Not For Profit/For Prophecy


Burning House Press are excited to welcome PAUL HAWKINS as our NOVEMBER guest editor! As of today Paul will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of November.

Submissions for Paul are open from today – 1st November and will remain open until 23rd November.

Paul’s Theme for the month is as follows



Paul has introduced his theme for your guidance:


Facing up to the future


Please submit work of a future-facing, avant-garde nature that is singly or a combination of form(s): poetry, prose, visual artworks, collage, sound, photography, musical scores, architectural design, forms, maps, film, sketches, plans, short stories in which context dominates content.


for e.g.


the poetry of: space-junk, fake news, black ops, artificial intelligence,

the visual taste of global-warming, #metoo, rising-tides

the musical scent of Brexit, Trump, The Cloud

the sound map of: gentrification, water-shortage, anarchism


ENCOURAGED: work that is collaborative, radical, experimental, intersectional, across form(s) & across discipline(s).

Continue reading “NOVEMBER 2018 Guest Editor Is PAUL HAWKINS!!! Theme: FACING UP TO THE FUTURE”



Aaand that’s a wrap! Burning House Press would like to thank October’s Guest Editors SHE SPEAKS UK for selecting, curating and presenting an INCREDIBLE array of writing and art on the theme/s GENDER & REVOLUTION – and for all of the endeavour and hard work that has gone into managing the month   – THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING, EMERCIANA, AOIFE, & JO!!!

Massive thank you also goes to everyone who contributed to the theme/s and all who continue to send BHP your writing and art – we are so happy and grateful that you entrust us with your work, thank you!!! xX

Here it is, the full GENDER & REVOLUTION EDITION – every selection in one place for you to read/peruse – enjoy!!! xX Continue reading “GENDER & REVOLUTION EDITION – SELECTED/CURATED/PRESENTED BY OCTOBER 2018 GUEST EDITORS SHE SPEAKS UK”

Flash Fiction & Two Poems by C. L. Ayre 

Between your [social] legs

Sometime in the past, B was born..

B breathes, welcoming the air external to the host person.

A: ‘What is between your legs, little one?’

B cries.

A: ‘Congratulations, it’s a.. >insert binary pronoun here< .’

B cries, again.

A: ‘What are you going to call >insert corresponding binary pronoun, here< ?’

Sometime later, after B has spent years experiencing on earth..

B: ‘I still breathe, and cry. The questioning human at my birth got the pronoun wrong. It was a mistake to think that my anatomy somehow directly corresponded to a distinctive set of social behaviours. Or, knowingly or unknowingly, any attempts to make that the case. Other determining factors which continue to make me me, were quite underestimated, overlooked or ignorantly bypassed. As were possibility and actuality.’

B Pauses.

B: ‘Yes, I have something between my legs, and person/human/homo sapien is my name’

A: ‘What is between your.. social.. legs, big one?’

B: ‘A variety of focal points for questioning. And I may not be one, but many. And why the assumption of ‘I’, anyway? But that’s for another time.’

Continue reading “Flash Fiction & Two Poems by C. L. Ayre “

Carnival and Lent by Laurence Thompson

A jar of paint-thick blood and mire

To wet an oxen’s head

A finger blackened by the fire

And pressed against the red.


A mask of white upon the fool

Who stares up from the feast

A couple fleeing with their mule

But cannot move the beast.

Continue reading “Carnival and Lent by Laurence Thompson”

Girls are Silver by Olga

girls are silver


                                          I was taught that

girls are silver       smiles to be polished

laughter the sound of a fingerflickedagainst

a     trophy     ringing  with emptiness.


                                              I knew that I wasn’t

silver   knew I was drinking from the depth

of starving wells     knew that girls

                                                        like me


rust Continue reading “Girls are Silver by Olga”

As I Rise by ReVerse Butcher


rVb in tunnel
ReVerse Butcher is a multi-disciplinary artist with focuses in making unique artist’s books, collages, visual art, writing & performance. She will use any medium necessary to engage and subvert reality until it is less dull and oppressive. When she grows up she wants to be a well-read recluse. She currently lives in Melbourne, Australia.

Monstrous Woman by Leanne Moden

I want to be a Monstrous Woman

To speak out of turn

To take up space

To scandalise tabloid newspapers


I want to question authority

To win more fights than I lose

To take my fair share

And allow you to take yours too


I want never to apologise for myself again

Continue reading “Monstrous Woman by Leanne Moden”

Poem, Writing & Art by Alix Hyde

Yellow Flower

Are you a girl

or a boy?


my nephew would ask me,


I’d smile and try not to answer

for as long as I could.


But he was so persistent, so

needy for reassurance.

My nephew is secure in his boyhood;

no questions, no blurriness

in his mind. He, him,

boy things, boy clothes

and books.


But me? An enigma, Continue reading “Poem, Writing & Art by Alix Hyde”

Wrap by Sam Kaner



Sam Kaner is a visual artist and writer based in Nottingham, UK. Her work is rooted in the personal experience of social and political navigation as a depressed trans woman of colour.

Her work is documented on her website,, and on her Instagram account, @skamglamart.

3 Poems and 1 Haibun by Robin Anna Smith



I exist somewhere between `

            a match and a flame,

                          a tear and the sea,

a handful of clay and a sculpted vase.

No other being determines or

             influences which form I take,

                          which direction I follow,

which air I choose to breathe into my lungs.

Those who fear my state of being

              fear the unknown,

                         the unsubscribed,

                                the undeclared.

And that which causes their unease is my strength.



gender is the seam of ill-fitting pants

that, no matter how they are altered,

continue to give me a painful wedgie.


it is a pair of support tights,

that I’m required to wear beneath a skirt,

which gives me a miserable yeast infection.


the only relief is to remove the constraints

of gender entirely and allow myself

to breathe freely…


droplets of revolution

ideas require darkness and a steady drizzle to germinate. letters and syllables mingle. seeping layer by layer into the ground. entwine and thrive deep in the earth. forming stories which push their way up. they present themselves without shame. basking in sunlight. continuing to grow. shouting the brightness of their names. for as long as we tend to them…


rainseed I feed words to the cloud


The way we communicate, specifically with stories, is part of what makes us human. It’s how we know about our past, how we investigate and work through our present, and how we can contribute to the future. By writing our own narratives, we take control instead of allowing them to be written for us. As with growing plants, timing is important in the process of culminating and sharing our stories. This process is a way we can work through conflict and maintain the power of our identities—our resolution for revolution.


biopicrsmithRobin Anna Smith (she/her) is a non-binary, disabled writer and visual artist, currently residing in Wilmington, Delaware. She primarily writes about personal experiences with trauma, loss, disability, mental health, and gender identity. She is a regular contributor at Rhythm & Bones Lit. Her work appears or is forthcoming in a variety of online and print journals internationally, and in Unsealing Our Secrets: A Short Poem Anthology About Sexual Abuse and You Are Not Your Rape Anthology.

More of her work can be found at her website and Twitter @robinannasmith.


For Lydia by Becky Deans

Good golly miss Molly

Did you marry a man with a miner’s lamp and

No brolly?


Didn’t you know that the marriage bed came sprinkled with

Soot? Did he blind you

With a title, then tempt you with a butty?


How long did you keep that aspidistra flying?

Through the childbirth and the child death

And the end of the piano music

Continue reading “For Lydia by Becky Deans”

Battle of the Sexes by Lauren Winson

Pink is pretty and bravery blue (or so we’ve been told)

forgetting that once upon a time

Victorians held the opposite view-

so when will we stop

teaching young children

that pink, make up, Barbie dolls and dresses are for girls

whilst boys have blue, guns and action heroes?


When will it end?


Women raised to believe they need saving,

their short skirts sexualised from infancy,

infants expected to be raised by their mothers,

not fathers, these men taught to save everyone:

except for themselves.

Continue reading “Battle of the Sexes by Lauren Winson”

Gender Lines by Jennifer Moore

Two sides, no in-between, began I don’t know when

No, no, you can’t confuse the ladies with the men

Each day the frame repeats

We’re told the story again

In silence and in actions, signs and words


These are the questions thou shalt not ask

These are the persons thou shalt not see

And these commandments are all we need

It’s dangerous

Beyond the gender lines

Continue reading “Gender Lines by Jennifer Moore”

Someone Else and Harry by Jason Jackson

It all started when Harry had to move into the apartment.

The walls were white, and there were marks where the previous tenant had hung pictures. Harry went around the place, measuring these spaces. In a notepad, he wrote down numbers. He drew little diagrams.

Then he spent the next day in town. It was more difficult than he’d imagined, but he finally got everything he needed: seventeen pictures, each one corresponding to a white space on his walls. Harry didn’t care about the pictures – one was of a grinning cat in the rain, and Harry disliked cats – he just cared that they fitted the spaces.

He spent that evening drinking coffee and hanging the pictures, and eventually he lay down in bed.

The previous tenant had left the mattress, and although Harry was used to sleeping on the left, this mattress had an indentation on the right. Harry lay down in this exact spot. It was too small for him, but it felt safe, and in the morning when he woke he found he hadn’t moved. Continue reading “Someone Else and Harry by Jason Jackson”

The Wolves Ripen: A Gothic Halloween Interview with Poet Kate Dlugosz

During my tenure as BHP’s Guest Editor in March 2018, I was lucky enough to publish many gifted writers. One of these was Kate Dlugosz, whose mythic poetry stayed with me long after my editorship was over. Earlier this month I invited her back onto Burning House Press for a gothic Halloween special. She agreed. Take note, this interview is merely masquerading as an interview. What follows is a gorgeous helping of dark prose poetry for those of us who have October in our bones.  Enjoy!  —Amee Nassrene Broumand

In your poem “Springtime,” you write: “If nothing else, I know owls come from flowers.” Tell us some more origin stories. Where do bats come from?

Bats come from song, as the shape of music from the cords formed of autumn constellations played by the wind upon the harp of the waning crescent moon. It is from the stars and the moon that the bat took flight from the night sky, the space between the stars where they learned to see by shape. And released by moonlight, through the darkened canopies of wine-red treetops they fly as hordes of poppy seeds, scattering over the moon as grey clouds, and the world below them becomes strange and wild and unknown in the dark. The bats echolocate the moths and the beetles in the night, and in the blindness of their own vision seeing with clarity the worlds of ghosts and spirits that pass over our own. You feel the first chill of autumn is the hiss of the bat as it grazes your neck. At times the bats hang down from the banisters of old barns, the wooden planks slicing the moon to shreds like a white moth between their fangs. And sometimes they sleep hanging from the limbs of oak trees by their claws before taking flight into purple dusk in search of blood, the moths and monsters prowling under moonlight. Bats suck the red from apples and rosehips and would consume the sun if they could sink their teeth into flame. Should you stare into the vast night sky on a clear autumn night, you are stargazing through the blackness of their wings. Continue reading “The Wolves Ripen: A Gothic Halloween Interview with Poet Kate Dlugosz”

Confessional by Meeah Williams

It’s a bad habit I picked up

when still living out my pack of lies

& can’t quite shake

attention like a drug

I keep shooting

down the highways of my wanting veins

exposing myself to men

like a circus curiosity

the Amazing Chick with a Dick Continue reading “Confessional by Meeah Williams”

Don’t Say I Did Nothing For You by Meeah Williams

Because I stood up & threw half-hearted punches

at unimpressed bullies for you

I got beat down & climbed back up

spitting blood & seeing stars for you

I struck out, dropped routine fly balls

& ran to first base like a girl for you

I looked at your skin mags

& confused tried to masturbate for you

I drove 120 mph through a brick wall

& lived at the bottom of the ocean

all through high school for you

grew gruff & distant & a little crazy

to prove I wasn’t a momma’s boy,

got married, divorced, and finally

even tried to take my unlived life

for you.


When I failed even to die as I should

I decided it would be the very last thing

I ever did for you.


The next morning

I rose before the sun

& washed the puke & shit

of birth from my body

& I dressed in the clothes

that suited me

& I called myself by a name

I could honestly answer to

& I left the door open behind me

though I didn’t expect

you to follow


& I got in the car & I drove

Continue reading “Don’t Say I Did Nothing For You by Meeah Williams”

We are Women by Emma Miles





Emma Miles is a English graduate and writer, with a particular interest in typography and all things experimental. Most commonly found pretending to be other people.

Children of the Revolution by Emma Ireland

we, the children of this revolution

who came to it all from fields afar

not born beneath a dissident star

of parents dressed in shades of green

but found we belonged only in between

and here we stand, and here we’ll fall

and we’ll die together

or not at all

we, the children of this revolution

who carry our books instead of swords

who taught ourselves, despite it all

who search for truth wherever it lies

and see the world through suspicious eyes

here we stand, and here we’ll fall

and we’ll die together

or not at all

Continue reading “Children of the Revolution by Emma Ireland”

Painted Legs by Juliette van der Molen

it won’t do,

grandmother said,

to show bare legs.

you need smoothness

and muscle tone—

not to mention the

barrier between

the hands of men

or even their eyes

and your flesh.


no silk to be had,

and there’s a war,

by the way.

but, still—

the illusion must

remain intact,

nothing’s changed!

Continue reading “Painted Legs by Juliette van der Molen”

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