Flying Island

Blue of the Blue by Terry Ofner Sky between branches of blooming Nanking cherry— After thirty-five years, the youth in my chest loses custody of the eyes. The blue of the blue dress she wore on the day we met. Bio: Terry Ofner grew up in Iowa not far from the Mississippi River. He holds degrees from the University of Iowa, where he attended the undergraduate Iowa Writer's Workshop in poetry. He is currently an editor for an educational publishing company. He has published poems in World Order, 100 Words, Eclectica, and Right Hand Pointing. His poem "Mama Carving" won first place in the Interboard Poetry Community Contest, January 2015 (Ned Balbo, judge). He is drawn to themes of nature and family and is working on his first collection of poems.

Brazen Bull by C. Schneider There are many times when my eyes go empty And I’ll find myself in the woods of Bosnia Ducking through the ancient trunks As the snaps of bullets clap past my ears I remember the splinters most vividly The sight of the bark as it split and shattered The sound of screams and eerie quiet between The smell of ash, the taste of iron, and the sight Of sanguine ink rolling over green leaves. Heralded the hero upon my return A statue raised in my honor A bronze likeness, my own brazen bull. Some nights I wish I’d never left To have my body burned reduced to dust No soul escapes war pure and pristine. We carry with us the soot of that horrid fight. I am left to my one recurring dream Standing in the forest of falling ashes I ask the dead if honor matters The silence is their answer. Bio:  C. Schneider is a recent graduate from Indiana University holding a bachelor’s degree in psychology. He plans to obtain a ...

Bloodbath by Jay S Zimmerman in shade-drawn darkness you feel your way the walls smooth, cool              remembering Sunday mornings              sitting on the front porch              chest naked              she wearing nearly nothing              watching sunrises              the color of bellinis you feel the oak banisters oiled and shaped by hands of ancient Mariners                     memories of red moon nights              ...

Anchored by Dale Patterson Reeds porcupine the back of grey sky. Rain dimples the lake. Minnows are lovers tucked into drifts of settling silt. A pickerel suspends like a U-boat an inch from the surface flexes its gills, opens a mouth of pin needle teeth. Father says persevere and curses the bites of a thousand mosquitoes. Jing Ting, his frog colored lure again and again. Bio: Dale Patterson is a visual artist and poet living in Indiana. His work has been published in many online and print journals; the most recent appearing in: Pilgrimage, The Tower Journal, The Museum of Americana, The Lake, Short Fast and Deadly and Midwestern Gothic. A more complete listing of Dale’s work can be seen on his website at http://dalepattersonart.com/  

Square of Love by Charlie Sutphin To state the obvious—there were four before there were three. Forever four before the square of love collapsed and only two remained. Still, no peril in the air, not yet. Parents are supposed to die before their children—it’s the law. Four reduces to two, but the departure of the third, leaving none but the one who is me: THAT, my friends, was unwarranted.                                       ____________ On a hot day in August in a better part of town, I’m strolling down the main artery of the neighborhood looking like I don’t belong. Tall and lanky with a drunkard’s gait, I sometimes appear like a transient, especially on weekends. If there was a defining gestalt to my attire, it would comprise a mixture of chaos and serendipity. What is is. So I’m walking the artery of Arden in 90-degree heat wearing blue jeans and a black shirt w...

Five Star Hole by Grambi Dora Iraqi sandstorms whip up the air. Lunch time, the hottest hour The range walk to the dining facility an open bar of AK-47 rounds RPG’s, and IEDs It’s standard to carry whale loads of weaponry and ammo, combat gear at the ready. There might be a little sand in my ears, but I guarantee my M-16 and M-249 seasoned with CLP are locked, cocked and ready to kill.              xxx Cleaning my weapon is an art Hand sanitizer, Q-tips and baby wipes Mom thinks I was use them to keep my ears clean and take showers, while the ample supply of Kotex tampons works magically on bleeding bullet wounds              xxx My battle buddy and I take turns sleeping in the sand after digging our hasty fighting positions with our Army green entrenching tools. The hole is quiet. We listen...

The New Girl at School Talks about Guns By Robin Lovelace Uncle always lived in the other house. By himself. When he was younger, before I was born, he used to be a truck driver. Then he was a drummer for a while with a band called Texas Red. Then he got married but his wife left him after three years. Then he got sick and had to stay in a looney bin hospital for a while. When he got out, he moved into the other house on Mama’s property. Ten miles outside of Glenville, in southern Indiana. He stayed holed up in the other house. Most of the time, in his bedroom that smelled like a man’s armpit. Sometimes, at night, he’d put on his clodhopper boots and light a kerosene lantern and unchain Porter, Mama’s hound dog, and take his gun and Porter up into the thirty-seven acre woods that grew behind Mama’s house and partly behind his. Sometimes in the morning, there‘d be a raccoon, skinned and cleaned and floating headless, in a big pot of cold salt water on Mama’s covered porch. Someti...

Winter Concert                                         for Johanna A youth in black stands at his rack of bells, rocking slightly back and forth—a bird on a wire in sway to the dreadnought drone of a horn. He lifts a mallet just in time, taps a single B flat that sends the sparrow clarinets into an air of important duties and tasks. All the while a warm front moves north into the suburbs, raising up a countryside of mist and fog— measure after measure of silent timpani thunder felt underfoot by concert goers everywhere. They step into the white dark, a people blinking into a new creation, waking to that anvil note that bore them in her rocking lap.           —by Terry Ofner Bio: Terry Ofner grew up in Iowa not far from the Mississippi River. He holds degrees from the University of Iowa, where he atte...

River Memories by Grambi Dora 1 Jogging a zig-zag between cars I flash a smile                         to my regular strangers— an old man with a brown stained bag                     a woman pushing a stroller                         with a baby boy                                     sucking on a bottle. Each running step             along the Rhein-Neckar River jogs a        ...