Flying Island

Duluth by James Figy Like some Devil’s Kettle, the storm poured black droplets from nowhere we had ever been, to spill holy buckets of frigid rain, to scour our every pathway—this water, to wash Duluth’s dirtiest side streets, to wet the Superior shoreline, to melt into puddles like cloying blueberry ice cream from the Portland Malt Shoppe, but once the weather passed, I glanced two of her: one in the shallow reflection pool covering most of the pier, the woman there, moving toward the light- house; and also the woman here, who kept looking out after the storm until she saw something worthwhile in the lake’s long horizon. J ames Figy is a Hoosier living in St. Paul, Minnesota, and a graduate of the MFA program at Minnesota State University, Mankato. His creative work has appeared in Midwestern Gothic, Hobart, Cheap Pop, and the anthology Bad Jobs and Bullshit, among others. You can follow him (@jafigy) and check out the Fail Better interview series he runs for Fear No Lit. ...