Phoebe Kate

As some of you may know, I’m an assistant editor for a Southern literary e-zine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.  Despite its name, it’s not an actual, that is to say physical, place where you can enroll and study the craft.  But we like to think of ourselves as a virtual institute comprised of writers and readers from all over the world who relish the Old and the New South in all its contradictions and idiosyncrasies. And like all good schools, we’re always on the lookout for up-and-coming new talent with a fresh perspectives on the Southern experience to add to our ever-growing list of alumni.   

We’re proud to say that we “discovered” writer Ann Hite – we published her first short story several years ago, a marvelous piece called “Gabriel’s Horn.”  Since then, her work has appeared all over the place and she’s started a blog. 

Recently, Hite completed a short fiction collection Life on Black Mountain, which (ta-da!) we’re excited to say that we will be publishing next month in the Mule – one story a day on even-numbered days, beginning May 2.  So grab yourself a nice big glass of sweet tea, sit back and revel in the pure joy of Southern literature. 

Here’s an excerpt from Hite’s Introduction, describing how she came to write Life on Black Mountain and giving you a sneak peek at some of the characters you’ll meet:

“Often I feel I’ve channeled the Black Mountain Stories from several of my eccentric relatives from long ago. I was born in Georgia and raised everywhere but Georgia until I was ten years old. That’s when my mother brought my brother and me back to live with my grandmother. It was then I began to absorb both wonderful and eerie tales told by my extended family. One of the first stories I heard upon arrival at my grandmother’s home was about a fighter pilot—an air force base was nearby—had crashed into the house down the street. The eighty-year old home was owned by two old maid sisters: one who had spent her life in a wheelchair and the other looking after her. The whole street ran to watch the fire. Some claim to have seen the pilot in the front seat of the jet trying to get out. Others claim to have heard one of the sisters screaming. The only survivor was the sister in the wheelchair. It was in this atmosphere of tall tales, spells, and spirits that Black Mountain was born. I didn’t have a name for the community back then, but I spent many hours writing and forcing my little brother to listen to my stories of spells and ghosts. Ah, but children do grow up. Or do they?

The fictional community of Black Mountain finally got its name while I was flipping hamburgers in my kitchen one night in the spring of 2004.

Mama warned me against marrying Hobbs Pritchard. She saw the future in her tealeaves, death. 

This sentence shot through my mind in a strong southern voice that was not my own. Nellie Pritchard was alive and well. She wanted to tell her story, Ghost On Black Mountain.”

–phoebe kate