Yellow house by Andrew Chapman Where I’m from is a poisoned place. Walls of lead-chalk and asbestos bones. The basement brims wickedness. Feel the doorknob: it’s fever-warm. Once dusk falls, huddle close, hear new dangers, what becomes of young girls who open doors for handsome men in collared shirts. Grandma knows, this was her— years ago in late October, the fields fresh mown when he married her, when he carried her here, the yellow house. He wore white with a paper hat, drove diesel trucks, drank black lacquer. Enamel-coated his guts but never died just mouldered, seeped into floorboards. She sighs, says, “Enough of yesterday’s blues.” Now’s the time to spread sleeping bags on carpet stains still smelling of his leather turpentine. In the pitchblack, if we can hold our breath, we’ll hear the cheap piano play, faint but faithful, those half-decent drinking songs he taught it In the Wee Small Hours...
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.