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 Daisy Paltrow I sit on the oversized chair of execution that I’ve become accustomed to. Each day I wait in wonder for the moment it will all be over. My hands clasp the edge of the arms that hold the imprint of my shape; At once, the iron rings…
