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 Maria DeSantis She’s not that clever! he growled. No female ever overtook him! He was orange with power His pompadour mane purposely dredged forward hiding a lot of flakes His scorn groomed away facts and pawed a lot of fiction Dangerously playing cat-and-mouse Like an only child snatching for…