Like the flight of the wild goose: slow, patient, finding safe landings step by step. The changes in the middle — strength softening, softness firming — say that flexibility is part of progress.
So the whole spread leans into:
ᚱ the road opens,
ᛗ companionship matters,
ᚺ the storm disrupts,
but 漸 Gradual Progress carries through, steady wings in the long arc of travel.
Later, I walked the greenway and watched a gaggle of geese settling at the water’s edge, right on cue. The sky broke open with a shaft of sunlight between gray banks of cloud. A couple of strangers paused to chat at the benches – small, welcome echoes of ᛗ. Storm brewing on the horizon, but storms move on. Step by step, wheel by wheel, goose by goose.
# — Platonic Solid Data —
def get_platonic_solid_data(name):
“””Provides the correctly scaled vertices and faces for a given Platonic solid.”””
if name == “Tetrahedron”:
scale = 150
v_base = [(1,1,1), (-1,-1,1), (-1,1,-1), (1,-1,-1)]
f = [(0,1,2), (0,2,3), (0,3,1), (1,3,2)]
v = [(p[0]*scale, p[1]*scale, p[2]*scale) for p in v_base]
return v, f
if name == “Cube”:
scale = 130
v_base = [(-1,-1,1), (1,-1,1), (1,1,1), (-1,1,1),
(-1,-1,-1), (1,-1,-1), (1,1,-1), (-1,1,-1)]
f = [(0,1,2,3), (4,5,1,0), (5,6,2,1), (6,7,3,2), (7,4,0,3), (7,6,5,4)]
v = [(p[0]*scale, p[1]*scale, p[2]*scale) for p in v_base]
return v, f
if name == “Octahedron”:
scale = 160
v_base = [(0,0,1), (0,0,-1), (1,0,0), (-1,0,0), (0,1,0), (0,-1,0)]
f = [(0,2,4), (0,4,3), (0,3,5), (0,5,2), (1,2,5), (1,5,3), (1,3,4), (1,4,2)]
v = [(p[0]*scale, p[1]*scale, p[2]*scale) for p in v_base]
return v, f
# — Function to load a solid —
def load_solid(name):
global current_solid_name, vertices, faces, angle_x, angle_y, angle_z
current_solid_name = name
vertices, faces = get_platonic_solid_data(name)
angle_x, angle_y, angle_z = 0, 0, 0
# — Build Menu Items —
menu_rects = {}
y_offset = 20
for name in solid_names:
text_surf = MENU_FONT.render(name, True, MENU_TEXT_COLOR)
rect = text_surf.get_rect(topleft=(20, y_offset))
menu_rects[name] = rect
y_offset += 40
# — Pygame Setup —
pygame.init()
screen = pygame.display.set_mode((WIDTH, HEIGHT))
pygame.display.set_caption(“Select and Spin a Platonic Solid”)
clock = pygame.time.Clock()
load_solid(current_solid_name)
# — Main Loop —
running = True
while running:
for event in pygame.event.get():
if event.type == pygame.QUIT: running = False
if event.type == pygame.KEYDOWN and event.key == pygame.K_AC_BACK: running = False
if event.type == pygame.MOUSEBUTTONDOWN:
if event.button == 1:
for name, rect in menu_rects.items():
if rect.collidepoint(event.pos) and name != current_solid_name:
load_solid(name)
break
rotated_vertices = []
for x, y, z in vertices:
y_rot = y * math.cos(angle_x) – z * math.sin(angle_x)
z_rot = y * math.sin(angle_x) + z * math.cos(angle_x)
x_rot = x * math.cos(angle_y) – z_rot * math.sin(angle_y)
z_final = x * math.sin(angle_y) + z_rot * math.cos(angle_y)
x_final = x_rot * math.cos(angle_z) – y_rot * math.sin(angle_z)
y_final = x_rot * math.sin(angle_z) + y_rot * math.cos(angle_z)
rotated_vertices.append((x_final, y_final, z_final))
projected_vertices = []
for x, y, z in rotated_vertices:
distance = 5
scale = distance / (distance – z / 400)
proj_x = int(x * scale + (WIDTH + MENU_WIDTH) / 2)
proj_y = int(y * scale + HEIGHT / 2)
projected_vertices.append((proj_x, proj_y))
screen.fill(BACKGROUND_COLOR)
if projected_vertices:
# — MODIFIED DRAWING LOGIC FOR WIREFRAME —
for face in faces:
points = [projected_vertices[i] for i in face]
# Draw only the outline of the polygon
pygame.draw.polygon(screen, LINE_COLOR, points, 1)
pygame.draw.rect(screen, MENU_BACKGROUND_COLOR, (0, 0, MENU_WIDTH, HEIGHT))
for name, rect in menu_rects.items():
color = MENU_HIGHLIGHT_COLOR if name == current_solid_name else MENU_TEXT_COLOR
text_surf = MENU_FONT.render(name, True, color)
screen.blit(text_surf, rect)
I’m visiting a British seaside town called Margate. There’s a location here called ‘Shell Grotto’. In the 1800s, a landowner uncovered an ancient walkway and altar built underground and covered in thousands of seashells – and nobody knows why. What I’m saying is, prepare for the coming of Cthulu.
They say if you walk the banks of the Roanoke near Salem after sundown, best keep your eyes straight ahead and your feet moving. The river twists through those woods quiet as a whisper, and sometimes the quiet is watching back.
I found it in daylight, a tree with a face carved deep into the trunk. Heavy eyes, a frown that sank down like roots. Looked man-made at first, but the longer I stood there the more it felt alive. The cracks in the wood breathed. The shadows under the eyes shifted with no wind.
Old mountain tales say the Roanoke has its watchers. Spirits bound in bark, listening for names carried on the current. Folks claim if you speak too loud near them, the trees remember your voice, and call it back to you years later when you are alone in the hollow.
I didn’t linger. Just tipped my head in respect, the way you’d nod to a grave or a passing crow, and kept to the trail.
Along the river, even in daylight, you can feel the mountains breathing, and sometimes the trees breathe back.
#!/usr/bin/env python3
“””
Tic-Tac-Toe with simple reinforcement learning (Monte Carlo control)
– Runs in a terminal (works in Pydroid on Android)
– Can train by self-play, play human vs AI, or AI vs AI
– Learns state-action values and improves over time
– Save/Load the learned policy to/from JSON
How it learns (short version):
We record the sequence of (state, action, player) for a game. At the end:
winner’s actions get +1, loser’s actions get -1, draws get 0
We update a value table Q[(state, player)][action] by incremental averaging.
Policy is epsilon-greedy w.r.t. Q, so it explores a bit while learning.
“””
import json
import os
import random
from collections import defaultdict
from typing import Dict, List, Tuple
# =========================
# Game mechanics
# =========================
def legal_actions(board: Board) -> List[Action]:
return [i for i, c in enumerate(board) if c == EMPTY]
def check_winner(board: Board) -> str:
for a, b, c in WIN_LINES:
if board[a] != EMPTY and board[a] == board[b] == board[c]:
return board[a]
if EMPTY not in board:
return “DRAW”
return “” # game continues
def print_board(board: Board) -> None:
b = [c if c != EMPTY else str(i+1) for i, c in enumerate(board)]
rows = [f” {b[0]} | {b[1]} | {b[2]}”, f” {b[3]} | {b[4]} | {b[5]}”, f” {b[6]} | {b[7]} | {b[8]}”]
print(“\n” + “\n———–\n”.join(rows) + “\n”)
# =========================
# RL bits (First-Visit Monte Carlo control)
# =========================
class MonteCarloAgent:
def __init__(self, epsilon: float = 0.1):
self.epsilon = float(epsilon)
# Q maps (state, player) -> vector of 9 action values
self.Q: Dict[QKey, List[float]] = defaultdict(lambda: [0.0]*9)
# N maps (state, player, action) -> visit count for incremental mean
self.N: Dict[Tuple[State, str, Action], int] = defaultdict(int)
def policy(self, board: Board, player: str) -> Action:
acts = legal_actions(board)
if not acts:
return -1
if random.random() < self.epsilon:
return random.choice(acts)
state = board_to_state(board)
qvals = self.Q[(state, player)]
# choose best legal; tie-break randomly among maxima
best_val = max(qvals[a] for a in acts)
best_actions = [a for a in acts if qvals[a] == best_val]
return random.choice(best_actions)
def episode(self, starting_player: str = “X”, show: bool = False) -> str:
“””Play one game between two copies of this agent (self-play).
Returns the result: ‘X’, ‘O’, or ‘DRAW’.”””
board = new_board()
current = starting_player
# history of (state, player, action)
trajectory: List[Tuple[State, str, Action]] = []
while True:
action = self.policy(board, current)
if action == -1:
# no legal moves (shouldn’t happen)
result = “DRAW”
break
# record state before taking action
s = board_to_state(board)
trajectory.append((s, current, action))
# apply move
board[action] = current
outcome = check_winner(board)
if show:
print_board(board)
if outcome == “X” or outcome == “O”:
result = outcome
break
if outcome == “DRAW”:
result = “DRAW”
break
# switch player
current = “O” if current == “X” else “X”
# Assign returns
if result == “DRAW”:
G = {“X”: 0.0, “O”: 0.0}
else:
G = {“X”: 1.0 if result == “X” else -1.0,
“O”: 1.0 if result == “O” else -1.0}
# First-visit MC update
seen = set()
for s, p, a in trajectory:
key = (s, p, a)
if key in seen:
continue
seen.add(key)
qkey = (s, p)
self.N[(s, p, a)] += 1
n = self.N[(s, p, a)]
old = self.Q[qkey][a]
target = G[p]
self.Q[qkey][a] = old + (target – old) / n
return result
def choose_move(self, board: Board, player: str, greedy: bool = True) -> Action:
acts = legal_actions(board)
if not acts:
return -1
state = board_to_state(board)
qvals = self.Q[(state, player)]
if greedy:
best_val = max(qvals[a] for a in acts)
best_actions = [a for a in acts if qvals[a] == best_val]
return random.choice(best_actions)
else:
return self.policy(board, player)
# ———- persistence ———-
def save(self, path: str):
data = {f”{k[0]}|{k[1]}”: v for k, v in self.Q.items()}
with open(path, “w”, encoding=”utf-8″) as f:
json.dump({“epsilon”: self.epsilon, “Q”: data}, f)
print(f”Saved model to {path} ({len(self.Q)} states)”)
def load(self, path: str):
if not os.path.exists(path):
print(f”No such file: {path}”)
return
with open(path, “r”, encoding=”utf-8″) as f:
blob = json.load(f)
self.epsilon = float(blob.get(“epsilon”, 0.1))
rawQ = blob.get(“Q”, {})
self.Q = defaultdict(lambda: [0.0]*9)
for k, v in rawQ.items():
state, player = k.split(“|”)
vec = [float(x) for x in v]
if len(vec) != 9:
vec = (vec + [0.0]*9)[:9]
self.Q[(state, player)] = vec
print(f”Loaded model from {path} ({len(self.Q)} states), epsilon={self.epsilon}”)
# =========================
# Human interaction
# =========================
MODEL_PATH = “tictactoe_q.json”
def human_turn(board: Board, player: str) -> None:
while True:
try:
move = input(f”Your move ({player}). Enter 1-9: “).strip()
idx = int(move) – 1
if idx < 0 or idx > 8:
raise ValueError
if board[idx] != EMPTY:
print(“That spot is taken. Try again.”)
continue
board[idx] = player
return
except ValueError:
print(“Please type a number 1-9 corresponding to the board position.”)
def ai_turn(board: Board, player: str, agent: MonteCarloAgent, greedy: bool = True) -> None:
a = agent.choose_move(board, player, greedy=greedy)
if a == -1:
return
board[a] = player
def play_human_vs_ai(agent: MonteCarloAgent):
print(“\n=== Human vs AI ===”)
while True:
choice = input(“Do you want to be X (first) or O (second)? [X/O]: “).strip().upper()
if choice in (“X”, “O”):
human = choice
ai = “O” if human == “X” else “X”
break
print(“Please answer X or O.”)
greedy = input(“Should the AI play greedily (y) or allow exploration (n)? [y/n]: “).strip().lower() != ‘n’
board = new_board()
current = “X”
print_board(board)
while True:
if current == human:
human_turn(board, human)
else:
ai_turn(board, ai, agent, greedy=greedy)
print(“AI moves:”)
print_board(board)
outcome = check_winner(board)
if outcome in (“X”, “O”):
print(f”{outcome} wins!” + (” (You win!)” if outcome == human else ” (AI wins!)”))
break
if outcome == “DRAW”:
print(“It’s a draw.”)
break
current = “O” if current == “X” else “X”
def watch_ai_vs_ai(agent: MonteCarloAgent, games: int = 1, greedy: bool = True):
print(“\n=== AI vs AI ===”)
for g in range(1, games+1):
print(f”Game {g}:”)
result = agent.episode(starting_player=”X”, show=True)
if result == “DRAW”:
print(“Result: draw\n”)
else:
print(f”Result: {result} wins\n”)
def train_self_play(agent: MonteCarloAgent, episodes: int = 10000, report_every: int = 1000):
print(f”Training for {episodes} self-play games (epsilon={agent.epsilon})…”)
w = {“X”: 0, “O”: 0, “DRAW”: 0}
for i in range(1, episodes+1):
# alternate starting player to avoid bias
starter = “X” if i % 2 else “O”
result = agent.episode(starting_player=starter, show=False)
w[result] += 1
if report_every and i % report_every == 0:
total = i
wx, wo, d = w[“X”], w[“O”], w[“DRAW”]
print(f” After {total:6d}: X={wx} O={wo} Draw={d} | states learned={len(agent.Q)}”)
print(“Done.”)
# =========================
# Menu / main
# =========================
def main():
agent = MonteCarloAgent(epsilon=0.1)
if os.path.exists(MODEL_PATH):
try:
agent.load(MODEL_PATH)
except Exception as e:
print(f”(Could not auto-load model: {e})”)
while True:
print(“””
==============================
Tic-Tac-Toe RL (console)
==============================
1) Train by self-play
2) Play Human vs AI
3) Watch AI vs AI
4) Set exploration epsilon
5) Save model
6) Load model
7) Reset model
0) Exit
“””)
choice = input(“Select an option: “).strip()
if choice == “1”:
try:
n = int(input(“How many self-play games? (e.g., 5000): “).strip())
except ValueError:
print(“Please enter a number.”)
continue
report = max(1000, n // 10)
train_self_play(agent, episodes=n, report_every=report)
elif choice == “2”:
play_human_vs_ai(agent)
elif choice == “3”:
try:
g = int(input(“How many games to show? “).strip())
except ValueError:
g = 1
greedy = input(“Play greedily (y) or with exploration (n)? [y/n]: “).strip().lower() != ‘n’
watch_ai_vs_ai(agent, games=g, greedy=greedy)
elif choice == “4”:
try:
e = float(input(“Set epsilon (0 = greedy, 0.1 default, 1 = random): “).strip())
e = min(max(e, 0.0), 1.0)
agent.epsilon = e
print(f”epsilon set to {agent.epsilon}”)
except ValueError:
print(“Please enter a number (e.g., 0.1)”)
elif choice == “5”:
path = input(f”Save path [{MODEL_PATH}]: “).strip() or MODEL_PATH
agent.save(path)
elif choice == “6”:
path = input(f”Load path [{MODEL_PATH}]: “).strip() or MODEL_PATH
agent.load(path)
elif choice == “7”:
agent = MonteCarloAgent(epsilon=agent.epsilon)
print(“Model reset. (Learning starts fresh.)”)
elif choice == “0”:
print(“Goodbye!”)
break
else:
print(“Unknown option. Please choose from the menu.”)
Afternoon carried me and my companions into Evie’s Bakery, quiet hum of ovens and glass cases shining with sugar. Amanda, smiling and steady, steered us through the tasting like she’d been waiting just for us.
Better Than Sex cake first. Devil’s food rich and shadow dark, chocolate chips hidden in the crumb. Whipped white frosting smoothed over, tangled with chocolate and caramel. Each forkful heavy with sweetness, melt and bite together, little bursts of joy.
Then sunshine cake. Yellow crumb, tender as a cloud, holding its weight under a plate of milk chocolate icing. The balance of bright and sweet, golden light under a darker crown, lifted everything a little higher.
We lingered, fork tapping the empty plate, warm air rising from the ovens, downstairs. We put an order in for both full cakes for an upcoming birthday party later this month.
When we stepped back outside, the sidewalk carried its own invitation. Hopscotch chalked in pastel squares, the word dance scrawled in the final box. Sunlight caught it just so, and for a moment it felt like the cakes had followed us out, turning the street into something just as sweet.
The Y waited in the gray drizzle this morning, doors sliding open like a slow inhale. I went alone, bag on shoulder, carrying towel, lock, and swimsuit. The lobby carried its usual mix of coffee and chlorine, a scent that feels like both welcome and warning, as if the building wants to remind you that effort and comfort live side by side here.
First, I settled onto a recumbent bike. Low seat, pedals forward, the kind of machine that lets you lean back a little, legs moving like steady oars. The screen glowed with numbers I barely watched. Beyond the fogged windows the street blurred, people passing like shadows in watercolor. The bike seemed content to carry me through the minutes, humming beneath me as though pleased to share its rhythm.
Then the pool. Ninety degrees, five feet deep, a body of water that felt more like a living thing than a facility feature. Stepping in was like being welcomed into its arms, warm against the skin, the depth just enough to hold me without ever letting me disappear. Plenty of space, no rush, no crowding, the water stretching wide and patient. Each lap was less about distance and more about drifting through the gentle embrace, lights above shimmering like constellations stirred by the smallest stroke.
I briefly lingered at the edge after swimming, towel wrapped tight absorbing stray drops before I headed back to the changing area, listening to the pool breathe under the echoes of children’s laughter at the far end. The humid air wrapped itself around me, heavy but comforting, like the last word in a quiet conversation.
When I stepped outside again, drizzle cooled my skin and hair. I felt as though the pool had pressed its warmth into me, a secret gift from the water, carried out into the gray day like a blessing.
They call him just the pig, though he’s more than that. A squat figure of concrete planted on West Main, round-bellied and silent, carrying the weight of Salem’s years in paint and shadow.
The elders whisper that when Henry’s barbecue joint closed, the town grew restless. Windows darkened, smoke gone from the pit, but people felt the loss in their bones. Something lingered, wanting a place to live on. So the pig stayed. And with each fresh coat of paint, he learned to listen.
Children mark his hide with birthday wishes and bright doodles, never knowing the stone soaks up their voices. Lovers scrawl their names, and months later, when the paint fades, their romance too crumbles like chipped acrylic. Preachers leave blessings, and for a season the air seems lighter. Protesters splash slogans in the night, and by dawn the town feels braced for change. What is written on him has a way of echoing back.
Some say if you pass him after midnight, when the street is empty and the lamps buzz with moths, you’ll hear him shifting his trotters against the pavement. Just enough to shake loose the old stories, to make room for the new. His eyes — blank and painted over a thousand times — are never the same color twice, yet they follow. Always watching.
It’s said Salem has been spared worse storms than its neighbors, spared fires that could have swept whole blocks, because the pig takes it on himself. He drinks down the town’s misfortune like rain. But he demands attention in return. If the paint ever stops, if people forget to mark him, his belly will grow heavy with unshed stories, and the luck of Salem will sour.
So the brushes keep coming. Small hands, weary hands, bold hands with spray cans in the dark. The pig wears it all, a patchwork shroud of human hope and folly. Protector, trickster, omen.
There’s a ridge above Catawba folks don’t linger on. Brush Mountain, long and dark, the kind of rise that carries a weight in its bones. The old timers say a mountain is like a hound… feed it once, and it’ll never stop coming back. But when you feed it blood, you’ve made a pact you can’t unmake.
In May of 1971, a small plane cut through the clouds over that ridge. In it was Audie Murphy, soldier, actor, hero; a man who carried more medals than his coat could bear, a man who walked through fire overseas and came out breathing when others did not. Folks liked to say he had death by the collar. But on that fog-thick morning, Brush Mountain decided otherwise. The plane hit the slope hard, tore open trees, and burned hot enough to scorch the stones. All aboard were gone in a heartbeat.
The sheriff’s men hauled what they could out, but the mountain kept the rest. Kept the smoke, kept the screams, kept the shadow of it all.
—
Porch Talk
Years later, if you sat on Cal Dempsey’s porch of an evening, he’d tell it plain.
“Brush Mountain ain’t right,” he’d say, rocking slow, his lantern throwing shadows across the boards. “That ridge pulled Murphy down same as a snapping turtle pulls under a duck. Weren’t no accident. Mountain drew in breath, filled the air with fog, and swallowed him whole.”
Somebody would laugh, usually a young’un visiting from town. Cal would just spit and shake his head. “You think I’m telling jokes? Ask the hunter heard an engine coughin’ overhead on a clear night, no plane in sight. Ask the woman seen a row of soldiers in the mist, marchin’ quiet along the slope, uniforms gray as ashes, and then*poof* gone into the brush. Ask the boys who dared each other to sleep by the memorial stone. Not one lasted till midnight. Said the ground was too restless, like it wanted to roll over under ‘em.”
—
The Memorial
They put up a granite block where the plane went down, carved a bronze plaque on it so strangers would know the tale. But the locals will tell you the real memorial is the hush in the clearing. Birds fall silent, cicadas choke off mid-song, even the trees stop creaking. Step into that stillness, and you’ll feel the mountain watching.
Coins and trinkets gather at the base of the stone. Pennies, nickels, army patches, toy soldiers, even a faded pack of Lucky Strikes once. They aren’t offerings to Audie Murphy himself. No, those are gifts to the mountain, bargains struck so you’ll walk back down safe.
There’s a saying in the Blue Ridge: A sudden death makes a shadow that never fades. Brush Mountain is fat with such shadows, and Murphy’s is the heaviest.
—
My Walk
I climbed it once, curious or foolish. The trail was quiet, gravel underfoot, trees crowding close. When I reached the stone, the air thickened like syrup. No birds. No insects. Just a silence heavy enough to press against my chest.
I set a coin down. My hand shook doing it. And I swear before heaven that a figure stood just beyond the tree line… cap low, hand resting on the granite. His outline wavered, like smoke. His eyes were hollows, watching. Then the wind moved and he was gone, or folded deeper into the mountain’s skin.
The silence broke in a rush. Cicadas screamed. A crow barked. I turned and left fast as I dared, not looking back until the trail bent away.
—
The Warning
Cal told it best the last time I saw him, pipe glowing in his teeth.
“Folks think that memorial’s a monument. But what it really is, is a doorstop. Keeps the mountain from swallowin’ the rest of us whole. You don’t mock it. You don’t linger after dark. And you sure as hell don’t walk up there without bringin’ payment. Remember; what the mountain takes, it never gives back. Not in this world, nor the next.”
And the lantern would flicker, and the shadows would stretch long, and you’d know in your bones that every word he spoke was true.
“Little Brushy Mountain ain’t right,” old Cal used to say, spitting tobacco into the dust by his boots. “Never has been. Ridge like that, it keeps what it takes. You walk up there, best remember to mind your manners.”
He’d lean forward then, voice dropping low. “You heard about Audie Murphy, ain’t you? War hero, made it through more firefights than you got fingers, walked away from hell in Europe without so much as a limp. They say the man had death’s own handshake but never let it stick. Then in seventy-one, him and a few others was flying over, and that mountain pulled ‘em down. Fog come sudden, thicker’n buttermilk, and the next thing, metal screaming and fire blooming. Folks said you could smell the smoke all the way in Catawba. Not a one survived. That’s the way Little Brushy wanted it.”
Old timers claim the fog that day wasn’t weather at all. “That was the mountain drawing breath,” Cal would say, eyes narrowing at the tree line. “Pulling the plane into its lungs.”
And then he’d rattle off the stories. A hunter hearing an engine sputtering overhead on a still night, nothing in the sky. A woman walking the trail and seeing soldiers in the mist, marching slow, their boots never touching the ground, fading right into the brush. Kids daring each other to sleep by the monument but running home before dusk because the woods were too quiet, too thick.
Cal always spat again after telling that. “There’s a sayin’ here. Sudden death makes a shadow that never fades. Brush Mountain’s belly’s full of ‘em. And Murphy’s shadow, it’s the heaviest.”
I asked him once why folks left coins and trinkets by the stone. He tapped the brim of his hat like it was obvious. “You don’t bring the mountain a gift, the mountain might take somethin’ else. Could be your luck, could be your way back down. Folks don’t play dice with ridges that’ve tasted blood.”
I went up there myself, once, just to see. Walked the trail till the stone rose out the clearing, bronze glinting dull in the evening light. Left a coin at the base, though my hand shook when I did it. The woods pressed close, thick and watching. Air heavy as iron in my mouth. For a moment I swear I saw a figure by the trees, cap pulled low, one hand resting on the stone. Then the wind groaned through the branches and he was gone, or maybe just deeper in.
Cal had one more thing he’d say before he’d rock back and light his pipe. “That ridge don’t forget. Don’t forgive neither. You go up there, remember, the mountain is awake. What it takes, it never gives back.”
And the lantern light would flicker, and the night insects would start up again, and you’d know he wasn’t just telling tales. Not all the way.
They’ll tell you Little Brushy Mountain don’t sleep. Never has. You can hear it in the way the trees shift when the air is still, and in the way the ground feels soft underfoot where it ought to be solid. Old folks say mountains got bellies same as any living thing, and when they feed, they keep what they’ve taken. Blood, fire, sorrow. Nothing goes back.
When that plane came down in ’71, some say the fog wasn’t weather at all but the mountain drawing breath. Pulled the craft low, cracked its wings, swallowed the men whole. Audie Murphy among them, a man who’d walked out of battlefields bristling with iron and lead but couldn’t walk out of the ridge’s hunger. The stone they set up there is just a marker. The true memorial is the hush that comes over the clearing.
Holler folk whisper different pieces of it. One tale says a hunter heard the sputter of a plane when no sky was moving, then saw sparks drift through the trees though the night was clear. Another claims a woman saw soldiers in the fog, marching single file across the slope, vanishing where the brush grew thick. Children dared each other to spend a night up by the stone, but none ever did. They say the ground up there is too restless to sleep on.
There’s an old saying in these parts: “A sudden death makes a shadow that never fades.” Little Brushy Mountain has more than one, and Murphy’s is the heaviest. Some hikers leave coins, some leave toys, some whisper a prayer. It ain’t for him so much as for themselves, a bargain to pass through without stirring whatever watches.
I set my coin at the base of the granite, the way you might set bread at the door for a wandering spirit, and turned back before night proper came on. I did not hear footsteps, but I felt them. I did not see soldiers, but I walked as though I were being counted among them. Down in the valley, porch lights glowed like watchfires. Up on the ridge, the mountain had its dead, and the mountain kept its feast.
Little Brushy Mountain is not merely a rise of stone and tree, but a thing alive and watching. The Audie Murphy Memorial rests upon its ridge like a wound stitched shut but never healed. The plaque tells the story of a soldier who walked through fire in Europe, lived to carry medals heavy as curses, then fell from the sky in 1971 when his plane struck the ridge in fog and flame. None left that day but smoke, and the mountain drank it all.
The old people say mountains remember. Some claim they are older than time, older than the rivers they cradle, and that when blood or fire touches their skin, they keep it forever. Brush Mountain is one of those. The air near the monument is heavy, thick as molasses, and the silence comes sudden and sharp, the way it does before a storm. Birds fall quiet, cicadas hush, even the trees seem to stop their creak. It is then the mountain listens.
Hikers tell of bootsteps pacing just behind them, though the trail lies empty. A figure in uniform sometimes appears at the treeline, cap low, face unreadable. Others whisper of the sound of an engine coughing above the canopy, followed by a splintering crash that never comes, the moment of death repeating again and again as the mountain replays what it swallowed.
I stood by the stone at dusk, and the woods pressed in. The leaves rattled though there was no wind, and the taste of iron filled my mouth. For a moment I thought I saw him—no, not him exactly, but a shadow of him—resting one hand on the granite, eyes distant as if peering through me. The mountain shifted then, a long groan from its roots, and he was gone.
It is said in the hollers that when a man dies violent, his spirit does not pass on quick. It sinks down into the soil, joining the memory of the place that claimed him. Brush Mountain has its share of such ghosts, and now it holds Murphy too, not as a man, but as a story it tells when the air grows still.
I left a coin at the base of the marker, the way you do when you bargain with the hills, and I turned back down the trail. Even then, I knew the mountain was awake behind me, watching with the eyes of all it has kept, whispering that what it takes, it never gives back.
Restless night, drifting in and out, half dream currents slipping away before I could catch them. Morning came slow, heavier than usual. The farmers market was already over by the time we stirred. Instead, the Kroger lot, trunk open, bags appearing as if by magic, groceries delivered through the summer air. Breakfast followed, simple, grounding, like stepping back into our own rhythm.
A pause at Sycamore Station, just to look, to wander. Got a couple of scones, and the place had its own hush, like it was waiting for something. Then back home, where the hours stretch soft and unhurried. A book in my lap, chores weaving in and out of the quiet. The cat sleeps on the chair across from me, a perfect shape, like a thought curled tight, dreaming her own small worlds.
Tuesday lingers ahead. In-laws returning if the road is kind. Their anniversary, his birthday, a double celebration, already glowing faintly on the horizon. Candles, cake, maybe laughter looping late into the night.
For now, the house hums low, late light sliding across the floorboards, shadows lengthening. The day feels suspended, neither rushing nor standing still, only breathing.
Little Brushy Mountain keeps its silence, but the Audie Murphy Memorial sits right where the wreckage came down in 1971. The story goes that Murphy, the most decorated soldier of World War II, survived battlefields in Europe, wrote his life into books and films, and then lost it all here in the Blue Ridge when a small plane struck the trees on a fog-heavy May morning. No survivors.
The monument marks the place. A granite block with a bronze plaque, circled by flags and tokens that strangers bring. Pennies, toy soldiers, weather-worn notes. I reached it near dusk, the shadows already climbing the trees. The woods seemed to press in, hushed, as though they were still carrying the weight of the crash.
Some hikers say that on thick summer evenings you can hear the splinter of branches and the roar of an engine cut short. Others speak of a soldier in uniform, watching quietly from the treeline, fading when you draw close. They say the air sometimes grows dense and muffled, as if the mountain itself is remembering the smoke and fire that once tore through its silence.
I felt it too. As I stood there, the cicadas ceased all at once, and the air tightened around me. My ears rang. For a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of a figure resting one hand on the stone, cap pulled low, eyes distant. I blinked and the place was empty again, only the bronze plaque catching the last light.
When the wind stirred, the woods rushed back to life, but I left a coin at the base of the monument before starting down the trail. I turned back more than once, half expecting to see a shadow on the ridge, patient and unmovable, keeping watch where the mountain still remembers.
Evening tea with a round of Belatro. Cards slid across the table like small ships, ferrying my plans to either fortune or folly. I told myself it was not about winning, it was about the way the hands felt in motion, the quiet tension before the reveal.
Pearl wandered by mid-round, curious, flicking her tail against my knee as if she was trying to tap into my strategy. She might have been more interested in my water bottle nearby, but I liked to think she was rooting for me.
The AI in this game is trickier than it looks, bluffs like a fox, folds like a monk. Twice I thought I had the match sewn up, only to watch my points trickle away like rain into a thirsty garden. Still, there is a thrill in the swing of it.
When the last round ended, I leaned back, stretched, and watched the cards fade back into digital nothingness. Just me again, the quiet of the room, and the kettle starting to sing its second chorus.
Maybe tomorrow I will win. Or maybe I will just play for the rhythm of shuffling and dealing, the way a poet writes lines they do not plan to show anyone, just for the joy of the shapes.
Postscript: Pearl eventually claimed the water bottle as her own, proof that victory takes many forms.
