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 Sue Ellen Snape She has blood on hands, blood down her bodice, the stench of blood up her nose. The hem of her skirt is drenched a dark sticky red. She’s not one to shrink from the sight of blood, oh no. Lopping the head off a chicken comes…
by Carli Chisenall I think a lot. I think a lot about death. The soft whisper of a soul, finally escaping its prison of flesh and sin. That one last exhausted breath. Solace, at last. I think a lot. I think a lot about life. It is everything and nothing….