Flying Island

It’s Later than You Think by Michelle Brooks There is the reflection of a rainbow in the Rent to Own window, and puddles have formed in the holes dotting the parking lot, the water streaked with rainbows made of gasoline, and I try to remember what I need for tomorrow’s work party as I roam the Dollar General. I grab a bag of pretzels and think, This is my dinner and all the while, other lives play out around me. A teenager tells her friend, I can’t believe Halloween is tomorrow, and I don’t know what I’m going to be. I wasn’t anything last year . A man asks his wife , Do you think the rain has stopped? She doesn’t look at him, only says, I sure fucking hope so. It’s depressing . After loading my basket with paper plates adorned with skulls and witches, I get in line, looking down while the young couple in front of me buys a pregnancy test and a bag of Cheetos, the woman counting out change from a tiny purse embossed with star

One Hundred Years Ago by Henry Ahrens The government mail wagon, like an upright coffin, brought influenza to our town one hundred years ago. We couldn’t hold our breath forever, the will to live brought death, a gurgling gasping for air, no relief anywhere, hospitals with winding sheets white and toe tags for patients to die, vaccines grasping and no more effective than garlic sacks around our necks. October came full fear of fall, steam shovels dug trenches for all, a mound of corpses deep in ground, one hundred years ago. Henry Ahrens attended St. Joseph's College in Rensselaer, Indiana, but now resides in Cincinnati, Ohio, where he teaches a variety of high school English classes. His works have appeared in From the Edge of the Prairie, Tipton Poetry Journal, and Indiana Voice Journal.

Snow White: The Real Story by Karen Fried “ Pure as the driven snow,” so they thought. All day long, I cook and clean up their mess. Shifty, Stupid, Dumpy, Frumpy, Loser, Smoker and Late to dinner are turning my hair gray. I could wring my lovely stepmother’s neck! Hi ho, hi ho, out the door you go with a shove shove here and a shove shove there. What I wouldn’t give to slip a cigarette in my ruby red lips. If this forest had a little sun, I wouldn’t have to endure this creamy white complexion. Oh, an old woman in rags begging at my door. Get off my porch! I don’t want your rotten apple. Here’s one for you. Bull's-eye! Now about that perfect prince, I’ll let you in on a little secret: He snores, throws his royal robes on the frozen stone floor and never cleans up after his horses. He also never stokes my fire, if you get my drift. From Karen Fried: “ I was born in Indianapolis and have lived here most of my life.”

River That Never Ran by Mary M. Brown I remember the river that never ran beside our house, the little boat we never owned, never rowed, the willows that never swayed, dogwoods that never bloomed. I remember the bedroom I never shared with a sister I never loved, the porch where we never giggled together until deep dusk when we never chased fireflies, never whispered secrets until dreams drifted toward dawn. I remember a sky that never held white clouds that billowed above a field of violets and button bush that never took root and where the old dog we never named Bligh ran wild through the tall grass that never grew. I remember the fence we never climbed, the little bridge at the end of the dirt road we never traveled, the way our granddad never held out his arms so we could come running to him, breathless and laughing the way we always never did, the way we never needed anything e

Like Memories In Mid-Air by Frederick Michaels We have grown to be so old (right before our very eyes), yet, despite the years compiled, not emerged as very wise. We let time just melt away, pass right by without disguise. In a steady drip of hours, years have dematerialized. We’re like footprints we impress into freshly fallen snow, leading backward through our past There’s no better place to go. What we are, or might become, none can tell and none can know, as our tracks begin to vanish, oft times fast, sometimes slow. And the snowflakes fall like memories in mid air, concealing lives which were not really there. You Give Them A Cookie ... by Frederick Michaels Deer crowd into my doorway, peering right into my kitchen like a posed Norman Rockwell, but with a plaintive, hungry gaze. A doe and three curious fawns, in great Halloween costumes. Kids have a dumbfounded look as mom ventures inward alone. I im