Flying Island

Sunday Drive by Lylanne Musselman In the backseat of our ’66 green Pontiac Bonneville, my view was of the back of my parent’s heads: dad with dark wavy hair, hands on the steering wheel, his pipe smoke swirling upward and back into my space; mom with coiffed hair, in the passenger’s seat chewing her Juicy Fruit gum. I was along for the ride each Sunday going to see my grandma who lived an hour away in Kokomo. I loaded up the backseat with my favorite stuffed animals and a few books in hopes of making time cruise a bit faster. I hated leaving other beloved belongings behind, feeling guilty for all that couldn’t go. I loved listening to the radio, Fort Wayne’s strong AM station, WOWO. The Beatles, Neil Diamond, The Supremes, Tammy Wynette and George Jones were played one after the other. I could’ve done without country, but dad preferred it to my favorites. I sang along with all songs that came on, even D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Mom marveled how I knew every word, saying she wished I memor...

Time Spent with My Father by Rosemary Freedman 26 bluegill were placed on my stringer and entered into the fishing contest. I was six. They snapped a Polaroid of me with that smile wide as a canoe, my small fingers holding up the line with my fish shining like silver Christmas ornaments and taped it to the bait-house wall. Now at 50 I recount that story with the joy of someone who had won a Nobel Prize—only to have it pointed out that I had cheated by scooping the fish out of water with a Styrofoam cup. The shiny tiny dinosaur-looking creatures gulping for breath like fat diabetic chain-smokers telling the last chapters of their stories. And what happened to the other children? Those line casters who patiently waited and caught nothing? Perhaps they stared at my tackle-box prize the way women stare with envy at designer purses they will never own. It was true, I was a cheater. I thought my father loved taking me with him, d...

Last(ing) Memories by Christopher Stolle Today’s kids don’t know the true wonderment of basements. At my grandparents’ house, we’d put a Ping-Pong table atop the pool table. I’d grab a Red Delicious from the mini fridge, put some Roger Miller or Royal Guardsmen on the turntable (which they also won’t know), then play epic battles against my dad, who played like he was the number one ranked player in the world. And he could have been if I didn’t learn all his tricks and mistakes. About Christopher Stolle: His poetry has appeared most recently or is forthcoming in the Burningword Literary Journal, Tipton Poetry Journal , Flying Island , Branches , Indiana Voice Journal, Snapdragon, Black Elephant, The Gambler, and Sheepshead Review. He works as an acquisitions and development editor for Penguin Random House, and he lives in Richmond, Indiana.

Antelope by Keith Welch The big sign said "Missile Range--  Call this number before crossing" Bob and I were lost on miles of  pitch dark New Mexican dirt road making good time, we caught up with a  panicked antelope, leaping like a dancer in our auto-footlights the animal must have leapt the roadside fence we became its chase-car in a desert marathon both car and animal trapped in a single barb-wire path; the antelope bounding all terror and grace the car creeping along, my eye on the gas gauge  our little parade crawled for miles until the beast lunged into the barbed wire thrashing like a hooked trout broke through into the unseen landscape leaving us the empty track somewhere under the unblinking stars the antelope ran unhindered wounded but free beyond human borders Keith Welch  lives in Bloomington, Indiana, where he works at the IU Herman B Wells Library. He has poems published in Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, Writers Resist...

Gravegarden by Andrea Dunn Dig a hole, eight feet long, two and a half feet wide, six feet deep. Lower your love into the void. Cover him with a quilt of peat and moss and must. Breathe deep the loamy shroud, Beg pardon of the larvae, the tubers. Pat the dirt and clay into place with the hands that combed through his hair and grazed his cheeks. Let the silt sink beneath your fingernails. Suture the earth's new wound with marble or granite, and leave all he engraved on your heart chiseled on the rock. Water seasonally, as with the opening and closing of the sky. Warrant the sun to scorch, and permit the moon to mark time. Fertilize each moment: gaze on the before and dwell in the since. Harvest the offerings. Sacred Waters by Andrea Dunn The sound of the raindrops slowly hitting my windshield is like singular grains of uncooked rice landing in a plastic measuring cup. And now as the rain’s pace quickens,...

To-Do List by D.C. Buschmann 000000 Entries hang  like apples with due insouciance until becoming the r aison d'être picked off just before putrid. Giving Birth to a Dancing Star by D.C. Buschmann After the view 000000 on the 000000000 mountain 0000000000000000 top 000000000000 after the tempest 000000 in the abyss comes 000000a calm 000000000000 from the pounding rain teaching us to love 000000 for love’s 00000000000000 sake 000000000000000000 and 000000 to let go 000000000000 of the 00000000000000000 umbrella. "I tell you: One must have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star." —Nietzsche,  Thus Spoke Zarathustra D.C. Buschmann  is routinely ordered about by two miniature schnauzers, Cupcake and Coco, and is a freelance editor in Carmel, Indiana. She has been published in numerous anthologies in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and India, including  Rat’s Ass Review  and Lamar University’s  Wise ...

World  by Lisa Barton I do not want to be your reliable laid back afterthought so cool-stylish-composed there is more I have insides to my insides and some ain’t pretty I want the same things what you keep for sacred dears you exalted for no purpose decorating your landscape with pink flamingos bordered by tiki torches I am ferociousearthshattering radiantnakeduncompromising impatientunsatiatedsensuality lovingfightingembracingglorious life in a frame of bone and meat barely contained, full to bursting pushing you towards recognition carving out MY landscape crushing your fucking flamingos and setting the shards on fire Careening  by Lisa Barton I’m riding the bronco on a most runaway out-of-control carousel playing calliope music slightly off key pulsing nightclub dancer disco bass thumps into my most exposed mind I tilt-sway-snap the jerks shake me out of brief soft focus reveries of warm arms pulling my shaky frame into slow motion b...

Editor's Note : May 17 is Norway Constitution Day Leirvik Oysters by Chandy John Thick algae-green shell Delicate pattern, unyielding mouth Cracked open with force and skill Yields slimy, salty, repellent joy Nose, mouth, tongue Inhale The western Norway coast Remains in stomach memory From Chandy John: “I'm a a pediatrician, researcher and author whose prose, poems and fiction have been published in Sojourners, Phantasmagoria, JAMA, The Pharos, Annals of Internal Medicine, Journal of General Internal Medicine and The Michigan Alumnus. I live and work in Indiana, Kenya and Uganda.”

Emily's Chamber by Jo Barbara Taylor                           after lines by Sarah Edwards Emily enters the evening garden like a tide that slips onto shore, awakens sensual senses, reaches beyond today, erases yesterday, seeks evidence for tomorrow. Her way of being in a world of interlopers, and at low-tide, she leaves, retreats from the garden shore to sanctuary. In her room, plain like a cotton bedsheet, she writes, taut words tumbling smooth onto white linen paper, tucked and folded in. Jo Barbara Taylor lives in North Carolina, but is an Indiana farm girl at heart. Her poems and academic writing have appeared in journals, magazines, anthologies and online. How to Come and Go (Chatter House Press 2016) is her fourth book. She leads poetry-writing workshops through Duke Continuing Education, chairs the workshop committee for the North Carolina Poetry Society, ...