A Thousand Words

1924, New York City Emily Harrington graduated from the Art Students League with a portfolio full of soft pastels and oil landscapes, but her heart was weary of the noise and smoke of the city. She yearned for stillness, for a place where the air carried the scent of pine instead of gasoline. Georgia’s red clay roads and moss-draped oaks seemed to call her name. She packed her paints, boarded a southbound train, and stepped off in the quiet town of Palmetto. For years, Emily lived simply in a rented apartment above the general store, painting the surrounding countryside and selling her work to travelers and local patrons. In time she met Robert Wellman — a tall, broad-shouldered man whose family had deep roots in Palmetto. Their courtship was swift, and within a year Emily moved into Robert’s stately home, a columned white house perched on a rise known as Buck Hill overlooking the valley. Happiness seemed to settle over the couple like golden sunlight. Two children followed, laughter e...

Lena and Jace had lived four doors apart on Oakhaven their whole lives. The first fight was over a toy dump truck when they were five “It’s mine, I found it first,” Jace had said, clutching it tight. “You were picking your nose when I saw it,” Lena shot back, yanking it out of his hands. He’d thrown a handful of dirt at her back, and she’d chased him all the way down the block, screaming. Even then, they had something in common neither understood yet—each of them fought for everything, because nothing was handed to them. By eight, the rivalry was in full swing. “Bet you can’t get to the top of the fence before me,” Jace would say. “Bet I can—and I won’t rip my pants doing it like you did last time,” Lena would fire back. Neither of them mentioned that they climbed that fence to escape the fighting coming from their homes. Lena’s mom worked doubles at the diner and slept most of the day when she was home. Her stepdad was gone more often than not, but when he was there, his temper filled...

Rain turned the square into a mirror, every puddle rippling with neon signs Mara danced in the middle of it. Her heels cracking against the cobblestone, like gunshots the crowd suede, but she wasn’t watching them. She was listening, catching the low voices the careless slips, the names people shouldn’t say out loud from the edge of the square Elias lit a cigarette and leaned against a lamp post. He meant to keep moving, but the way she moved rooted him in place. When the song ended, she stepped towards him ribbons of rainwater clinging to her skirt “You’ve been watching me,” she said “Yeah,” he reply, exhaling smoke. “I guess I’m guilty.” “What’s your angle?” “No angle” he’s smirked, “maybe I just like the show.” Her gaze lingered on him a second too long. ”Nobody likes the show that much unless they are looking for something.” “And you? What are you looking for out here?” She smiled without warmth.”People talk when they are entertained.” … a week later… …Mara found herself sitting in ...