The Broken Pottery Shop by Debra L. Hall

In a time when the world had lost the concept of forgiveness and had forgotten the meaning of love, a young girl named Rayna walked to the edge of sadness and there she took up residence in a rundown cottage, overgrown by tangled brambles. “It is better to be alone than lonely,” she reasoned. The humble dwelling had once belonged to a cruel man who, over time, had filled the rooms with broken dreams, shattered plans and mismatched cast-a-ways. Every nook and cranny was smothered in cobwebs and dark secrets. Gloomy shadows refused to give way to light. Rayna recognized the despair. It was the very likeness of her wretched past. She thought it a suitable home.

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Going Home

Going Home

Allison Keeton Fisher

It’s a small town, the center of which is situated just about three miles south of Interstate 64 in eastern Kentucky. The connecting road between the town and the Interstate is a four-lane highway dotted with businesses and homes built on and into the hills that border the road. Close to the Interstate, nestled on a hill at the edge of the forest, is a funeral home that transports the deceased through town and all over the countryside to small family cemeteries.

On a recent trip home, my mother and I were driving north on this connecting highway toward the Interstate, when I noticed that all the cars in front of me were pulling off to the side of the road and stopping. I slowed down, too, simply because I didn’t know what was going on. Then, around the bend, I saw what was happening. There was a hearse leading a long line of cars toward town. I pulled over, like everyone else, and noticed that everything around us had come to a halt as well. In a parking lot across the road, some high school kids were raising money at a car wash. They stopped their laughing and sloshing around and stood still, some with hands folded in front, some with their heads down. Continue reading “Going Home”