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 Don Mager Fourteen days away on business else- where, sunset is back at work pouring spot-lit white across all the backside windows of each hill slope house. Inside, floors and walls are puddled. The puddles shift and shrink. Outside, the saturated trees blaze in Boric Acid shimmers and green flames. Sun’s…
by Kayla Miller “Don’t remember me,” I said to each of them, “I surely won’t remember you.” But I lied. My life as a tumbleweed left no space, even in a deserted place, for people like them. They flowed together like waterfalls but their vessels never strayed from a permanent…