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 Melinda Butler The sun was a yellow ball in the sky, dipping its toe in the purple lake that was the mountain range. Below, a green ocean of grass that ran for miles. Samuel stood in line to get branded by his new employer. The Circle Bar X was…
