“Where the Outlets Whisper”

In Pine Knot County winters,

folks smile through gritted charm,

Bless-your-heart diplomacy

and gossip warmed like barn.

The hall lights hum their warnings,

the cords all twist and scheme;

Here trouble comes in denim,

and power’s just a dream.

Some wander halls with purpose,

some wander ‘cause they’re lost;

And some will guard an outlet

like it’s gold they never tossed.

But hush now, sugar—listen:

that flicker in the glow?

It means the fair’s beginning—

and someone’s runnin’ low.

⭐ CHAPTER ONE — The Lights Flicker in Pine Knot County

The year was 1997, though Pine Knot County hadn’t gotten the memo.

Time moved differently here.

Slow.

Stubborn.

Like a mule that refused to budge no matter how many state bonds or newscasters hollered progress.

Inside the community hall  a long, low building paneled in seventies brown  the annual Winter Craft Jubilee was already wheezing to life. The air smelled of cinnamon pinecones, cigarette ghosts, spilled Kool-Aid, and that mildew you can’t quite scrub out of cinderblock walls.

Vendors shuffled in with their folding tables and shaky optimism, each one silently praying that today would be the day someone bought more than a potholder.

The retirees were the first to arrive, as always. They claimed their spaces with territorial precision, plunking down quilt racks like Union troops marking a field. A few muttered about “modern prices,” others about their bursitis. All of them eyed the electrical outlets with a desperation usually reserved for wartime rations.

Because around here?

Power wasn’t a convenience. Power was survival.

Lights meant customers.

Customers meant sales.

Sales meant groceries.

And groceries meant a soft, beautiful silence when the bills came due.

So when the first extension cord snaked across the linoleum, everyone stiffened — as if the cord might bite or betray them.

That’s when she arrived.

The woman nobody wanted but everyone braced themselves for.

Lila Mae Briscoe, a product of the county’s “work-reintegration initiative,” which was a generous way of saying the courthouse needed to show numbers and Lila needed somewhere to be on Thursday mornings. She came barreling through the double doors with the chaotic grace of a woman who’d been up since dawn powered by caffeine, adrenaline, and at least three conflicting missions.

She wore a coat that didn’t match her dress, a headband that didn’t match either, and a grin so sharp it made the retirees flinch. Behind her rolled a state-issued portable generator, strapped to a metal dolly with bungee cords and duct tape.

“Morning!” she chirped, her voice bright as a floodlight.

“Y’all better clear this aisle — I’m huntin’ for the PREMIUM outlet.”

No such thing existed.

But Lila Mae believed in it with religious fervor.

Before anyone could react, she began unplugging booths like a one-woman power company audit.

“Ma’am— MA’AM!” someone barked.

“That cord is MINE!”

“Well it was,” she replied cheerfully.

“Now we’re re-routing.”

The retirees looked ready to faint. My stepfather muttered something that might’ve been a prayer or a curse. Probably both.

A nervous hum moved through the hall — the kind of sound people make when they sense trouble but the doors are already locked.

I watched Lila Mae march across the building with purpose she did not possess, her boots squeaking against the tile, her coat flapping like a bat on a mission. She approached the back curtain — the sagging, velvet-ish divider that hid the sad little storage alcove stuffed with folding chairs and abandoned holiday decorations.

Everyone knew nothing good came from behind that curtain.

Deals died back there.

Friendships soured.

One time someone’s crockpot shorted out and smoked for six weeks.

So when Lila Mae Briscoe pushed her way behind it, muttering about hidden power sources and conspiracies of outlet-hoarders, the entire room quietly winced.

Then came:

Thump.

Clatter.

A muffled squawk — part human, part chicken.

Then silence.

The kind of silence that makes every vendor stop pretending to organize their table.

Someone whispered,

“…Did she fall?”

Someone else whispered back,

“…Should we check?”

But the fair was opening.

Customers trickled in.

The retirees plastered on smiles.

Lila Mae stayed gone.

And the lights?

They flickered.

Twice.

As if warning us:

This year’s Jubilee wasn’t going to be peaceful.