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 Aurora DePuy Gossip started brewing the day he arrived. It was to be expected in a town with just under a thousand people. He’d bought a shop and was cleaning the window the first time I passed. Our eyes met and his hand stilled on the glass. Sister Pfeiffer…
