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 with the moniker Fatty’s Cycle on the front. I’m a heat magnet, but it doesn’t matter because I’m i
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.