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 Rich Ives In the village of Arriving there was a man who had the gift of sadness. He lived with a knobby woman with ponderous calves. At the tavern this man frequented, each of the women decorated their noses with bent fishhooks, and there were more women than there…