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Showing posts from August, 2022

Flying Island Journal 8.22

Dear Flying Island Readers: Welcome to the 8.22 Edition of the Flying Island Journal! We have three pieces to share in poetry. We hope you enjoy this issue. Inspired to send us your fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction? Submissions are free through September! For more info on how to submit, see the tab above. Links to each piece in this edition below. Thank you for reading, Flying Island Editors and Readers POETRY Skye Nicholson, "August" Megan Bell, "Punchy & Pissed" Kevin LeMaster, "Rain" Are you a writer who is from the Midwest or has close ties to the Midwest? We'd love to read your work. Submissions info in the tab above.  Support the Indiana Writers Center!

August, a poem by Skye Nicholson

August There is a rip in the clouds where morning  begins, in slow motion, to unwrap  the night, shifting the sky from coal  to ash to sand, telling the quick brown bat  to go home. Air remains motionless, cowering  in silence as daylight presses its hot,  heavy body against the earth, a wet moan  sliding up my neck, mosquitoes like fingertips  teasing where they don’t belong.     Skye Nicholson is a part-time poet and founder and CEO of Soul's Truth Coaching, empowerment coaching services for women. She lives in Columbus, Indiana, with her husband and two children. Her first book of collected works, published December 2021, is entitled Unexpected Alchemy: Poems of Addiction and Awakening .

Punchy & Pissed, a prose poem by Megan Bell

Punchy & Pissed I was born, quickly, in a thunderstorm—a  red, mottled projectile. Thunder and lightning shook the walls as the doctor held my single mother’s flesh.   I was born in 1979 to hillbilly shame—a backward blame. Even the Tribune couldn’t be bothered with my birth.    I was born in a rusted automobile with a half tank of gas and a hole in the floor. The carvings scratched in the door read Jesus Save s! I had heard bastards didn’t count.   I was born wailing, railing, at our socio-economic class, shouting into the wind, into the void, to anyone who would listen. I would be different! I would not stand on the backs of my ancestors–those ancient idiots. I would rip their heads off and roar.    I was born to a house full of German women. Themselves, born on the hard side of life—they had piss in their souls. Cause grandpa had whiskey on his breath and meanness in his fist. And grandma was a hag with a cigarette coated tongue. But, like our house, their frames were sturdy.  T

Rain, a poem by Kevin LeMaster

Rain Momma always said you can smell the rain before it even hits pavement before the sirens blare with full wiper clearing off a torrent of tears Momma wasn’t there the day you gasped for a breath that almost never came, when your sister said you looked like momma right before she never came home, right before she hollered help me to our son five hundred miles away, but frankly to me, you never looked more beautiful than when I touched your hand and let them take you and when they flipped on the flashing lights, I knew home was just as far as our son was the day Momma died, the day our yard was a river and you were the bridge   Kevin LeMaster lives in South Shore, Kentucky. His poems have been found at SheilaNaGig online, The Slipstream , Triggerfish Critical Review , Route 7 Review , West Trade Review , The Big Window Review , Santa Clara Review Dead Skunk Magazine and others. He has work forthcoming in Internet Void , Main Street Rag and Coffin Bell Journal. His work in Rubic