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 Vasile Baghiu The endless prattle in an unknown language becomes background music in a silent movie about your life, the final revise is awaited with much interest, the parallel with scenes from the novels on historical themes is welcome, the night fever is not the same as the day…