Flying Island

Up in Flames by Mary Redman In a rusted barrel behind a frumpish house, raged a growing pyre fed with scraps from a cardboard box. Its tender was no white-garbed virgin stirring ritual flames, but a young wife in a cotton housedress. Brown hair fastened at the base of her neck escaped and lashed her face with strands while she worked against the wind, her mouth a grim line. There was time— the babies napped, and the older children were off to play.    Impassively she incinerated pages— was nearly finished, had heaped a final load into the backyard drum.   Then, caught off-guard by smoke- reddened eyes and heat that pinked her cheeks, she watched a gust lift one lit page, sail it aloft, and set the field ablaze.  When the firetrucks and her neighbors arrived, she said nothing of her blunder. An empty box lay in stubbly grass, while embers of dreams she’d released floated like fireflies throug...

Small Book of Heart Songs on the Shelf by Norbert Krapf  There was a small handsome hardcover book on the shelf near the bed in which I slept that I could not resist reading at night, a collection of poems by Native high school students. I don’t remember the title, but it could have easily been Heart Songs , so pure, natural, and sincere were the beautiful musings of these young thinkers expressing and sharing their vision of the world they were exploring, navigating, coming to terms with. Nothing concocted, not a word puffed up, no images strained to impress. The rhythms were like the beat of a heart and the pulse of blood that flowed from the center of each young life I was touching and becoming one with. I can still feel the texture of the cover of that little book and how happy my hands were to hold it, how much I loved opening those pages and being inspired each night as I savored a fe...

Sweet corn tanka by Laurel Smith 1. On Sunday the sweet corn was perfect: each bite a confirmation of every summer memory laced with butter, salt, warm gold. 2. By Thursday, in spite of cool storage, these last three ears were failures: no fireworks, poor texture and taste, bland regret between our teeth. 3. Cultivars for “sweet” number over a hundred: have we known them all? Zea may s—star of the farmers’ market, perennial favorite. From Laurel Smith: “I live in Vincennes, Indiana, and happily participate in projects to promote literacy and the arts. My poetry has appeared in various periodicals, including Natural Bridge, New Millennium Writings, Tipton Poetry Review, Flying Island, English Journal, JAMA: Journal of the AMA; also in the following anthologies: And Know This Place, Visiting Frost , and Mapping the Muse. ”

Trauermantel by Michael E. Strosahl Little girl, little girl, wants to dance, wants to twirl Flit and fly, skip and flutter, hushed by Vater, stilled by Mutter But Oma would not mind, Oma would not care, Resting in the box upon the table Should she dare? To twirl her dance dress under the black, to flit her wings under her mourning cloak And wouldn’t her Oma smile? Michael E. Strosahl is originally from Moline, Illinois. After moving to Indiana, he joined several poetry groups and traveled the state meeting many members of the Poetry Society of Indiana, also serving on its board for several years. Maik (as he is known) has appeared in the print version of Flying Island , along with appearances in the Tipton Poetry Journal, Bards Against Hunger projects, on buses, in museums and online at indianavoicejournal, poetrysuperhighway, projectagentorange and adaysencounter. He has recently relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri.

Living Week to Week by Phillip Smith Relief is what I seek ooo from this dread destiny ooo of living week to week. Make payments every week, ooo if only partially. Relief is what I seek. Creditors want to speak. Why does it have to be, ooo this living week to week? Spending I cannot tweak. No one can hear my plea. Relief is what I seek. The situation bleak; ooo my stark reality. I’m living week to week. My pay is at its peak. To get what’s due to me, ooo relief is what I seek ooo from living week to week. From Phillip Smith: “ My stories have been published by Jake Magazine, Inscape Magazine, Literally Stories, Chicago Literati, Comic Carnival Zine, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Dime Show Review. My poem “23 Years Sober” appeared in Measure: A Review of Formal Poetry. My stage adaptation of Stephen King’s novella “Rage” was produced in the spring of 1993. During my senior year at the University of Evansville, I was award...

Jaynie by Jared Carter Under the bridge, not far away, lived Jaynie Dean, Who had no other place to stay except between Two railings stuffed with random rags and cardboard. Sacks, Containing clothes, and plastic bags filled up the cracks. Content to have a place to call her own, she froze One night. A trash truck came to haul away the clothes. Jared Carter ’s most recent book is The Land Itself , from Monongahela Books in West Virginia. He lives in Indianapolis.

San Souci by Mary Brown I am a large quiet bird I am a newly washed window opening onto the loveliest fog I am a comma, a saga that needs no hero, a long movement adagio a mime, silver faced and unphased I am a loose, gauzy gown I am a giver unable to begrudge anyone anything, sweetly disabled by the others in this roomy moment I am petals unfolded species unidentified I am an elegant cursive ink looped in coos Slowed, I yearn only for what I already hold, arms unburdened I am a casket, a pocket, a cup I am a coin unspent content just to be saved Mary M. Brown lives and writes in Anderson, Indiana. She taught literature and creative writing at Indiana Wesleyan University for many years. Her poetry appears on the Poetry Foundation and American Life in Poetry websites, in Plough, Third Wednesday, Quiddity, JJournal, and many other journals and magazines.

Farewell Fanfare in B Minor by Tim Heerdink  All the horns blow simultaneously in tune for the ones being marched to a still moment. Let the singers serenade with their swan songs while the majority pray that wood can triumph over flame. The Sun shall rise on the very last day, waving its rays to welcome Earth and its terminal inhabitants. Hell, the birds may decide to whistle as well in rejoice. I’ve heard one network has an orchestral broadcast set to play Nearer, My God, to Thee when the sky begins to fall. It’s also been said that a band used the same hymn to calm the doomed who couldn’t escape the Titanic. Someone must have taken note and thought it not their time to depart. Surely, there’ll be others running from Death or glued to the silver screens as often is the case, watching overpaid suits quickly lose their thought process as pools of perspiration mixed with tears blind them from the present. There’s no hiding from the dark angel forever. Instead of joining i...

Hiroshima & Nagasaki by Hiromi Yoshida The flash The crash The ash. Decimation was instantaneous—skeletons etched upon asphalt, shadows sick with radiation vomited skyward curses— The True Man hanging from the over-blossoming tree of public panic unlynched. Bio: Hiromi Yoshida teaches American Literature for the award-winning VITAL program at the Monroe County Public Library. Her poems have been published in literary magazines and journals that include Indiana Voice Journal, The Asian American Literary Review, Evergreen Review, and The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society.