Flying Island

The Slow Movement by Edmund F. Byrne With Ashkenazi at the keys Giuliani signaled for the Brahms and thunder filled reality reverberating in my ears more turbulence than I could bear I made some tea and tried to read old arguments that God exists while hardly sure that I was there or that the world takes note of me with or without divinity Just then the tempo changed and peaceful strings began to coax from gentle horns soft mellow chords that sang inside of me a tonal prayer which urged the universe to care Tea and book I put aside to let some tears reply Amen to the awesome orchestrations that ensued in celebration of what life can be with hope for love From Edmund F. Byrne: “I'm a retired professor of philosophy. Spent most of my active years at newly established IUPUI. I'm still involved with the Journal of Business Ethics and review books for online anthology called MiSWR.”

SCAR TISSUE By Ela Aktay When you cut yourself and get a wound, after a period of time there’s this weird-looking permanent mark on your skin. You know, where tissue builds up and creates a scar. Well, I have a tiny starfish-shaped one on my belly button. I love that scar. Every once in awhile, I lift my shirt and touch the ever-so-slightly ridged skin. It’s my battle wound. Never mind that it was a battle I lost, I still love that scar. I’m in the tattoo store. My heart is racing like the Energizer Bunny. I’ve got the classic sweaty palms, lump in the throat, pit in the stomach. Just breathe and do it. I lie down on the table and grip the sides so tightly I counteract the deep breaths that I thought would actually relax me. I shut my eyes tight and brace myself for the stabbing pain to pierce through me. Faster than I can say, “ok, I’m ready,” it’s done. Really? That’s it? Seriously? That didn’t hurt at all. I walk out of the store beaming. Look at me—I’m co...

Buffalo Nickels and Steel Guitar Music by Michael Brockley for Jay Zimmerman Last night I counted a buffalo nickel among the change left in my Levi’s. All summer, butterflies have fluttered from the shadows of the silver maples that have overgrown my fencerow. When was the last time you held a nickel? What was the last color of butterfly to land on your arm? I try to remember your poem about coming of age in Miami, but all I recall is you cruising in your Firebird along the strip of motels where Yankee teenagers on spring break gathered to drink local beers named for hurricanes. In the evening, a jazz combo lost themselves in “Kind of Blue.” The last time we talked we sat in a college bar surrounded by board games and used books. We read B. H. Fairchild’s poem about a young Mickey Mantle walloping a fastball from the green hell of steel guitar music off a water tower in Quapaw. “There’s more to it than that. It’s about men playing for redemption,” you said. The depth you...

Pigeon Apocalypse  by Joanna Acevedo The pigeons that were living in our ceiling had started getting aggressive with one another, and once in a while a shower of feathers and plaster would come raining down into my room. I wasn’t getting much sleep, which was making me irritable. I thought I heard my roommate, Jared, telling a girl about the pigeons late at night, when he thought I was asleep. “It’s like, the Pigeon Apocalypse in there,” he was saying into the receiver of the phone. He thought I couldn't hear him, but I could. “So if you want to hang out, we can’t go to my place. Besides,” he added, and I could hear the flick of the lighter as he lit his cigarette. “My roommate is kind of weird.” “You’re kind of weird,” I said, to the wall that separated the two of us. A few minutes later I heard the apartment door slam. Then it was just me and the pigeons. I listened to them rustling around, cooing, until I fell asleep sometime around dawn. **** ...