Flying Island

Buckskin, Indiana by Roger Pfingston Back home after walking the creek, he sits with toast and a mug of coffee, savoring               a blue                          heron morning:  how it lifted at his approach, leading him on, indulging his presence with a slow wing spread, the short repeated flights to the water’s edge, until he turned back, the heron knowing more than he could follow, the window now, framing the steady gaze, the fenced-in beauty of horses. Bio : A retired teacher of English and photography, Roger Pfingston is the recipient of a Creative Writing Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and two PEN Syndicated Fiction Awards. He has poems in recent issues of Poet Lore, Spoon River Poetry Review, Innisfree Poetry Journal, and U.S. 1 Worksheets. New poems are scheduled to appear in Poetry East a...

Any Place Called Home by Rosemary Freedman Once, driving to my childhood home, I looked around at the old neighborhood and I felt ashamed. My mother, who had raised seven children, was alone in her back room the wallpaper peeling away, and because she had been successful at making successful children, I asked- "Why do you stay here?" "This is my home where I've lived for fifty years. This is where I feel comfortable," she answered. Then I imagined, children in huts, children in trailers, in doubles, in projects, in caves. Any place called home- We share the same sky- and the same sun. Suddenly I became a little girl playing in the rain with these other children from all of these other places. Our toothless smiles faced the sky, reluctant all - to come in from this Baptism spontaneous. Our laughter blending like a symphony With arms outstretched to a God that washed us all with the same water...

The house next door was lifeless until yesterday when I saw a family of raccoons. The old man and his skinny dog who lived there before-- left without closing the front door and no one has seen them since. A fellow across the street who wears thick glasses swears he saw the old man in the Walmart Parking Lot on Main Street the rainy night the door was left wide open. He was singing loudly pushing a cart filled with cases of dog food. The paper boy says he’s owed five months delivery and the mail lady says she can’t put any more mail in the box and oh, by the way, someone should return the checks sent the old man from Social Security. – by T.D. Richards From T.D. Richards: “After a career in corrections, Tom Richards began taking poetry classes at the Indiana Writers Center. In 2013, he published a collection of poems, This Side and That . He lives in central Indiana with his wife.”

Musty Nuts & Bolts By Rudy Schouten What I can remember of being six years old feels random, but I suppose young predilections have a say in it, too. Trips to the hardware store with my father were among the recollections that managed to stick. They were staples in a stellar childhood, the early years of an upbringing in a big family that merged fun at home with a handyman’s insistence on drawing his children into his work. That meant home life would always favor doing things over having them. All that family togetherness kept us busy and relatively undistracted by what other people had or did, so I wasn’t so much fully aware of being happy as recalling very little to be unhappy about.       The runs to the hardware store were part of all that—outings with your father to a place coincidentally perfect for reinforcing a few family ethics …  e arn your keep, learn to use your hands, and try to figure things out for yourself. Those were the practica...

Chicago to Minnesota by Donald Nelson On the elevated Quincy platform I caught the Orange Line to Midway, my flight delayed and alone at the food court I had hours watching other travelers while reading and emailing. There's no comforting eye contact here today probably the look on my face, haggard from the Lupron that's castrating my testosterone. If I'm lucky, I'll survive cancer like a friend who's been through it before me, he tells me it's not the same but he can still make love. In Minnesota, behind thick concrete walls, the high energy hydrogen protons spin around magnets in the synchrotron. After six months of hormone suppression and eight weeks of the high energy particles aimed at my shrunken prostate at nearly the speed of light, I lie to myself, wishing someday, that I could be whole again or still make that profound human connection, the male and female magic, that gave us all our chanc...

The night before the inauguration by Kristine Esser Slentz on ladies’ night we drank White Russians at the local draft house passing on the English and Irish pub choosing to sit at the tall table in the middle of the room surrounded by TVs and its media we take sips of our iced over drinks between bites of deep fried food we thank the black man that’s serving us we discuss the origins of our European surnames with giggles ultimately reverting the conversation back to our full time day jobs complaining about the hours and its offered healthcare coverage maybe we’ll just show up late tomorrow a shifty look from a manager is worth this next liquid delight at the end of our rich meal we hand our VISAs to our server and with a bow and a gesture of gratitude he leaves us and we leave the customary tipping percentage then with elbows locked we walk home to our high rises openly kissing each other on th...

Mother’s Company by Marjie Giffin Mother is having company. It’s been years, but I still recall turkey platters and gilded plates, soup tureens with china ladles, crystal stemware and cubes of ice that clinked together musically. There were lavender-scented soaps tucked amidst lacey table linens in drawers so laden with heirlooms that Mother would strain to pull their polished, glistening handles. I could breathe in and catch the scent of Chanel No. 5; I would steal a peek and see her lips pursed before the glass as she coated them with red. Today’s company is being served on paper plates on a kitchen table so crammed with paraphernalia that the tasteless sandwiches almost tip off its edge. Photos, stacks of letters, nail files, coupon boxes, hosiery eggs – all compete for centerpiece space and the attention of the curious guests who dine. One of the favored few shaves with an electric razor in between s...

Subject line: usage notification account number *** *** 8187 Dear Julie, We want to notify you that you have used 100% of your Daughter Anytime Usage Allowance with your Family plan for the service date ending on this Sunday due to religious affiliations. Generally, should you reach your capacity limit for any payment cycle, your love and compassion speeds will be significantly reduced. To view your usage or purchase additional emotional capacity, please visit the website. Thank you for being a valued customer. *Please do remember that the Daughter entity retains the right to end the unconditional contract anytime as well.                                      – by Kristine Esser Slentz Bio: “Kristine Esser Slentz is originally from northwest Indiana and the Chicagoland area, accent and all. She is a Purdue University alum that studied...

Alice, Reinvented by Mary Sexson The buzz of technology chimes           in my sunroom tonight, lines sizzle and connect me across             the continents. India lies open on my desktop, a portal to your           world, and I am Alice, falling through a new-fangled                         looking glass, an open door to your day                    already lived, into your stories and songs                 already slightly warped                            through this odd wrinkle in time. Mary Sexson is the author of 103 in the Light, Selected Poems 1996-2000 (Restoration Press) , nominated for a Best Books of Indiana award in 2005, and co-author of Company of ...

Editor's note: May 5 is National Day of Reason Is Galoofah Greater Than God? by George Fish Is Galoofah greater than God? The answer is simple, straightforward, and direct. So let’s see. First, we realize— Galoofah, even at his/her/its very, very worst, is still, always and forever, a Poofah. And that’s wonderful. God, on the other hand— even at his/her/its very, very best, is yet, always and forever, merely a Wod. And that’s not very good at all! So there, my Jod! Bio: George Fish is an Indiana freelance journalist and poet whose work has appeared in several national and regional publications and websites, especially those of left and alternative publications. In addition to short stories and poems, Fish has also published extensively on economics and politics; popular music, especially blues; and humor. He also does Lenny Bruce/George Carlin-inspired stand-up comedy.