Flying Island

In Guernsey where the ghost of Victor Hugo rides the narrow streets             like a roller coaster, we go to Eucharist at the old Town Church of St. Peter              Port, discover that the Very Reverend             Canon is retiring soon, the after-service cookies and tea designed to mark the day                       in an understated way. We are welcomed, but reluctant to intrude. Later             we learn that Hauteville House is closed                         today, only a placard outside the modest             island home where Hugo wrote. There the same deep violet wisteria that we noticed climbing the stone of the great church             shrieks with delight, falls fast and violent from the locked iron gate                       —by Mary M. Brown Bio: Mary M. Brown lives and writes in Anderson, Indiana, a Hoosier not by birth but by long residence and disposition. She taught literature and creative writing at Ind

Traveling by Jared Carter Other musicians take their instruments along. On cross-country flights you see fiddle players who had to buy an extra ticket for the Stradivarius in the seat next to them. They look nervous. It’s different playing piano. Each time you come to a new place, the piano is already there, browsing in the middle of the pasture, a long way from the fence. It’s black, usually, but sometimes roan. Once in a while it’s a buckskin. It’s usually up in years, too. It’s been there a long time, it’s earned the right to graze anywhere it wants. Not like those cows, down by the river, under the cottonwood tree. They move with the shade, all day long. When the sun moves, they move. Not until.  Worn steps lead up to the stage, to the flats of last night’s scenery waiting to be moved back to storage. Underneath the fake-wood flooring the actual surface is concrete. Gray corridors lead to dressing rooms, with doors you have to stoop to get through. There’s

A Room of His Own Jay S Zimmerman It was an orthodox Jewish funeral, though my father was never orthodox, and I can’t remember the last time he was in a synagogue. In fact, I don’t ever remember him attending since my Bar Mitzvah. Our family celebrated all the typical Jewish Holidays and, except for my youngest sister, a Lubovich devotee committed to an orthodox Hasidic lifestyle, we were a fairly secular family. So, I was rather surprised to be standing here. The day was typical south Florida, hot, sticky and bright, and I stood in my suit, sweating, shovel in hand, staring down into the grave. The sound of the earth covering the coffin filled my ears as I lifted the shovel and watched his new white pine home being covered in a cascade of black dirt. I was burying my father. I heard a large rock thud against the wood and saw the top portion of the un-nailed coffin jar loose and move slightly off center. His arm around my shoulder, the mortuary director whispered in my ear, his

Puck by Chrysa Keenon Wander away with me, Don’t let them call you back and Take my hand, little lamb. I can show you where the magic lies, In the green puffs of smoke and haunting tones Listen to me, love me, Breathe me;  I might  Bite and hold firm. But you’re mine now. My prisoner of delight. I can make you bloom like a flower, Help you see galaxies untouched by mortal men Dance with me, you will feel No pain or worry Inhale and Let me into your blood And soon you will be part of me, too. Bio: Chrysa Keenon is a student at Taylor University, studying Professional Writing. She has been published in various newspapers and magazines, including Changes in Life, The Echo, The Fictional Cafe, and Evangelical Church Libraries. She spends the time she is not writing reading and perfecting her knitting skills.

Whose Eyes Are These? by Norbert Krapf Whose eyes take me in, in my pre-dawn study? Where does that light in your eyes come from, young Miss Ida? I’m listening to a song titled “Not Dark Yet,” but truth is, it’s been dark a long time. You know. You been there. You look at me and you don’t. You look at me, but you see something way beyond.  Who knows what you really see? What you see may lie beyond you, the history of the Pinkston Settlement founded by your great-great-grandfather Emanuel Pinkston, freed slave from Georgia. One side of you was free, the other side was a Kentucky slave. You got one eye for each of your sides, Miss Ida. That’s how you look at and over me but I don’t know what you see. Seems to me you see nothing and everything at the same time but I can’t see what you see in me. Bio: Norbert Krapf, former Indiana Poet Laureate, is a Jasper, Indiana, native who lives in downtown Indianapolis. His most rec

Annihilation  by Charles P. Sutphin                                         According to the Sufis, you need to fall in love with something without a soul in order to experience transcendence: Pursue the “hidden treasure” and you will find your god and better still—release.  In Berkshire County in the northwest corner of Massachusetts a trail crosses a swamp that borders my yard. The circularity of the path provides a mandalaic course for me to exercise body and mind—as well as spirit: deer rustle through bracken, hemlocks whisper in the canopy as their brethren, struck and fallen, transform into dirt. Over the course of years I fell in love with a piece of wood assigned to the bottom of the forest floor. Planks crisscross the trail and elevate hikers over water in the spring and in the fall. In original form, these pieces of wood tower toward the light, now they lie felled and carved   . My board spends most of the year submerged in muck or frozen ice-tight against the e

If God Were a Black Girl by Diane Lewis If God were found to be a Black girl it would certainly explain a lot: how every summer   accurate as the timing of a Swiss watch   comes a storm the mystery of the aurora borealis the joy of seeing the world through the eyes of a child why a saxophone pressed to the lips of Coltrane   would evoke such deep emotion the color orange the Blues the leaping dance of flames how we know the sun is brilliant   though we cannot look at it directly the miracle of the clematis   in a forsaken garden; the morphology of butterflies; the covenant of rainbows About Diane Lewis : “I am the Arts Council of Indianapolis’ 2010 Robert D. Beckmann Emerging Artist Fellow. The Beckmann Fellowship has provided me the opportunity to develop as a writer, with the goal of producing a full-length book of poetry. Most recently I have been able to publish my work in Tall Grass Writer’s Guild Anthology 2013 and 2014, (Outrider Press), Reckless