An installment of Chris Offutt’s Omnivore column, Cooking with Chris.  Every prepper magazine carried an article on water, mainly because there are a lot of overpriced devices out there for gathering, purifying, and transporting it. This gave me a sense of… by Chris Offutt | Feb, 2019

A Points South essay from the Spring 2019 issue Daleel is three years old, which is around eight human years. While we walk, he is distracted by any and all sources of food, which in this desert is a surprising… by Sasha von Oldershausen | Mar, 2019

An installment in John T. Edge’s Points South column, Local Fare. Calamity and travel arrest time. They beg focus and feed insights. Tourism has taken on some of the functions that religion once served. Here in America, we have ritualized restaurant… by John T. Edge | Mar, 2019

A feature short story from the Spring 2019 issue. Their romance has started in earnest this summer, but the prologue took up the whole previous year. All fall and spring they had lived with exclusive reference to each other, and… by Susan Choi | Feb, 2019

A feature essay from the Spring 2019 issue. As in all cities, the story of displacement and discrimination is as old as the municipality’s. And while it might seem like a somewhat ahistorical cheap shot to draw a direct, incriminating… by Micah Fields | Mar, 2019

 A Letter from the Editor, Spring 2019. Though I don’t believe new parents must be homebound, another truth of my current season is that my movements are mostly limited to house and office and places in between. So more than… by Eliza Borné | Mar, 2019

Poems from the Spring 2019 issue. I didn’t see the line when I crossed it—only light, making everything new; here, they say the winters spill out, white a boll inside my palm; here, gold adorns the trees, the sun sheds its effervescence through the… by Ashley M. Jones | Mar, 2019

A Points South essay from the Spring 2019 issue Listen to the first two notes Raphael plays on his solo on Nelson’s “Georgia on My Mind” and it’s impossible not to hear Mickey singing the word “Georgia” through the instrument,… by Jonathan Bernstein | Mar, 2019

An OA trip to the Tupelo Elvis Festival, where hundreds of Elvis Tribute Artists (ETAs) gather to compete in a variety of competitions and to celebrate the King. 

Selvedge, or selvage, denim—so called because of the clean edge on the out seam of an assembled pair of jeans—takes longer to produce. A vintage loom can weave about ten feet of denim, anywhere from 28 to 31 inches wide, in about an hour.

A former Eagle Scout attends the National Boy Scout Jamboree, aka Jambo, held at a brand-new, $100 million scouting wonderland in the mountains of West Virginia called The Summit.

An interview with the OA's new poetry editor, Rebecca Gayle Howell. "For me," Howell says, "the writing life is much like any trade work: one part apprenticeship and one part practice. My days rock back and forth between these two modes."

Five poems from the spring 2014 issue.

Across the white highway, dogs drift unmoored
Silver-tipped seagrass, but no cactus. An offing
of shopping plazas, their harsh light and low roofs.
That's the way with drought; first dissent,
a worm belief that one place could be another.
I bet it feels good to twist a head of cotton
clean from the stem's fat and browning boll.
I bet it feels good to stand in irrigated rows.

Though hot chicken is not peculiar to Nashville, the city is uniquely obsessed with the dish.

The village of Ludowici, in the deep piney lowlands of southeast Georgia, got its name from a German fellow who came there in 1904 to manufacture clay roof tiles. But it was not his accomplishments that made the town famous. Rather, it took thousands of inhospitable acts toward thousands of out-of-town visitors to put Ludowici on the map—to give it a national reputation as one of the most venomous of a particular breed of Southern hamlet. In short: Ludowici was a classic speed trap. 

Mal Mardis spun two spent rolls of color film on the bar, didn’t look up at Gus, and realized that cutting basic cable alone wouldn’t solve the problem. He’d also have to find a way for his wife to quit subscribing to the magazines. This morning’s mission was no different than when Brenda renovated their bathroom, den, or what used to be a two-car garage. Mal was supposed to drop off the film at any of the one-hour developers twenty miles from their house, use that time to buy at least two dozen frames, go back to the developer—Eckerd, Jack Rabbit, Walmart, One-Hour Photo—select the nicest shots, and ask that the person behind the counter now blow them up into 8 x 10s.

We city people have lost our connection to wild animals. Our pavement paradise, our automobile enclaves, and the pervasive technologies that sap our powers of observation have blinded us to our earthly neighbors.

A dispatch from the 25th Scopes Trial Play & Festival.

The South has diversified over the last twenty years. And so has my palate.