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 D Ferrara He sat heavily on a low wall. Not…? Bleeding? He thought. A woman tapped his arm. Her concerned face filled his vision, but he could hear nothing. Not bleeding? He thought again, as if the words could anchor him. Beyond her face, silent chaos. Smoke. Debris. People….