DIGITAL KIDS WORLD

  Mississippi folktale of a desperate fisherman who is granted a wish from a mysterious sea witch. And you know what they say about wishes. Once, on the Gulf coast of Mississippi, there was a poor fisherman who had five daughters. These daughters were very plain and could not find suitors so they lived at home with their mother and helped her keep the house and sell their father’s catch. They were a great help to the family but also a great burden. With so many mouths to feed, the old fisherman was at sea every waking hour trying to catch enough fish to keep his large family fed and clothed. Those few hours when he was home his old wife gave him no peace. “Whatever will we do for money. Without a big dowry no one will marry our daughters. You must work harder and catch more fish.” And on and on she drove him. It was only at sea that he could find any peace. One day when the fishing was extremely poor, the old fisherman sailed his boat further from home than ever before. A dense fog fel

  Ghost on a Texas highway story, written by Jerod Lasater “Hey Dan, hurry up!” Jeff yelled out the open window of his old Chevy. “At least give me time to lock the door!” Dan yelled back. Dan and Jeff were two overworked and underpaid farm hands living in West Texas. Their typical routine every Friday night was to get off work and go to their favorite watering hole downtown, The Six Shooter, which was where they let out their anger and frustration on the other patrons. They usually were kicked out at around 11:30PM every Friday night after they’ve had one too many, and this night was no different. Dan and Jeff staggered to their truck, put the key in the ignition after struggling by way of the darkness and alcohol. They put the truck in drive and left the bar. Dan stared ahead into the night. The road was narrow and was surrounded by forest on both sides. Jeff drifted in and out of sleep. “Why don’t you slow down?” Jeff asked with a muffled tone, “I would like to get home alive.” Dan

  Richard “Dippy” Clive could make one hell of a burger. Just outside of Hallmark, South Carolina – down off the highway at the edge of a far-stretching expanse of dead trees – lies “Dippy’s Diner,” specializing in moist burgers, crunchy fries, and the “1958 Winner for Best Chocolate Milkshake in South Carolina.” And just past the burger-joint is the haunted bridge of Mansworth County, the home of the bloodthirsty-hook-handed-ghost of Brad Stapleton. It was well-worth the price to delight in both a burger dinner and an encounter with the beyond, the price of $5 (it was 25¢ when I was teen) for old Dippy to continue his 70 year craft and for ole’ Brad to continue his 300 year craft. The last time I visited Mansworth County was in 1989. It was a place of my childhood, a place I grew up in. I used to race cars, explore the woods, fling myself through the air off the tire swing into the lake, go to the drive-in and the candy shop, go out to make-out point with dates and go hunting with my

  Appalachian murder tale from North Carolina about a mysterious and frightening visitor to a hardscrabble Appalachian community. Written by Pat McCrary. November. The wind in the North Carolina high country has raked the trees gaunt and spindly sunlight leaks from a sky the color of dish water. Thanksgiving will be here in a week. The newspaper says that we are in a depression. People who live on this mountain might say trouble is the world’s way. From an early age, I’ve been told to count my blessings. I have a wife and two daughters. We’ve drawn long straws, I guess you’d say, in this latest round of misfortune. My wife is fond of reminding me that nothing happens to a man that God hasn’t already prepared him for. She doesn’t believe that He has reduced us to a dice roll or even our own admittedly primitive best devices. She’s firm in her convictions, which I’ve often found to be nearly as good as being right. I have a job with John Pittman’s outfit, a saw mill that he’s kept runnin