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 Derek Reimers It was dark and pouring. Jeffrey increased the speed of the wiper blades to keep up with the rain, but they continued to lose ground. In the passenger seat Jeffrey’s father, Arthur, his sweater dimly lit by the by the LED lights of the center console, sat…