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 Dorothy Crawford She hated pecans. She hated the way they looked – like little, shriveled-up brown brains. She hated the way they smelled – like sweet, buttery dirt. She hated the way that everyone else loved them – like they were some amazing thing that she just didn’t ‘get’….