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 Samantha Renn in sincerity she screams blessed mother, where were you when that boy cut me, when that boy tied me to the pain he was inflicting in the fear she cowered and stayed sword’s edge; she’s associated meanings with everything and those bindings are razor wire, but she…