I became a widow at the tender age of nine.Continue reading “Kids”
Burning House Press are excited to welcome MAPULE MOHULATSI as our JULY 2020 guest editor! As of today MAPULE will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the month of JULY.
Submissions are open from today – and will remain open until 25TH JULY.
MAPULE’S theme for the month is as followsContinue reading “JULY 2020 Guest Editor Is MAPULE MOHULATSI!!! THEME: SINK”
TALISMAN // CHANNELLING THE OUTSIDE EDITION MAY 2020 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY ATEFEH AHMADIContinue reading “TALISMAN // CHANNELLING THE OUTSIDE EDITION MAY 2020 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY ATEFEH AHMADI”
Tarot in Pandemic – 28 March 2020
Sustain me today, Tarot, with
your Ace of Cups.
To raise me out of the murky depths,
she sent me a dove,
and a chalice.
She held me, as one does the wind,
futilely.Continue reading “Tarot in Pandemic, a series of poems by Joseph Ellison Brockway”
Small, childish hands of a small, childish body. And its childish legs stood on the ledge of a grey, concrete obelisk. Big, adult clothing was hung around and hugged its body. Slithered its hands and small, childish fingers out of the long, snake-like sleeve with two needles. Threw one over the ledge and punctured the young meat of its finger with the other. In from one and out from the other end. Sew the fabric of reality into itself.
It inhaled the measured, sonic existence of the concrete forest. After its hand came out when it reached into its pocket, the weird, long, white, plastic strand of earphones was hanging from its fingers and small, cute nails.Continue reading “OUTSIDE WORLD – A Multimedia Art Project by Noise Weaver”
mode time of anonymity music disillusion she’s owned 0 secret clone cyberoctave my rest storage they assure the mirrorstorm outerfeel placenta constellation and the exciting constellation eye of the apparent dream your baby’s eyeballs into your womb babel into the blue desert to the desert reverse movement of a comfortable inhabitant of childhood mirrors in space… hell external hell i was occupying is moved to gimmick suspension was placed because what was intended was a barbarian maze of cell breaks that was longer than the male blood breathing into the zone bar_unknown demon had a causal soul storage of sorrow is why its cellular circulation is hosted by the night corpse of the wolf’s embryo::: she’s a chaos from its hostContinue reading “Mirrorstorm by Kenji Siratori”
Burning House Press are excited to welcome ATEFEH AHMADI as our MAY 2020 guest editor! As of today ATEFEH will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of MAY.
Submissions are open from today – 1st MAY and will remain open until 24TH MAY.
ATEFEH’S theme for the month is as follows
TALISMAN // CHANNELLING THE OUTSIDE
ESCAPISM EDITION APRIL 2020 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY upfromsumdirtContinue reading “ESCAPISM EDITION APRIL 2020 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY upfromsumdirt”
essay: Insipid / Intrepid
As the adventurous person talks on, I am struck by a sense that they are confident and unperturbed by minor setbacks. I find myself specifically interested in the banal logistics of what it means to be that way, more than being interested in their actual stories. I feel that there’s no way for me to think cleverly about what it means to live an interesting life, or what it means to be fluid and graceful as you move through the world. Continue reading “Essay by Rosa Jones”
short story: Ruined Things Are Only Gorgeous When They Are Not Yours
Driving along the motorway, the radio crackled. She wanted to trace something on the window, but couldn’t think what. She fiddled with buttons, found an old song they both liked and turned it up. She imagined she was going to Berlin, to meet girls wearing orange lipstick and boots, tall and forward in the chaos of other people. Continue reading “Short Story by Anna Walsh”
the second gregarious girls come out to the streets
the streets become a jamboree for alter egos and their debutantes
to that sight the gods from above
dissolve into the opaque solar panache
soon after when the luminary man resigns
entrusting Enkidu with an ordinary mission
to make a king believe he is the cause
of his own inhibitions
poem: “Socialism” is Currently the #1 Trending Word on Merriam-Webster.com
My brain ekes in the dark without
a flashlight. Holding a banana to ward off
scurvy and North Sea pirates. I live under
a wrecked ship’s hull. From the ceiling it rains
rats. I eat them. First, we talk. In my telescope.
The Dey waves a silver hand. For the seraglio.
For the Danes to send the goods. I will plunder. Continue reading “Two Poems by Matt Broaddus”
short story: M80
I remember telling my parents that I was destined to get along with Bud Lykke, with that prosocial name of his, but I didn’t expect such a character. Each morning, he pours a bit of coffee into the hanging plants. After dinner he spends hours inside chunky headphones with “Binaural Beats” blaring, engineered to trigger dissociative states. He grew up in Appalachia, some obscure county in Ohio, and blames his ills on the heavy fracking around there, radioactivity in the drinking water. Continue reading “Short story by James Cato”
poem: Isolation, Part 9: Coffee Filter Salvation
Clowning up as suburban bandits
We three stumble into the empty park,
Breathing through coffee filters
Tucked away in cotton life-preservers
And there we conduct a baseball season
Tossing, though never catching,
A ball between the rising Violets and Chickweed.
story: The Somnambulist Party
The moon is full and bathing. Light laps each house in this quiet village, casting silver squares through windows with undrawn curtains.
In one such bedroom, a cat bathes too, pale fur illuminated against the floorboards. A clock chimes deep within the house and his eyes flash open. He stretches, unfurling his length, and leaps on the mistress’s bed, pawing at her cheek once, twice, waiting.
The mistress is between dreams. Within them, a dark ocean crashes into itself. She is expecting an arrival in the foam but is uncertain what form it will take. A vast scattering of shells and flint line the shore but she can’t move quickly enough to search through the piles. When she moves her hands, they leave ghostly echoes of themselves. The sound of waves melts into chiming. It is almost the hour, she knows, and she hasn’t found a thing. Continue reading “Short Story by Jennifer Brough”
photo by Shaimaa Abdelkarim
poem: Days in
i mostly wonder
when joy knocks
would it smell like
a lily and jasmine musk perhaps
i often ponder
if joy is what today brings
let it come