Flying Island

Crèche by Michael Brockley This year you build a Nativity scene with a green Tyrannosaurus Rex leering into the stable. Its buck teeth glisten whenever a car turns down your block, and its torpid tail reminds you how fragile your knowledge has grown. Batman straddles the roof as if he has rappelled down the side of a Bethlehem skyscraper. The Native American Thunderbird from your bolo tie affixed to the roof serves as the crèche star. This is the year the redhead left you for a stuntman she met at Sundance. The year your veterinarian injected pentobarbital into your last dog’s thigh. You position three Darth Vadars on the straw while Homer’s son bangs on a Lego drum. A rhinoceros and a one-eared kangaroo shiver across the dying campfire from the dinosaur. Frigid or fearful. You’ve never figured it out. Conan the Barbarian kneels at the fire, feeding it scraps of Hershey Kiss wrappers. Discarded holiday ribbons. His battle ax strapped across his back. Wile E. Coyote peeks from be...

Spending Thanksgiving Day Alone by George Fish Yeah, well, that’s a real turkey! Yep, far more wobble than gobble! And when Thanksgiving Day dinner is a sandwich made festive for the holiday with four slices of bologna garnished with a whole two slices of Muenster cheese and a good dollop of horseradish mustard— well, that’s clearly a turkey that ain’t a turkey! Yeah, you who’ve been there know exactly what I mean. Bio: George Fish is an Indiana freelance journalist and poet whose work has appeared in several national and regional publications and websites, especially those of left and alternative publications. He has been described as "knowledgeable in an unusual variety of fields." In addition to short stories and poems, Fish has also published extensively on economics and politics; popular music, especially blues; and humor. He also does Lenny Bruce/George Carlin-inspired stand-up comedy.  

Sword of Maturity by Frederick Michaels Hand hammer forged, purified in myriad layers like innocent childhood wishes folded into Xbox dreams with young adult ambitions, welding YouTube to Facebook. Grown-up visions shaped by iPhone and LinkedIn — quenched in disappointment, reheated in reality’s fire, rehoned to a sharper edge, polished to a brighter future. Sheathed in scar tissue, oiled by hard-won success, hardened by experience yet, soft as Corinthian leather, her childhood wishes shine like those in innocent eyes. Bio: Frederick Michaels writes in retirement from his home in Indianapolis. His poetry has appeared in Flying Island, So It Goes Literary Journal, The Boston Poetry Journal, Branches magazine and Lone Stars magazine, among others. A number of his poems are included in the anthologies Reckless Writing 2012 and 2013 (from Chatter House Press, Indianapolis) and Naturally Yours (edited and self-published by Stacy Savage and Kathy Chaffin Gerstorff). ...

Editor's note:  Kurt Vonnegut was born on Nov. 11, 1922. Favorite Author by Lylanne Musselman Pall-Mall smoker, satirical joker, technology hater, Kilgore Trout creator, POW survivor, witty writer, selfie screenprinter, granfalloon spinner, generational uniter, political divider, famous Hoosier, mustache wearer, advice giver, life observer, Saab dealer, blues stealer, wampeters definer, reading reviver, so it goes sayer, controversy diver. In a reading rut? Get Vonnegut. Bio:  Lylanne Musselman is an award winning poet, playwright, and artist. Her work has appeared in  Pank, Flying Island, The Tipton Poetry Journal, Poetry Breakfast ,  So it Goes, Issue 3,  among others, and many anthologies.  In addition, Musselman has twice been a Pushcart nominee. Musselman is the author of three chapbooks, with a fourth forthcoming,  Weathering Under the Cat,  from Finishing Line Press. She also...

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  ...

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. The...

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...

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...