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Showing posts from July, 2022

Flying Island Journal 7.22

Dear Flying Island Readers: Welcome to the 7.22 Edition of the Flying Island Journal! We have three pieces to share: two in poetry and one in creative nonfiction. We hope you enjoy this issue. Inspired to send us your fiction, poetry, or creative nonfiction? Submissions are free for the summer! For more info on how to submit, see the tab above. Links to each piece in this edition below. Thank you for reading, Flying Island Editors and Readers POETRY Charlotte Melin, "In the Wisconsin Arboretum" and "Flock" CREATIVE NONFICTION Aaron Bruener, "Latency Periods" Are you a writer who is from the Midwest or has close ties to the Midwest? We'd love to read your work. Submissions info in the tab above.  Support the Indiana Writers Center!

In the Wisconsin Arboretum and Flock, two poems by Charlotte Melin

In the Wisconsin Arboretum A sea of horsetails under the boardwalk and blue flags bloom in the marsh. A pair of sandhill cranes browses the pond edge, wild indigo waves white in the distance where wet prairie paths are closed. Under the trees, the confetti of  yellow-orange petals seem inexplicable  until I see leaf hands waving above— a tall tulip tree, farther north than I thought possible until  we encounter another and  expectations are overturned. The twisting drive here made  my head spin like a gyroscope. Now when you look at the trail map, I’m disoriented, feel my brain refuse to make sense of markers and turns. Yet, even unable to orient myself  to a chart, I notice the clues left by petals, like breadcrumbs  for our way back to Indiana.         Flock Driving home from Indiana we finally see the blackbirds I’ve missed all fall, feeding in stubbled cornfields. Later another flock shapeshifts south in migration, a mesmerizing murmuration. We have yet to travel through the flatte

Latency Periods, Creative Nonfiction by Aaron Bruener

Latency Periods      Brooke, 12, jumped up. She had spilled a fine white powder across her seat and along the floor. She approached the classroom teacher to tell her about it in a hushed tone. Emily, 25, consoled her before scooping a handful of the powder.      “These fucking kids,” she whispered at me as she passed. I, 33, shrugged and raised my eyebrows—the only facial gesture I allowed myself during the pandemic and one I hoped would stand in for all the others.      For the first time I was noticing thin creases across my forehead that didn’t go all the way away when I stopped smiling. I didn’t know whether that was because of stress, or age, or the fact that I was increasingly relying on the top half of my face to indicate my whole emotional register. Aside from that, I liked resting my mouth. I never smiled in public anymore if I could help it, and I found myself surprised if something funny—like a student, 11, coming publicly to the realization that his conception might have be