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Handwritten Letters to Fictitious Persons from Alternate Earths – Elytron Frass – March 2019 Guest Editor

Dear Submitters,

   In reply to your last message, I’m writing you from the Drowned House under the lake to your Burning House in the internet because the Gas House makes me tear and vomit upon entering and the Buried House remains unearthed. It is my understanding that you wish to send handwritten letters and postcards to fictitious persons from alternate Earths. Surely, you and your world is considered no less fictitious to them. But I will nonetheless humor this futile exchange—serving as your mercurial postman. Closely following my guidelines ensures that each letter and postcard transfers effectively. However, beware of the errors made by the techno modernist zealots. They cower at the wellsprings of decay, of terms and limits, of the tangible artifacts and palimpsests in which handwritten letters and postcards are baptized. Do not give into their weaknesses, and, moreover, do not try to stage our already counterfeit means. Continue reading “Handwritten Letters to Fictitious Persons from Alternate Earths – Elytron Frass – March 2019 Guest Editor”

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1. Via Negativa, and 2. The Creation Of Man – Tolu Oloruntoba

Via Negativa

A 15-year abacus, a rosary of flint faces,
and an inverted road.
St. Jonah, personal patron, pray for me.
You brother of cowards and fugitives,
welldigger who struck a bedrock
of scorpions every time.

I too have encountered
a rising tide of what could be water,
if it wasn’t paralyzing me from the feet up. Continue reading “1. Via Negativa, and 2. The Creation Of Man – Tolu Oloruntoba”

The Ocean’s Only Word, Getting Light, and Near Disaster – Lee Potts

The Ocean’s Only Word

During your Palm Springs summer,
your off-white apartment walls curved
around you like an elegant shell
pulled together tight by the bit of meat inside.

Eventually any distraction seemed a blessing.
Sometimes you appeared able to conjure
up some sound or other outside,
but never the one you wanted. Continue reading “The Ocean’s Only Word, Getting Light, and Near Disaster – Lee Potts”

GENDER & REVOLUTION EDITION – SELECTED/CURATED/PRESENTED BY OCTOBER 2018 GUEST EDITORS SHE SPEAKS UK

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”

// to the mirage makers guerrilla visionaries corpse whisperers apparition summoners //

p l e a s e  s h a r e  w i d e l y

 

\\thankyou\\

Continue reading “// to the mirage makers guerrilla visionaries corpse whisperers apparition summoners //”

An excerpt from Fields of Violence by Julia Madsen

From FIELDS OF VIOLENCE: A TRANSCRIPT OF A DOCUMENTARY ON THE ONGOING FARM CRISIS

FOREWORD

The necrotic underside of the history of the Farm Crisis lives on in the Heartland and in the mind of the landscape, whose pulsating synapses and rhizomes absorb nitrogen nourished by the prairie soil under the watchful eye of high harvest––a time of year of reaping that steals as much as it proffers, withholding the promise of a dream that never existed but did, at one time, grow faith. In another existence. Somewhere between the dream and the dead, blood red tinges the borders of everything. A woman and a man put their hands together like arrows pointed up toward some augury that will never come and when it doesn’t, they forgive the augur. Why? Continue reading “An excerpt from Fields of Violence by Julia Madsen”

Gov’t Queries by Katherine DeCoste

During the purplest midnight the time comes to repurpose and scavenge the deepest recesses of the pancreas, sugar-processor and liquefier, mushy and shapeless, which is the least necessary of every twinkling lump of flesh under the round belly. This is major surgery.

A procedure is in order, to be followed precisely.

First, wetness settles: stretch in it, breathe it and swell up, an oversalted fish. Water is made up of many parts and layers: the sunlight, the twilight, and the midnight. The operation must be completed in the dim part where dust particles are zooplankton and speak with urgency to each visitor. Dust spins through air, little animals through water. Dust is silent, but the ocean buzzes and they wiggle their weak legs, incapable of standing.

Second, the endemic, veined skin is stickily plastered onto the inner red eyelids. Bodies are simple, paper-maiche collections of wallpaper. Outside, floral patterns. Inside, the abdominal organs all run together—root around until you find the one you’re removing. It’s easiest with closed eyes.

Third, the sea grows weary of pressing and pressure fades but darkness doesn’t.
Fourthly, the patient will grow distressed as you sever their energy-delivery-system. Explain it like this: I had the bends once and an angel appeared. She glowed brightly in the midnight zone. Said, “we’ve carbonated your bloodstream and these are not simple growing pains. There are impassable meters between you and the heavenly sphere spinning.” Around my finger she tied a white ribbon glowing green in her eerie radioactivity—it read, “eat me.”

Finally they will need to be sustained somehow—choke down sugared green Jell-O and butterscotch pudding cups. Only foods that wobble and can only be partially-chewed are acceptable. The fluorescent lights never fully go off in the hall. Force jittery insulin into their veins.

 


Author photo

Katherine DeCoste is a writer and undergraduate English student in Edmonton, Alberta. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sybil Journal, Rag Queen Periodical, Structural Damage, and others. She likes to write about anxiety, dissociation, and decay. You can find her @katydecoste on Twitter and Instagram.

About the banner image: The operating room orderly, a 1-W, Voluntary Service worker, wheels a patient from the elevator to the operating room. VS workers in the Mennonite Hospital at La Junta, Colo., contribute much through their sacrificial service.

Notes for poems to be found in the desert by Tony Messenger

The poetry of the desert is sparse. To locate a poem in the desert you cannot just look, you must smell, touch, hear and taste your surroundings. Never attempt to write about the desert, the result will be too much like writing. These notes form clues as to finding poems in the desert. Whilst the notes may be extensive the poems themselves live a tenuous existence & are barely clinging to life.
Seek out the poems. Continue reading “Notes for poems to be found in the desert by Tony Messenger”

July 2018 Guest Editor Is Lara Alonso Corona!!! Theme/s: BODIES (Ugly bodies — Queer bodies — Uncomfortable bodies — Bodies in summer)

Burning House Press are excited to welcome Lara Alonso Corona as our sixth guest editor! Lara will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of July.

Submissions for Lara are open from today – 1st July and will remain open until 24th July.

Lara’s Theme/s for the month are as follows

BODIES

(Ugly bodies — Queer bodies — Uncomfortable bodies — Bodies in summer)

Continue reading “July 2018 Guest Editor Is Lara Alonso Corona!!! Theme/s: BODIES (Ugly bodies — Queer bodies — Uncomfortable bodies — Bodies in summer)”

You’re The Crocodile Now: Journal Fragments by E.F. Fluff

04.04.2008 Train from Krakow to Prague

Sitting on the bed of a sleeper to Prague. Listening to the Ethiopians sing Train To Skaville; my first moments of reflection since booking a one-way ticket to Krakow with only slight inclination to stop moving.

All that matters are the miles passing by. Continue reading “You’re The Crocodile Now: Journal Fragments by E.F. Fluff”

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