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poem: UNTITLED 20
this smile is a jail cell
holding hostage
centuries of laughter
sorry if i say the wrong things—
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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”
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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”
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poem: nights
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”
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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”
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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.
Photo by Yuzki Wang on Unsplash
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
some days
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
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poem: Bratislava 2016/ Sydney 2020
Where I’d like to be: a place with clean white sheets.
A hotel room, I’ve always loved them. View from the
window – not the ocean or anything, just trees
on a hill with some brutalist buildings and a pink and
orange sunset at rest behind. Luxurious.
Photo by Oliver Roos on Unsplash
poem: The Crossroads
The Cailleach’s breath rattles through the barren branches of the standing talls,
as midnight’s moon casts a cold glance upon all below.
Bearing gifts of coin and confections, tipple and tapers, I come to the crossroads
to petition and pray, as the witching hour draws near and the veil thin.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 