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 Afieya Kipp I loved that night: the sky a cosmic ice cream sandwich—Jula, with her skin like stretched vegetable tanned leather, putting her gypsy bells to work outside my crescent window. A chandelier of cow hearts, goat tongues and bikini waxed bunnies for sale, for sale! Usually, the sign of…