Belle Perdue
Darrel Poche didn’t set out to be the town’s chicken man. Life just roosted that way. When his daddy passed, Darrel inherited the Poche farm—three scraggly acres on the edge of Belle Perdue, half of it choked by weeds, the other half haunted by squash vine borer
Belle Perdue
You ever notice how thunder and a rolling trash can sound exactly the same? Not kind of. Not similar. Exactly the same. I’ve been pausing conversations mid-sentence, cocking my head like a confused retriever and muttering, “Is that... weather or Wanda?” Because if it’s thunder, I’m grabbing
Belle Perdue
From The Archivist They say a town like Belle Perdue doesn’t hold secrets for long—but that’s not exactly true. What it does hold is space: space for rituals to grow, for lost things to come back around, and for old stories to find new corners to echo
Belle Perdue
A letter from our near-future, post-AI world—where Main Street is back, the internet is quiet, and the hardware store sells lemonade by the quart.