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 Courtney Edwards There’s a lot to be depressed about when you’re a lonely fruit fly and you can’t take the heat, walking slower toward the scientist’s open flame because you see the inevitable burn on your tiny body and still you must move forward Through magnified eyes they…