Flying Island

Dear Flying Island Readers: Welcome to the 2.27 Edition of the Flying Island Journal! In this edition we publish poems by Linda Neal Reising , Roger Pfingston , John Peter Beck , and James Green .  Inspired to send us your fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction? For more info on how to submit, see the tab above. Thank you for reading, Flying Island Editors and Readers All images are sourced from the Canva library from various artists. 

Phantoms After the geraniums’ red had bled to pink, foliage curled to furls of brown, after the trees’ leaves had struck gold then folded, fallen in loss across the lawn, after the water, caught in the flower pots, had frozen, forming icy grins around the rims, after the birds had deserted their perches in the evergreens, packed their wings for someplace warm, two butterflies, phantom white, glided together, touching and untouching, unphased by winter’s chill, like two spirits of their past selves or snowflakes come to life, fragile crystal harbingers. - Linda Neal Reising A native of Oklahoma and citizen of the Cherokee Nation, Linda Neal Reising has been published widely in journals and anthologies. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks and four full-length poetry collections, including her most recent, Navigation (Kelsay Books, 2025). Reising was named the Official Eclipse Poet of Indiana, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize five times. Her other awards include...

Ancient Lilt How common the robin, its lilt and breast, red by name since that juicy globe the orange  did not reach England  until quite late, its color             usage appearing as a daub  on the painter’s palette  in the 1500s while its  Pleistocene syrinx, an ugly twist of a word,  remains unchanged down  through the millennia, its  sweet tadah still timing the measure of our  troubled days. --Roger Pfingston Roger Pfingston is the recipient of a poetry fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and two PEN Syndicated Fiction Awards. His poems have appeared in a wide range of publications, including Valparaiso Poetry Review , Naugatuck River Review , I-70 Review , and Cloudbank . He has held residencies at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the MacDowell Colony, and Ragdale. In recent years, he has received numerous nominations for the Pushcart Prize. His lates...

The Funeral Director  After each funeral, we take the cut flowers that have nowhere  else to go to care facilities where the joy of bright blooms and fresh greenery, for some,  may be short-lived.  I will see their frail bodies soon enough for me and far too soon for many of them.  Our pledge is all about respect, a special reverence which each of us deserves and truly our greatest gift, our product, our service, the pride we take in our work. St. Joseph of Arimathea, our patron, your loving hands helped make the Lord’s final  arrangements, the herbs and salves, the fresh linens. I have never had one of mine come back after any amount of days, no stones  rolled aside. The next one is always waiting,  the last one now grey ash  or sleeping beneath  the lilies, six feet down. - John Peter Beck Raised in a milltown on Lake Michigan in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, John Peter Beck is a recently retired professor in the labor education program ...

Tackle Box Double hinged with a broken handle  the tackle box opens wide.  Two layers of partitioned trays.  Whiffs of stale 3-in-1 oil escape.  A few granules of dried mud from some lake,  probably Bull Shoals, lie in the bottom  along with a tangle of leaders and swivels.  I reach for a Heddon Tiny Torpedo,  the treble hook on its tail missing. Some Rooster Tails fill a tray.  They are small and weightless as time.  Spoon lures lie dulled, like old medallions.  A red-and-white Lazy Ike, chipped down one side,  still warm with memory:  My grandfather, his hands raw and nicked,  returning the lure to its place like it was something holy.  The aroma of a cheap cigar as he leans-in  to teach me how to tie a proper knot.  So much silence in those mornings.  Just the water and the sound it makes  when it laps against the stones on the shore.  The lake is smaller now and the hills are,  w...