Flying Island

Leaving the gentle din of the church behind, Mattie pushed past the vestibule door and plunged headlong into the painful glare of day. She descended the concrete steps, ignoring the handrail while bringing a hand up to shield her eyes. Behind her, the heavy wooden door swung shut, and then her heels were cracking loud against the fractured asphalt of the parking lot. Mattie tugged at her hemline. For a moment the tanned, smoothness of her thighs disappeared beneath the formfitting black fabric. She allowed herself a rueful smile. Dress too short; her heels too long. But the color was right. At the far end of the parking lot, her faded red hatchback waited. At the sight of her misshapen ride, Mattie’s jaw tensed. “Goddamn it, Carl.” It had been several months since her boyfriend had backed into her car, yet the sight of the dented driver-side door still managed to infuriate her. She quickened her stride, already anticipating the familiar struggle. The passenger side door had never opene...

Pheromones Before you were the sharpness of Jameson and cologne (the seduction and conquest kind) of cigarettes freshly lit and love freshly made Then later you were the faded longing of pillow memories and anticipation of abrasive government-issue detergent and seasalt and (too often) hops and pungent rage Now you are the comfort of treebones citrus and skunky like your medicine rubbed soft by sawdust of sage or armpits I am no longer bothered to know the difference Skye Nicholson is a mother, writer, teacher, tree-hugger, and magic-seeker. She writes about life: her years of drinking, her awakening, trying to be present and figuring out how to be a parent.  She uses words to heal herself.  She currently lives in Columbus, Indiana, with her husband and two small children. Her writing appears on her blog, wakinguprazzledazzle.com , under the pseudonym Vixen Lea. 

Victoria comes from Victoria and she's small with a dreamy gaze that's always looking out the window. She arrives on a Wednesday and by Thursday I'm thinking of her in lengthy, PG-rated films. We're all eleven - I want Victoria but I don't know what I'd do if the daydreams came true. She has a magnificent lisp. I imagine her saying, "Teddy, I'm yourth." One day, she asks if she can rent a square on my desk. The school board bought new ones and they’re all too small but I still have one of the older ones and I've been leasing sixteen square centimetres for ten cents an hour. As far as independent businesses go, I'm doing well. The boys rent space for their liquid paper. Jenny gives me her mood ring, since it interferes with her writing. So far, Miss McConachie is letting me get away with it but I’m worried one day she’ll want a piece of the pie. For days, Victoria from Victoria doesn't give me anything and I'm thinking she looks down...

  Beginning with a Line from Ernie Pyle                        --- from The Indiana Series And yet you know. Always in your heart… You have never really left. When Ernie Pyle walked the high tide line Of Omaha Beach the morning after D-Day, Of all that he stepped over what he remembered most Were the cartons of soggy cigarettes, stationary, French phrase books, sewing kits, snap shots, Playing cards, metal pocket mirrors, A tennis racket still clamped in its rack, A broken banjo. Sea birds circled What history brings. What history leaves behind. Matthew Graham is the current Indiana State Poet Laureate.

                                       Jack-O'-Lantern Jack of all trades, of shivering, shriveling Indiana summer days & nights, the jagged mouth spews forth orange shadows-- grins syrupy candy corn sweetness, the hollowed head a  luminous void, its moist, fibrous, pulpy rind a house for a blackening candle stub--flickering Cinderella, her askew        ballgown petticoats reeking soot & ash--hot molten striptease of dripping wax, the jack-o'-lantern a leering promise of plump, uncouth        autumn days--pumpkin seeds spilling into meat grinders of the fairy-taled imagination. Hiromi Yoshida , one of Bloomington’s finest and most outspoken poets, was a semi-finalist for the 2018 Wilder Series Poetry Book Prize. Her poems have been published in The Indianapolis Review, The Asian American Literary Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Evergreen...

Pausing for Beauty Clawing at leaves to spread and hasten their drying before shredding, I can’t help pausing to marvel at the colors of their demise, a crazy quilt enhanced by the wetness of dew: maple’s red, green’s tenacity, Bradford pear’s purpled curl among the honey locust’s gold, kaleidoscopic sassafras, even the nasty mulch of the early fallen, their oily hues glistening in the tines. What a glorious dying off is this, so unlike flesh and bone’s pale palette. Roger Pfingston is the recipient of a poetry fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and two PEN Syndicated Fiction Awards. His most recent chapbook, What’s Given , is available from Kattywompus Press. New poems are appearing this year in I-70 Review , U.S. 1 Worksheets , Innisfree Poetry Journal , Dash , Passager and Front Range Review .  

Book-Burning They were convinced, and set about           destroying things That were not pure. They had no doubt           the fire would bring A better world. But soon they found           what is conveyed In books and manuscripts is bound           together, laid  Like corner stones. The more they burned,           the more those who Could still remember sought to learn.           Though they were few. Jared Carter ’s most recent book, The Land Itself, is from Monongahela Books in Morgantown, West Virginia. His collection of new and selected poems, Darkened Rooms of Summer, is available from the University of Nebraska Press.

  The sky is falling Once, the sky dove down and devoured this town. Filmy green light at dusk and the sound of sirens slicing air. The sound is circling, looming. I’m breathing hard now, please let me in. House of straw, house of sticks, house of brick. Under the pressure of breath, it gives. Bramble of branches, bended bough. Trash and broken glass. Carrying kindling in their arms, they insist this is a table, this is a bannister, this is a home. Amy Ash is the author of the full-length collection of poetry The Open Mouth of the Vase , winner of the Cider Press Review Book Award and the Etching Press Whirling Prize. Her poetry, creative nonfiction, and collaborative writing have been published in various journals and anthologies. She is an Assistant Professor of English at Indiana State University, where she directs the Creative Writing Program .

 Congratulations to the following writers, our Best of the Net nominees: " Hey, Moon ," by Doris Lynch " Harbinger ," by Susanna Childress " My Favorite Pen Pal of the Deepest Strokes ," by Distinctly Unique   " After the Fire ," by Hiromi Yoshida " The Photographer Considers His Mother's Gift ," by Roger Pfingston "Summer Solstice on the West Coast of Ireland," by James Green       About Best of the Net Anthology: The annual Best of the Net Anthology is a project of Sundress Publications . This project continues to promote the diverse and growing collection of voices who are publishing their work online. This anthology serves to bring greater respect to an innovative and continually expanding digital world in the same medium in which the work was originally published.