All Stories
Police release sketch of dead woman
By Ed Brock
Last Week's Poll
Question: Do local schools need to raise their test scores?
Grove picks off upset bid
By Anthony Rhoads
C.O. (Jack) Polk
Judge
Wildcats D-light in second half
By Jeffery Armstrong
Group sex is wrong, wrong, wrong - By Trina Trice
I've read that back in the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s, the sexual revolution reached an all-time low with the advent of swinging, or partner swapping.
Jonesboro blanks Mustangs in opener
By Doug Gorman
A plan of attack
By Trina Trice
Woman charged in animal cruelty case
By Ed Brock
Make your home a stimulating place - R.H. Joseph
Regular readers know me to be a humble man. Nevertheless, self-effacing though I may be, I'd like to take this historically significant moment, when Georgia once again ranks below even Mississippi and Alabama on the SAT scores, to speak directly to those who tell me I use too many big words.
Another one bites the dust - April Avison
Journalists have always been thoroughly interested in other people's lives and I'll admit I enjoy my share of gossip.
Ball to raise funds for special school
By April Avison
Media kiss good sense (and taste) goodbye - Clay Wilson
Sometimes it's almost easy for me to see why other countries hate the U.S.
Calvin Center uses riding as therapy
By Clay Wilson
Area prepares to celebrate 25th annual Grandparents Day
By Michael Davis
Call me a strict consternationist - Bob Paslay
Some of my friends are strict constitutionalists and I applaud their zeal. But for me, I am a strict consternationist
You're thinking about Pilgrims - Ed Brock
There's a tendency by many who support the likes of Judge Roy Moore to cite our nation's supposed foundation on Christian laws.
Cat-ladyitis comes on little fog feet - Diane Wagner
I caught myself before I could say it at a party this weekend, but there's no denying that the words have been hovering on my lips.
High school teacher finds creative energy
By Michael Davis
Leaping into a quarter-life crisis - Rob Felt
Morgan carefully nestled his gin and canned-mandarin-orange-syrup cocktail down in the wet mulch. Watching in mock horror, Mike and I saw him stumble toward the swing set, take a seat, and prepare seriously to attempt what we had only jokingly goaded him into trying. I took a nervous look around my apartment complex for anyone peering out their window wondering what a bunch of drunk 20-somethings were doing in the middle of the night on the playground. Kicking awkwardly with a determined look on his face he got the swing going about seven or eight feet off the ground before he let go.
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