The Death of Mr. Peanut by Mark Williams My early memories include a sky-blue Packard cruising down Main Street past The Victory Theatre, past the gleam of drum sets and shine of black pianos behind spreading wings of glass at Harding & Miller Music. Past rows of chocolate mice at Hermann’s Candy. Today, my mother’s at the wheel. That’s me beside her, watching Main Street narrow to the river. Suddenly my mother’s pumping the brakes, leaning out the window toward a parked taxi. “ Mister! I’m going to hit you!” Mother shouts. “ Sure, lady. Go ahead,” the taxi driver says. With my mother’s arm across my chest, I learn a yellow cab will stop a sky-blue Packard. Next, I learn that Mr. Peanut, the peanut man who stands outside his shop to hand out nuts, has blue eyes inside the giant smile that cuts across his giant peanut head. “ You OK, buddy?” Mr. Peanut asks— his head too large to fit inside my window. For me, the Tooth Fairy wil...
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.