Flying Island

Berry Fields Forever by Tracy Miskin Rows and rows of strawberries. The sign says U-Pick and we can eat as many as we want, bring them home and Mom will make shortcake. Our friend Ora gives us some strawberry plants and now we have a little patch next to our house. Every year they come back. At camp we sing “I'll taste your strawberries, I'll drink your sweet wine.” And when I have my own house, I buy a flat of strawberry plants. They bear the sweet fruit every summer, and there are so many packed in the raised bed that we can gorge on them, give them away, and still they rot on the vine. My softball game is over, so I climb the mulberry tree behind the bleachers, picking and eating, stuffing them in my mouth while my brother plays baseball. Aaa batter aaa batter aaa  buzzing like cicadas below me. The mulberries stain my fingers and I track the juice into the house on my shoes. Mom wants to make pie, so we pull fruit from stems for hours, and the pie is d

by Kim Nentrup It was God to you. The expansive, eye-filling Lake Michigan, with its moodiness and its billion diamond sparkles at dusk. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, the sparkles became the different aspects of God, all the things one could ever learn about Him, and how they were significant, each one. You grieved each time you left the lake, because you knew that your mind could not remember the pure beauty of Him for a whole year, until summer vacation brought you back again. It was the next summer you lost your faith. It happened slowly, like a trickle of water over a slate-bottomed creek in a drought. First, after an evangelist's wife confided in you that she did not believe in hell, you realized you also did not believe in hell. God was pure beauty--hell was an inconsistent ugliness. Then you read and read and read about the origins of the Bible, and started to realize that it was no longer truth to you. You talked to a preacher and confessed you didn’t

Catalina by Richard King Perkins II Here we will awaken pulled upward like Natalie Wood from the sea. What should have been boffo is all kelp and algae drenched in Coke and Fanta. The moon is temporarily given an atmosphere on the sound stage where we first landed. Barely with voices, the thin sound pulverized between us, the dust of space, of performance hugs. Bio: Richard King Perkins II is a former Gary resident now living in Illinois. “I am a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. I have a wife, Vickie and a daughter, Sage. I am a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee and have had work appear in hundreds of publications, including The Louisiana Review, Bluestem, Emrys Journal, Sierra Nevada Review, Two Thirds North, The Red Cedar Review and The William and Mary eview. I have poems forthcoming in the Roanoke Review, The Alembic and Milkfist. My poem ‘Distillery of the Sun’ was awarded second place in the 201

O’Hare by Tony Brewer His eyes say he was never a boy. Father swats built confidence. Backhanded mom for sass. And all the bullies bigger than him. Now he pulls down seven figures taxed down to six. Earned scowl gouged out of his face. Broad shoulders chiseled from a gray suit and blocks of flipped real estate. Deals struck, drinks poured — boom, done. Today, third in the first-class line and pissed he’s not in front. Sizing up #1 and #2. Pretty sure he could take them silently by smartphone and contract. An elderly couple pre-boarding brushes past him with their oxygen tanks. DeKalb cap and floral muumuu. He considers acquiring and auctioning their every asset. But he’s boarding now ahead of me. The unfair world back on his side. Bio: Tony Brewer is a poet, spoken word performer, sound effects artist, typesetter, and event producer from Bloomington, Indiana. He chairs the Writers Guild at Bloomington and is executive director of the Spoken Word Stage at the

Invitations of the Wild Child by Liza Hyatt Stars. Now my turn. Watch me dance. Tell me a story that travels down my spine. Once the giant stood overhead. Now, look, Orion is lying down. Morning vibrates. Clouds curl, swoop down. The kingfisher dives red down into the water. We’ll run through the tree tunnel. Play in the vine house. Live by learning wild things. Inside is a forest, near where the sea wind meets bone, full mooned. Here is a crimson flower in loam. Learn by living the wild learning. I’ll pick this flower. It is just under the skin, small and excited, a heart pushed alone from the womb. Bio: Liza Hyatt is the author of The Mother Poems (Chatter House Press, 2014); Stories Made of World (Finishing Line Press, 2013); and Under My Skin (WordTech Editions, 2012). She plays the Celtic harp and often accompanies herself with the harp, bardic style. She hosts a monthly poetry reading/open mic at Lawrence Art Center on Indianapolis’ east side.