by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
By Cheryl Loux My hands shook as I pressed my hair back to make sure it formed into a neat bun. I must look terrible, I thought. I inspected my dismal reflection in the glass window of the door. The weight of exhaustion was heavy upon my face. The previous…
