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 Isabel Brome Gaddis I haven’t lived in this little room for long but it’s already filled with my stuff the way an hourglass fills with sand. I wonder which things will still be with me when I die, and who will be left to decide what is a keepsake…
