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 Lucinda Watson A crime has been discovered on this Saturday morning. My mother’s perfectly blue like a Maine sky stationery from Tiffany’s has been used to line the rat’s cage. It’s pretty clear who did this but we are lined up anyway. In the front hall underneath the curving…