The Cataloochee Bridge: A Poetry and Prose Anthology

Status: Tentative 1-28 Feb 2022

  • Submissions accepted only via on line form (added to this page later). 
  • Submissions accepted from a former contributor or someone recommended by a former contributor.
  • Only one submission per poet/writer.
  • Poem may not exceed 38 lines (includes title author's name and a blank line prior to the poem) flash fiction should not exceed 325 words (bottom line is that the flash fiction must fit on a 5.5"x8.5" page with .5 top and bottom and .75 right and left margins)
  • NOTE: Contributors may purchase the book at a reduced rate upon publication. 
Old Mountain Press  will publish a collection of poetry by a number of poets.  Our goal is to gather enough quality poems and flash fiction for an estimated 50 to 90 page book with the theme to go with the cover (to your right):  Anything about the mountains: mountain people, mountain rivers, mountain creeks, mountain towns, ect. or winter. Would like to have as many poets involved as possible.  Requirements are below. Authors receive publishing credit and retain all rights to their work but agree to the inclusion of their poem in this collection of poetry.
  • Author must have rights to the poem (previously published OK, but not in an OMP anthology). 
  • Poem may not exceed 38 lines (this includes title, spaces, and author's name) flash fiction may not exceed 325 words . 
  • Poetry lines that  exceed 55 letters and spaces will wrap and count as two lines.
  • Initially, only one poem/flash fiction per writer, so give it your best shot:-)
  • Sample title and first line below

Title of Poem/Flash Fiction
Author's Name

Begin poem/flash fiction


Upcoming Anthologies


About the book

Anything about the mountains: the rivers, creeks, places, people or winter.

Sample of the work:



Shelby Stephenson


Across the road, alone,

A stoop of collards,

She never rose in radishes

Or flowers in rows,

A vegetable garden she

Called her patch.

Her hands dressed in cut-off socks

She pulled long in weeds,

Mumbling, My Lord,

You gave me a mountain

To work here on this hill,

No roses red as my love for Paul,

No eggplants for the sun,

Just hens to run out in the yard,

An offering of shells

Around my chainey-tree.

And then she hummed

Some more, her nature

Forsaking something

She might could bear, she thought,

As she turned like an arrow

Guarding air to miss her haven.

Shelby Stephensonís recent books are More, Shelby's Lady: The Hog Poems and Praises. He served as poet laureate of North Carolina from 2015-2018. Shelby lives at the home place near Benson, NC where he was born.


Walking the Appalachian Trail

Tom Davis


When I signed into the 10th Special Forces Group at Ft Devens, Massachusetts, after my one year tour in Vietnam, I was told I would be hiking the Appalachian Trail with a Special Forces A team that was already walking it. Iíd just gotten back from Vietnam and had not even drawn my field equipment, much less gotten Polly situated in quarters. She didnít take the news so well (understatement).

     To appreciate this story you have understand how wild and wooly Special Forces A Teams were at that time (1971). As a group and as individuals we often displayed a morbid and sometimes a juvenile sense of humor. If they could get in trouble, they would. And walking the trail from Baxter State Park in Maine to Massachusetts provided several opportunities the team just couldnít pass up. Here is just one of many we availed ourselves of.


As we trudged on, we often met other hikers. One time we gave this kid a lift into town in the 3/4 ton truck that we met at predetermined places along the route. I sat in the back of the truck with the rest of the guys while CPT Nelson, the team leader, sat up front with the driver. Filthy Fred Faloon, the Teamís senior demolitions sergeant, sat eyeing the guy as a smile broke across his face. "Hey, Rodgers." Filthy Fred said. Rodgers was the Teamís junior communications sergeant. "Wanna swap spit?" Where upon Filthy Fred brought up a big wad and spit it into his palm. Rodgers did the same; then they each placed their palms on each otherís mouths and licked.

     I never went in for the swapping spit thing, opting instead for the SF lick in the ear. Anyway, the kid, who was sitting directly across from Filthy Fred and Rodgers, looked like he was about to jump out of the truck as it tore down the highway.

     His eyes filled his face. I was sure he was hearing banjo music. The whole back of the truck erupted in laughter. The look on the kidís face was something that I have never forgotten. When we pulled to a stop at a stoplight, the kid grabbed his back pack, jumped down, and started walking off shaking his head and mumbling to himself. Iím pretty sure heís telling and retelling this story even today.


From the authorís memoir: The Most Fun I Ever Had With My Clothes On: A March from Private to Colonel.

Tom Davisí publishing credits include Poets Forum, The Carolina Runner, Triathlon Today, Georgia Athlete, The Fayetteville Observerís Saturday Extra, A Loving Voice Vol. I and II, Special Warfare., and Winston-Salem Writersí POETRY IN PLAIN SIGHT program for 2013 and 2021. He has authored several books. Tom has completed his memoir, The Most Fun I ever Had With My Clothes On A March from Private to Colonel. He lives in Webster, NC.

About the Authors 

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