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 Leroy Bovee Josh slammed the door rattling the picture window over his mom’s favorite bed of daisies. Should tear all the stupid flowers up he thought. Show her! Always nag, nag, nag – nothing ever good enough. Clean his room, do the dishes, pick up his clothes, did he…