Mississippi Market Bulletin Subscription |work| May 2026

Trevor handed her two tens. “Keep the change. And put me down for a copy too. But don’t tell my boss.”

Earlene heard the story three days later, when her bulletin arrived. Tucked inside the front page was a handwritten note from Myra:

Earlene laughed so hard she spilled her tea. Then she picked up her pencil and circled the blue heeler again. Somebody in Yazoo City was missing that dog. And in the pages of the Mississippi Market Bulletin , even lost things had a way of finding their way home. Would you like a shorter or more factual version, such as a mock how-to guide or a newsletter-style piece? mississippi market bulletin subscription

“Only if they catch me,” Myra said. “And so far, the only person reading the Bulletin in Jackson is some twenty-two-year-old digital coordinator named Trevor who thinks a ‘broiler house’ is a dorm for fraternity brothers.”

Myra slid the metal recipe box toward him. “These are my people,” she said. Trevor handed her two tens

Trevor flipped through the cards. Eighteen names. Eighteen addresses. Eighteen small-town Mississippians who would sooner give up cornbread than a paper bulletin.

Myra, who had known Earlene since they both lost power during Hurricane Katrina, took the check without a word. She pulled a faded index card from a metal recipe box behind her desk. Handwritten on it were the names of seventeen people—the last holdouts. People who wanted the classifieds printed on newsprint, not pixels. People who needed to know who was selling registered Angus calves, who had a working Massey Ferguson for trade, and who was looking for a used cane mill, all in a foldable paper that smelled like a feed store. But don’t tell my boss

Trevor stared at her for a long moment. Then he took off his badge, laid it on the counter, and pulled out his wallet.