashville bank. But James Foster never arrived in Nashville. He was reported missing on January 17 by family members who had not expected him to arrive back home until sometime during the day on January 14. This was a regular trip, one he’d made many times before. But something went terribly wrong on this trip. Nashville police were contacted and a thorough search was conducted. No one remembered seeing him at the Nashville station or saw him get off at an earlier station. And where was the bag with the money he had been carrying? A newspaper article appeared in The Nashville Tennessean about James’ disappearance. Foul play was accepted as the most likely possibility and robbery the motive. No trace of him was ever found.

  Or was it?

  A bank audit revealed some stocks valued at $5,300 had been found in the desk of James Foster. A letter postmarked March 18, 1930 arrived at the Midway post office addressed to James Foster, Jr. (Jim for short), son of James Foster, Sr. Postmaster Tom made sure it was delivered properly. The letter, apparently from a friend, advised Jim not to come to New Mexico at that time unless he had secured a job there before he came as unemployment was at an all-time high. This letter was to be the first of many, though it was the only one addressed to Jim. The writer reported on conditions as the nation moved deeper into the Great Depression. That first letter was postmarked Clovis, NM and stressed the hard times there with not enough food and not enough money to pay for lodging. By 1931 the letters came from Albuquerque, NM.

  Other letters followed telling of even harder times as the writer had no job and was dependent on the kindness of others for his survival: a difficult life in one of the most difficult economic crises of our nation. Sometimes there were requests for clothing and sometimes for money. In 1933 the writer reported a fear that he was going blind: one eye was nearly blind and the other was not good. He was not really among friends there and was afraid of what would happen to him if he lost his sight. Later letters would say that he did lose the sight in the one eye, but the other improved so that he could still manage on his own.

  But the letters also revealed a slow decline simply from age. A bout with the flu in the winter of 1936 left him badly “run down,” though spring brought some improvement. A slow loss of weight was probably from little food and possibly from undiagnosed illness. A year later he had cashed a check and put the money in his coat pocket, but when he got home it was gone. Whether he misplaced it or a pickpocket got it, he couldn’t say. That loss made life difficult for him for the rest of the month and was a worrying indication of a lack of mental clarity.

  And lest you think that these letters were a one-sided conversation, know that Tom the postmaster read each one. It was Tom who saved the letters so we have this glimpse into the hard times of the Great Depression. And it was Tom who answered – with clothes, with money, or whatever the writer needed at the time. And though he shared the “secret” with his brother, Jim, Tom Foster kept his father’s secret and never revealed his whereabouts to any family members, even to his mother with whom he lived in the family home, providing her the care that James could not. Family members assumed that James Foster, Sr. met with foul play on his way to Nashville in 1929. Only Jim and Tom knew that the letters from Samuel Winns – those addressed to W. C. East – were really from their own father who chose to leave everything he loved and the happy life he had with his family because he could not agree with the bank’s proposal to ruin the lives of his friends and neighbors in Midway. A brave protest which resulted in a family’s separation, a lonely life and death far from home, and burial in an unmarked pauper’s grave.

• Evolution, written by Gene Gulish

  Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal…. Abraham Lincoln, Gettysburg address

  In the 1700s, American frontiersman, determined to settle the land planted the practice of slavery firmly within the boundaries of what would become Tennessee. As time went by, East Tennessee ,dominated by small farms retain the fewest number of slaves. Middle Tennessee ,where tobacco, cattle and grain were the favored crops, held a larger number of slaves throughout the antebellum period. West Tennessee, the area between the Tennessee and Mississippi River ultimately the richest cotton producing section of the state, saw the greatest concentration of slaves. By 1860 Tennessee’s 275,719 slaves represented about 25% of the total population and were engaged in both urban industrial and agricultural slavery.

  The general assembly of Tennessee authorize the selection of a site for the county seat of Henry County on November 16, 1821. A public sale of lots was then done and multiple lots were sold and eventually buildings were constructed. The first courthouse was of logs. In 1825 a brick edifice replaced the log courthouse. The oldest and probably the first school in Paris, now Lee school, was first known as Paris Male Academy. Many of the area’ s eminent citizens receive their early training there.

  In the hills of Henry County, Tennessee was the farm of John Hagler, one of the largest landowners in West Tennessee. He owned 60 slaves. In 1824, he purchased a 17 year-old Negro boy, Drew. This is the first recorded purchase of a slave in Henry County.

  The seats of the room were filled with white farmers. Drew was ushered into the center of the room with his keeper. The keeper held a whip, but did not use it. He was dressed in ragged jeans and a torn white T-shirt. He was frightened and angry. The auction started. Bids came from all corners of the room initially. But as the price rose only two bidders remained. The winning bid went to John Hagler , and Drew was sold for $700.He was loaded on the back of a horse drawn wagon. He glanced over his shoulder to see his mother standing at the fence with tears in her eyes. He would never see her again. He was taken to the Hagler farm where he worked in the cotton fields as well as around the house.

  By all standards John Hagler was a good slaveowner. Drew thrived in his new home and although he was prohibited from learning to read or write he came to love the plantation. He was never again sold. He was never beaten. He always had enough to eat. He took a wife and had five children.

  In the political background, there was greater and greater resistance to slavery. Abraham Lincoln became president in 1860. South Carolina seceded from the Union in 1860. And the Confederate states of America was established in March 1861. This eventually resulted in the beginning of the Civil War. The battle of Paris was fought in March 1862. 450 Confederate troops were involved, and 60 to 80 federal troops were killed or wounded in that skirmish. After many bloody battles, the North prevailed and the Emancipation Proclamation and 13th amendment were issued in January 1863. Slavery was ended! But the animosity of Whites toward Blacks and Blacks toward Whites had not ended. In the South there were areas where Blacks were not permitted to go. Blacks were not allowed to enter the city limits of Paris, Tennessee after sunset. Certain parts of Henry County were prohibited to Blacks with threats of lynching if they ventured into those areas. There were separate bathrooms and drinking fountains. Blacks were either not allowed on buses or public transportation or forced to sit in the back. They were not allowed into restaurants or theaters. Animosity was generally unveiled. Blacks were openly called niggers , coons, etc. There was very little interaction between Blacks and Whites. This was equally true in the North.

  Drew had come to love the plantation, and did not leave when he was emancipated. He became loved by the community and called “Old Uncle Drew”. When his old master died, he fell to the lot of the widow in the division of the slaves and stayed by her and protected her farm and property while nearby all others around him were deserting their old homes and stealing and plundering their ex-owners possessions. When she died , Drew was seen standing over the widow’s grave weeping for his kind “old Miss”. He died on the plantation in December 1875, having been a free man for 10 years..

  His children scattered. One of them came to live in Paris Tennessee and worked as a cook at Lee school where her children were not allowed to attend. As her three children were growing, she was obsessed with having them achieve an education and equality. The Black community, post emancipation, was pretty much isolated in Henry County. They all lived in the same area. Many of the businesses were off limits to them. They had their own bathrooms and drinking fountains. They were sent to their segregated schools and not allowed in the schools with White children. They were given hand-me-down books. This did not sit well with Drew’s daughter, Mary and her campaign for integration of children started in earnest. “Do not be ashamed of your color “. She told them. “Do not be ashamed of your heritage or of my history. In this great nation we were told that all men are created equal by Abraham Lincoln. This should be our legacy. Let us make this happen.”

  The three children, Jennifer, Deborah and Mike stood looking at their mother, bewildered. “ How do we do this?” Asked Jennifer. “Let’s start by getting you enrolled in the White folk’s school.” responded Mary. The Black schools of Paris Tennessee were called Central school and Henry County Training School. Black children, at that point, were not allowed in the other schools: Lee school and Grove school. And she proceeded to follow this direction. The girls were enrolled in Grove school and Mike was enrolled in the third grade at Lee school.

  The path was difficult. The children were not allowed on the school buses and had to be carried to school by private vehicle. They were shunned at school and derogatory remarks openly hurled at them. The teachers place them separately from the other students. They were kept from participating in student activities. Initially they made no friends. They were also ridiculed by the black students in the schools from which they had left. They were sad. They were often frightened. Often they would proceed to their rooms at night, after school, bury their faces in their pillows and cry. But they persevered-all three of them. “Remember who you are. Never be ashamed of what you are. You are not second- rate citizens. Always look up. Know your self-worth. Remember, you are equal. Whatever task you elect to do; whatever profession you eventually elect to follow, perform it to the best it can be done.” Mary would tell them. And they all heeded her words. They successfully achieved in all of their endeavors.

  As time went by, acceptance by some of the white people occurred and friendships were made, both realizing color and appearance made no difference. Both realizing they had the same wants, needs ,and aspirations . Trust, dignity, love were the important factors in these incredible creatures, human beings, made by the same God, and in His likeness.

  Now Jennifer, at the age of 75 years, a retired social worker, sits in her chair reminiscing on how her life has turned out. The segregated drinking fountains and bathrooms are gone. She can now go into restaurants and theaters with no problem and can sit anywhere she wants when using public transportation. Her children can go to any school they wish. She has white friends. Has prejudice been erased? No. But perhaps improved. And she hopes, as time goes by, this trend will not regress, but continue to improve-that color will be no factor in any of our endeavors whether they be friendships, occupations, justice under the law-all will be treated equal and all will have the same responsibilities. And that, in the end, we will each be judged by our character with no regard for color. And in the end, this is surprisingly easy to do.

  I have a dream that my four little children will live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin , but by the content of their character. .. I have a dream that little black boys and little black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and little white girls as brothers and sisters…. Martin Luther King.

• My Love, Elvis, written by Crystal Glisson

  I have been living here in Paris, Tennessee, for only a couple of years. The few people I’m around call me Abby, which is short for Abigail. I know, I can’t stay too much longer. The town is quaint and even started an annual fish fry in 1953. Although, I don’t think it was as good as they had hoped. I work as a part time secretary for the lawyer here in town. I try to be social, but also keep my distance. I didn’t want anyone asking to many questions into my past. I ran my hand over my blue pleated dress. It hung just past my knees and I loved how it still showed some of my curves. It was a special occasion, so I had my long brown hair tied up with a ribbon, matching my dress. I knew the color of the dress would bring out the blue in my eyes.

  March 7,1955 will forever be the night; I shall never forget. I was at the Paris city auditorium. I watched as everyone was crowding into the place, trying to be the closest to the stage. The main singer at the concert tonight, was none other than the upcoming artist, Elvis. I didn’t know much about him, but I needed to act as giddy as the others. To them I looked like an average, somewhat pale, twenty-one-year-old. Even if the young gentlemen would approach me, I would act uninterested. Being in a relationship never ended well for them. I still made my rounds making sure to say hello to a few familiar faces, so I wouldn’t stand out. If they knew what I truly was, then I would have to flee, yet again.

  The opening acts, Scotty Moore and Bill Black, I really enjoyed. But I couldn’t wait to hear this new singer that everyone had been speaking of. It seemed like everyone in this town could only talk of him. I really hope he is as good as everyone was saying.

  Finally, the time came, and they called him to the stage. He was very good looking, and the sound of his voice made me want to swoon. Before he even started to sing, my heart felt like it fluttered. Which was a strange sensation, since my heart stopped all those years ago, when I was turned. I am indeed a vampire. I worked hard over the years, trying to live my life as normal as possible. Other than the need to feed, of course.

  I slowly rotated my silver ring. It was a simple band with a small opal stone on top. It took much bartering, with a couple different witches, to precure this ring. The only way a vampire could survive in the sunlight, was with this special type of ring. Witches rarely helped vampires, unless it was at a steep cost. Thankfully, I was able to get my hands on one. I have lived now, for a little over a hundred years. With the help of the ring, for only half of that. It did make my trying to live like a normal person easier.

  I shook my head, not wanting to think of the past. Just then, Elvis started with the song, Blue Moon of Kentucky. I found myself, like the others, swaying to the music. He was very talented. I found myself drawn to this man, and a thought came to me. Maybe this could be the person, that would ease my loneliness. I tried with others, but they weren’t a good fit. While he was singing, I started to really see my future. he was an amazing singer and I could see us going on tours together. I decided right then that I would go up to him after the show.

  After the concert, I made my way backstage. I watched as he spoke to his fans. I had to keep my temper in check. Just seeing him talk to other girls made my blood boil. I took a calming deep breath. After all, he wasn’t mine, yet. When he was finally alone for a moment, I walked up to him. ‘’Why hello beautiful’’ he said. I just wanted to tell you how amazing you are and would love to follow you on some of your shows, I tell him. Elvis being the gentleman he was, gave me some information on how to track his upcoming concerts. I wanted to talk to him more, but he was dragged away by some of his band mates.

  I watched as he loaded up his equipment. He was quite the musician and man. But I found myself wondering, if maybe he should be a little older before I made my move. I wanted so badly to make him like me this very night. To be a vampire and then we could live an eternity together. Instead I watch as they leave.

  I head down the small street headed toward my house. I could feel my thirst start to peak its ugly head up. I walked along and found a young man. It didn’t take much convincing to get him to walk me home. I knew how to feed without killing, after all I have had plenty of time to practice. I found a spot where no one could see us. I grabbed his neck and bent it to my lips. As I took what I needed, all I could do was think of Elvis. I finished my meal and gave the confused man a sweet kiss before departing.

  As I headed home, I start making plans to leave. I had decided, I will follow him to his concerts. Then when the time was right, I would make him mine. Even though the world will have to think him dead, I know he will live forever in their hearts. But, he will instead, be in my arms for all eternity.

  The End.

• The Rebel of Volunteer Drive, written by Karen Geary

  Where he came from, no one knew.

  He just showed up one day. A loner with no name.

  He lived in the woods on Volunteer Drive, near Fred’s on Jim Adams Drive. He often stood defiant at the treeline. People passing by joked that he was just a grumpy old man with his “get off my lawn” attitude.

  Most of his days were filled sitting and observing from his little corner of Paris. Hot or cold, sunny or rainy, he silently judged the people who would holler at him with a squinty gaze. Some people were harsh; some were wary. He didn’t like them. Some people would stop at his corner and bring him a sausage biscuit. He liked them. With a simple bow his head, he accepted their offerings. But quickly, he would grab his breakfast and run off to the woods to eat alone.

  Those who drove past his corner on their way to work or school noticed the stranger got excited over one thing — school buses. The line of yellow vehicles had him running to the curb. “BAA-ROOO!” Yes, the “grumpy old man” was a small brown and white beagle with a large, hearty bay.

  If it was warm enough outside and the windows were down on the buses, children could be heard yelling, “Hey, Puppy!” or “There’s the dog, there’s the dog!” If it was cold, little faces would pressed against the glass of the windows and they waved as they passed. And as long as the buses drove to or from Paris Elementary School, the beagle was on his corner, barking and wagging his tail.

  The barks were not reserved only for the school kids. The beagle would single out joggers or walkers using the sidewalk in front of his home. If he liked you, he would keep a watch on you. If he didn’t like you, he would growl deeply from the woods.

  Those who frequented the area began to worry about the little dog. How was his health? Did he get enough good food to eat? Was he safe from predators? Some local veterinarians were able to trick the wily dog and gave him his shots against diseases. Townspeople donated nutritious dog food, and a few took turns bringing him a dish at least once a day. They even nicknamed him “Rebel” because every dog deserved a name of their own. One industrious individual even built him a dog house, with his name boldly written across the opening. From then on, he was the Rebel of Volunteer Drive.

  For several years, the true Henry County spirit was poured out on the little beagle. His health and wellbeing was cared for daily, but most importantly, Rebel was accepted for what he was — a grumpy old loner that liked yellow school buses.

  It wasn’t long before a limp developed, then more stiffness. The years of living in the elements were taking a toil on Rebel. Good-hearted people who wanted the best for him would catch him and take him home, but each time, Rebel would run away and go back to his corner. Fenced-in backyards couldn’t hold him; he was an escape artist extraordinaire.

  One day, Rebel didn’t show up for the school buses. All the children noticed and wanted to know where he was. That afternoon, he appeared but he didn’t bark or wag his tag like most days. He just laid in the warm sunshine, panting, and occasionally looking at the passing buses. On the last day of school, Rebel didn’t appeared at all.

  No one knew what happened to the little beagle. Many people searched for him, called his name, and left him his favorite meal of sausage biscuits, but he was a no-show. Did he meet up with some other dogs and moved on or did he pass away one day? No one knew the answer.

  But one thing was certain, he left Paris, Tennessee, on his own terms — a rebel.

• Rituals in the Time of Covid-19, written by Zena McFadden

  I once stood on the shore of a muddy river and watched a grown man shove a beautiful, blonde fourteen-year-old girl in a white dress deep into dirty water putting her in to kill and bury her in that water, and the pulling her up so she could be rescued, knowing Jesus as her savior. I clapped when he did it, and so did the twenty three other people who were there. But that one Baptist River baptism was the extent of my outdoor religious experience.

  Sunday, July 5, 2020, is about to become my second. On that day, I attend an outdoor drive-in church service with Aunt Ruby Carol, Cousin Cliff, and my husband Randy.

  Aunt Ruby Carol rarely turns on the air conditioning on her side of her duplex on Dunlap Street and my cousin and I drip sweat for the whole two hours the three of us play electronic bowling on the playstation every day at one o’clock. The Mitchum commercials boast that Paris is the humidity capital of the world and that’s why their deodorant was invented here. But Aunt Ruby Carol is more concerned with saving her pennies than having her people comfortable.

  We arrive at the duplex Sunday to go to the Church of the Nazarene drive-in service. Randy says he is going to do the driving and I know it’s because he wants to be in control of the air conditioning. “I’ve suffered enough from heat in my life” Randy says. He’s a Wisconsin farmer who has baled hay on a tractor with no cab for most of forty years and isn’t one to be nostalgic about 98 degree heat and 57 percent humidity.

  Every one of us has on our Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, Randy in his blue plaid shirt and long shorts, me in my skorts and sleeveless blouse, Flii in tan khakis and a navy polo shirt and Ruby wearing her crinkle popcorn white blouse that loks shiny. “I can ball it up and put it in the drawer, and don’t never need to iron it.” When she wears popcorn, I always grab her sleeve and roll the material in my fingers, marveling at how something can be permanently crinkled and smooth at the same time.

  Ten minutes later Ruby Carol is shaking her head back and forth liberally as we drive off the By-Pass and onto the front lawn of the First Church of the Nazarene. I can see her agitation from my position in the back seat right behind her. She mashes the button to put the window down the moment we get parked.

  “Who parked these cars?” she says. “This ain’t right.”

  “Why ain’t it right?” Cliff asks from the other side of the back seat.

  “It’s in a box shape. We should be parked in a moon shape.”

  She keeps looking for someone standing outside the cars to complain to about this, but can find no one. There’s one of the church stewards, but he’s talking with the man in the Dodge truck parked under the one shade tree. “Oh, he’s over there talking to that man because it’s his birthday.”

  Another Church member drives in and pulls up beside our Honda. The owner rolls down his window and says “Well hello there, Ms. carol. How are you on this fine morning’?” I see her smile. “Are you all from Wisconsin?” he asks. “My niece and her husband are. Do you know that he lives in Wisconsin and she lives in Illinois? Have you ever heard anything like that?” Oh, there she goes, I think to myself, and then make up my mind that I’m going to set the record straight so I run my window down and say “I have a job as a teacher in Illinois and my husband has a tractor repair business. You gotta make money to live, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, you do” he says. “My wife is a retired school teacher” “What did she teach?” I ask. “She taught the little ones.” That was the end of the conversation and the man rolls up his window, turns on his engine and drives backwards three feet.”

  “You know why he rolled up his window and drove backwards don’t you? It’s because you wanted to make a big something out of me and Randy living in different states,” I say. “You didn’t say nothing to him about me living down here three months out of the year.”

  “Naw, it’s because he’s afraid of the Covid. That’s why he rolled up his winders and drove back. He drove off cause he don’t want to get the Corona Virus.”

  The woman in the choir begins to sing from the state that’s been laid down in the middle of the three-sided square where we’re parked. Clifford pushes himself over the front seat and turns on the radio and tunes it to the AM s=channel that’s broadcasting the service. And then he joins the choir in singing, “I don’t know what you came to do but I came to praise the Lord. I don’t know what you came to do, but I came to praise the Lord.” He’s generally my partner in stillness and we always share his news of him and his gay friends. But once the singing starts he’s dedicated to the service.

  Randy rolls up the window and turns the air conditioning up and we sing the song to the end: “Hallelu, Hallely, Hallelujah.”

  The hymn switches to “All to Jesus, I Surrender All.” Ruby Carol mashes the window button again and the pane comes down. She shoves her hand out the door and begins to sway in her seat. The car rocks gently and her hand does back and forth as she sings “All to Thee, my Blessed Savior, I surrender all.” The preacher is on the other side of the front lawn and ses Ruby Carol’s arm swinging back and forth. He takes off running toward out Honda, his tie being blown back by the wind he is creating as he’s driven to tend to his parishioner.

  “Ruby Carol, What’s the matter? He yells. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing is the matter Pastor Richard, I’m just enjoying the music so much.”

  “Oh, you had me scared,” says Pastor Richard.

  My husband Randy doesn’t know who the man is, so he turns the volume down on the radio and asks Ruby Carol who he is. Aunt Ruby says he’s the pastor. “He’s going to be preaching here in a minute.”

  It isn’t long before the singing is done and Pastor Richard goes to the podium to begin his talk. Before he starts, he wants to make sure that we are all in the mood. He calls out “If you love Jesus, beep your horn.” But the volume on our radio is turned down so we can’t hear him and Randy just looks around the square wondering why everyone is beeping their horns.”

  Ruby yells at Randy, “Beep the horn!” But Randy is so distracted that he doesn’t do it. Ruby Carol is a less than patient Nazarene, and leans over and pushes the horn button the steering wheel, while she yells “He said if you love Jesus, beep your horn.”

  It becomes obvious that we don’t know the rituals of the outdoor Nazarene Church and we are clumsy in our words and in our deeds this day.

  Paston Rick gives a fine sermon. He tells us that for many of us there’s a voice that speaks into our ear, telling us how bad we are, how we can’t do anything and we’ve just worthless. But, he says, “In the other ear is the voice of the Lord.” And “The voice of Jesus will tell us the truth, that we are good, that we are loved and cherished, and that we must listen to that voice.” “God doesn’t make junk.” And then we pray.

  We all drive out in an organized fashion. The dars on the right side of the box lining up on the driveway and then those in the middle and then the left-being polite by letting anyone who needs to go first, to go. And driving slowly, we agree to drive slowly. Our new ritual is being carried out flawlessly.

  That night, before Randy and I left for the North, I laid in the bed, in my hometown of Paris, Tennessee and wrote in my journal about how when we engage in religious rituals, we wear particular clothing, use unique vocabulary and go to specific places to engage in devotion. Most importantly, we worship together side by side as a community. The pandemic forces us to change these time honored religious routines and the shift gives me pause. I need to step back and think and write about the change.

• The True Story of the Founding of Foundry Hill Community of Christ Church, written by Michelle Wade

  I suppose there is a hint of truth and a hint of embellishment in all stories written or by verbal tradition. Often history gets lost by accident or on purpose. In this case, I would suspect this story is one that would fall into the latter category. Not only would the true beginnings of this church put a black mark on the denomination but also bring disgrace to my family. However, I am going to tell you the story that was told to me in the exact way it was told.

  In 1860, the Reorganized Church of Latter-Day Saints was formed from a split from the Latter-Day Saint Church, otherwise known as Mormons. There is a vast difference in the doctrine between these two groups. In 2001, the Reorganized Latter-Day Saints changed their name to “Community of Christ Church” in efforts to stop the confusion of being associated with the Mormon Church. Henry County has two Community of Christ Churches. One located on Lone Oak Road in Paris. The other is at Foundry Hill in Puryear, Tennessee. This is where my story begins.

  My great-great grandfather was Cicero Overcast. He was noted to be argumentative and loved to debate religion with anyone that would engage in conversations with him. Knowing my family, I think many of us inherited that argumentative trait. He was firm in his religious beliefs and followed the Mormon faith. His wife, Lois Arnn Overcast, was a follower of the Reorganized Latter-Day Saint movement. I wonder how outwardly she expressed her beliefs knowing how firm her husband was in his religious doctrine.

  Sometime around 1874, Cicero felt the need to start a church in the area. He asked Lois to send a letter and ask for missionaries to come to the area and help establish a church. Ms. Lois must have been full of fire and vinegar in her own right. She did send for missionaries but not from the Mormon faith. She had written to the Reorganized Church to send missionaries to the area. Seven missionaries were sent to the area.

  At first, meetings were held in private homes and the Foundry Hill School building. As membership grew, a church building needed to be built. George Arnn, father of Lois, owned a silver foundry on what is now known as Foundry Hill. He sold a portion of property for $100.00 to be the building site for the new church. Cicero donated most of the building materials. The original building was erected in 1890 and still stands today.

  After several months after the church building was competed and services were packed each Sunday, Cicero realized he had been tricked by his wife. He discovered the missionaries that came were of the Reorganized faith and not the Mormon faith. Cicero was angry he had spent so much time and donated so much money to establish a church that was not of his faith. The following Sunday morning it is said he rode around the church building on a horseback in the middle of service. He was shouting and shooting out the windows as he circled the church building. Keep in mind, his wife and children were inside the church while he shot through the windows.

  I have researched the history of Foundry Hill Community of Christ Church and Henry County history. I have tried for years to verify this story to be true. Church records do identify Cicero Overcast as being a large part of the churches beginning. It also states that Cicero never joined the church. Nowhere can I find a record of a wild man riding horseback around the church shooting out all the windows. Then again if it were true, it is not something the church would want exposed. His actions would have brought embarrassment to the family. I am sure it was something no one wanted to talk about. Even now, the incident is only spoken of in whispers amongst my family.

  I do find it interesting that Cicero Overcast is buried 2 miles down the road from the Community of Christ Church at the Foundry Hill Baptist Cemetery. He is buried there with twins that died at an early age before Foundry Hill Church was established. Lois and six of their children are buried in the Community of Christ Cemetery. There are more grand-children and descendants of Cicero and Lois that I can count buried at the Foundry Hill Community of Christ Cemetery. If this story of Cicero is true, that would explain why he is not resting in peace with the rest of his family at Foundry Hill Community of Christ Cemetery.

  As for me, I am not embarrassed by the actions of my descendants from long-ago generation. I do not attend services at the Community of Christ Church, but I will always consider Foundry Hill my home. It is where my grandparents married, my parents married, and I was married. There is something special that draws me to that place. When my time comes, I want to rest with Lois, my father, grandparents, and the rest of my family. The ones I knew when they walked this earth and the ones that were gone long before I took my first breath.