Flying Island

Going Deaf by Mary M. Brown For a while it’s mostly bliss, swimming a lovely, negotiable lake, the hush of small fish, or like resting inside a shell, a turtle, a nutmeat, a swaddled babe, pacified and riding the sweet blurry line between stillness and sleep. But later you wonder whether the lake is a roiling ocean you are alone in with sharks, other predators, and water pressure or a kind of padded cell, you the slow prisoner who wonders if anyone else will show up to bring you poetry or mass or whatever you yearn for—a bible, cigarettes, kisses, a knife in a cake. About the poet: Mary M. Brown lives with her husband, Bill, in Anderson, Indiana. She’s a Hoosier not by birth but by long residence and disposition, and she enjoys proximity to all six of her grandchildren. Retired now, she taught literature and creative writing at Indiana Wesleyan for many years. Her work appears on the Poetry Foundation and the American L...

Silent by Nicole Amsler My skeletal fingers tent over my chest A makeshift cage for my aching, thrumming heart Pain can still slide in Like a fume, a moth, miasma But my fingers clench, at the ready To beat back that which threatens. Futile dispersion. But they do not reach, do not beckon, call They do not beseech or even pray. My hands only bear witness, gnarled and still. They do not speak the anguish Instead words perish, congealed and unknowable A barnacle, a lesion, an ectopic pearl The unspoken, Brailled in scar tissue. From Nicole Amsler: Seldom a poet, I write stunningly dull marketing copy as my day job and magical realism fiction at night. I am a writer conference groupie, a middle aged cosplayer, and a book pimp. I've moved eleven times in my 20+ year marriage and Indiana is the only place I've lived twice.

The Pale Horse by Alex Schnur Death comes not upon a pale horse, but riding on a blood clot, prowling through an artery. It hides in piles of filth and the insides of microbes, on the wings of birds and the dust of a coal mine. Death waits in the wings of our vices, swirling in the bottoms of bottles perched upon cigarettes packed into pills dripping from needles and homogenized into trash food. It lurks in the oceans, both the shallows and the depths. It waits on the mountains, in both snow and stone. Sometimes death takes to stage and you see it coming, dramatically, as fast or as slow as it likes. Other times death is a thief, quick as lightning, and before you can hear the thunder your life is gone. About the poet: Alex Schnur is currently working to achieve a bachelor's degree in English from Indiana University - Purdue University Columbus, with a concentration in creative writing. He only refers...

Stella Rosa by Chrysa Keenon Why does the poison Make my words flow easier? The burn through my veins is like the lightning of God cursing me with the pain all humanity has wrought I hate the feeling but the elixir makes me see stars Dancing across my skin, like when you’re around. If I could touch one, I would crush it into my bones and make it part of me, not letting it flow away in the morning like my dreams of you. Bio:  Chrysa Keenon is a student at Taylor University, studying Professional Writing. She has been published in various newspapers and magazines, including Changes in Life, The Echo, The Fictional Cafe, and Evangelical Church Libraries. She spends the time she is not writing reading and perfecting her knitting skills.

shots found by Kristine Esser Slentz i found you in shot glasses dotting the dark wood of an irish pub bar; sadly, among the tiny cup wreckage you couldn’t find me. About the poet: Kristine Esser Slentz is originally from northwest Indiana and the Chicagoland area, accent and all. She is a Purdue University alum that studied English literature and creative writing while working at the independent student newspaper, The Exponent. After college Kristine has written pieces in publications such as the HuffPost; Pattern; and Nuvo, Indy’s Alternative Voice. Currently, Kristine is the Assistant Editor at Unfold and has published poetry in Sweater Weather Magazine and The Unprecedented Review.

Violets by Rebecca Berry When I pull off my shirt I see it again Flowers blooming Violets, always violets No daisies or sun flowers Just violets that whisper Forget-me-not Just violets from you So dark, round and often misshapen Tattooed over my breastbone To the small of my back And the crevice of my hips Always nesting like a tiny bird Some days it’s just the one Curled up tight into the crook of my arm Where I barely notice Other days it’s like my body is a field Where you scattered those dark blossoms You never asked me if I wanted them Never told me where you’d inherited yours But I promise I will try to keep them And not let them spread to someone else’s skin. Rebecca Berry: “ I am originally from Indianapolis. I graduated from Earlham College last year with a bachelors in Comparative Languages and Linguistics. After graduating I devoted a year of service with an AmeriCorps program, and s...

Nikumaroro for HRC by Andrew Chapman Sand and salt, no  landing strip to speak of little girls in goggles, they waited, they still do. 400 miles short, horizon  won’t reveal the sun  boils, spits bitterness,  leaks gas on the  sand. Faded photos, un- built statues fill fake  memories, we wrote down  too soon. What remained you  gave to the crabs, buried nothing for us to find, to point out and say was yours.