A Critique on the Self-Portrait
I am alone now,
Seven years from the girl
I used to be.
The last clear identity
Known to my shaking heart Continue reading “2 Poems by Tahnee Flaws”
An Expenditure of Munitions
Twenty-seven orphans
cleaning and oiling,
polishing up their rifles. Continue reading “3 Poems by Gary Carr”
Jem
‘Bet I can climb to the top’, Jem Mason says, round blue eyes burning in a sun-touched, freckled face. We all stare up at the roof of the almost finished house.
‘No way,’ Cory Sullivan says.
‘Bet you three strawberry laces I can,’ Jem says, already pacing towards the gates of the building site.
The bet was on. Continue reading “‘Jem’ by Kate Jones”
Helen McClory is a Scottish writer whose stories are multi-faceted gems, filled with atmosphere, mystery, and vivid detail. I discovered her work through Twitter and instantly loved it. Her flash fiction is collected in On the Edges of Vision, and you can read some of the pieces at her blog, Schietree. Her first novel, Flesh of the Peach, is forthcoming this year. McClory was kind enough to answer some of my questions. In our discussion, we talk about gender, Sylvia Plath, unlikable women, and much more.
– Caitlin
Nonfiction Editor of Burning House Press
Helen, thank you so much for taking the time to answer my questions. I am such a fan of your writing, and I’m so excited to have this discussion with you. First, I would just like to ask you some general questions about life and writing.
What are you currently reading? What made you want to read it?
I’m currently reading Alan Garner’s The Stone Book Quartet, a book ostensibly for children (like most of his work) that is composed of economical, brilliant sentences weighted with folkloric meaning. I loved his writing as a child myself and wanted to revisit his work (though I don’t think I ever read this one) because I’m writing a sort of fantasy/folklore novel myself and thought I’d look to one of the masters of the form.
Island Nation
I stood there and watched
the scowling coast
as rocks became
as liver spots
and waves passed
generations;
grey England’s changing
faces: foam and roar
erased
and formed
new morning’s
golden desolate shore. Continue reading “2 Poems by Ben Williams”
Less Than Human
Get lost,
Less human than me,
I’ll go to sleep,
In thousands of movements,
Under the eyes of heaven,
Amounts to devils I can’t see,
I could pray,
For a life more humane,
I should cry,
Hands stained with sin,
And get on running,
To the East, Continue reading “2 Poems & 2 Flash Fictions by Aina Izzah”
My Eyes
My eyes are vexed
not from crying
but from the tally
of sins unwept,
allowed to swell
in dull, blue renderings
just below the surface
of head and heart,
like a tattoo of tears or
a debris dammed creek,
symbols of damage
past the point of
erasure or release. Continue reading “2 Poems by C. R. Resetarits”
Dirge of the Dying Year
My first thought was, “Run!” Others chose suicide. Soon I was stumbling around like the bad kids who huff glue. Mothers dumped raw meat out into the street in protest. Sirens began to woo-who, woo-who. I was in a headspace that was pricked with stars I couldn’t identify, 50 by last count and all of them always promising to return to their wandering orbits. Now what do we do? There’s just too much in the workings of the world that’s hidden and unknowable, even by a person with an education. And that person was standing where the bullets began to rain into the limousine. We’re living in a boisterous age. Velocity is advancing everywhere, the walls covered in flames and the flames behaving in ways no one thought possible. I’m afraid of human beings. We run things in the forest while the wolf isn’t around. Eyes that don’t want to close at all times ruin everything, pretty much every word. The sadness will last forever. I can’t remember now why I ever thought it wouldn’t. Continue reading “3 Prose Poems by Howie Good”
Magpies, Re-runs and Lost Time
Carl sat there, on the sofa, mesmerised by the sound of magpies. Their clicking calls like rattle clackers at a football match in the old days. He watched them swoop and dive, attacking the screaming songbirds, relentless egg raids one after another. Thieving and hunting, blue, black and white blurs. That clicking noise, against the midday silence, soothed him into magic trance. Turning his attention back to the TV playing an episode of Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em, he grinned at Frank annoying some poor bastard in a shop. But as Frank nervously caused another calamity, something went wrong with the telly. The screen didn’t look right. Carl focused, squinting and, as the soft fuzz sharpened, he realised he was looking at the skirting in a corner of the room. Continue reading “3 Stories by Rob True”
Iconic
The half-suns laid in brick —
tan curves on a red face —
close in on each other
but never touch.
They will not come together
to brighten the sky.
They will not kiss your face
with rays of light.
The Arsonist Magazine edition 01 – featuring flammable materials from 30 international writers artists photographers – Coming Soon
Dream Wedding
I.
The dress is white and silk and sheer. Mother puts a hand on her chest, tells me that she is so proud but I look at her wrists and her string of fate clashes with her softness—an accessory out of place with her flowers and stars.
II.
I walk down the aisle covered by a veil of light—the handiwork is flimsy, I know the weaver’s still getting the mechanics of it—holding a bouquet that has been wilting for days now; it stinks of anger and disappointment, pungent and bitter and sour.
III.
My fiancé lifts the veil: I wonder what he sees—I, no longer a girl, but nearly feral, nearly clawing out a ribcage, with lips bleeding roses and charcoal masking eyes. I wonder if he can still recite his vows in the face of an oncoming storm.
I.V.
The rings are the sun melted down to fit both of our fingers. The varnish chokes the air in my lungs. He says I do as he slides his ring on my finger, something in me screams and collapses, shattering into muted petals. I say I do as I slide my ring on his finger, I hope he hears the clink of ball and chain linked around our hands.
V.
The night after the reception he’s in the bathroom and he won’t come out. With the door in between us, I ask why and he said that he did not marry a wolf, he did not marry to be eaten alive. I told him that someone had to, for tradition’s sake. I also said that girls weren’t meant to howl at the moon every night.
TINDER OF THE “DESPERATE MAN”
selling points include “fairly good shape”
liberal politics a breezy concept of god
checklists presenting
banged-up circles for easy handling
into this desperate mechanics turns
the gears of hard consonants
hikes, bikes, kayaks, walks
toils of past-time that toll hollow
now you want a goddess to flame
on one immune to the sting of obsession
I started reading Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale after the 2016 election. The book felt timely as we, as a people, confronted an uncertain political future. To be honest, I was gutted by what happened. I was troubled and grief-stricken that a man who boasted about sexually assaulting women, a man who dehumanized every group of people except straight white men, a man who lied every time he opened his mouth, was elected President of the United States. I know many of us are still reeling, maybe we’re even numb.
I decided that I would turn to literature as a way to cope with what happened. Writers give me hope. Writers are always dangerous because they ask us to empathize with The Other and they engage in complex, critical thinking. At least the best writers do. They challenge the status quo. They force us to rethink our assumptions, prejudices, and traditions.
Continue reading “On Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and Yearning”
5th Weekend
We’re in this old converted fire station and Sean is on stage doing a speech about how he draws inspiration from nostalgia and the working class and his mates and how his art means everything to him and how he’s so happy that we all came out to support him. He finishes and the hall full of a good few hundred people erupts with applause and cheers. He jumps off the stage and these four skinny lads get on the instruments and start thrashing out this punky song. Continue reading “5th Weekend – TJ Corless”
Safety Pin
Will a safety pin be enough
To quell the din of racism
And help those on the sharp end of abuse
Loosen xenophobia’s noose?
Are you pinning your hopes on too little?
SUBMISSIONS FOR THE 1ST EDITION OF THE ARSONIST MAGAZINE NOW OPEN – SEND US YOUR BEST – CANT WAIT TO SEE WHAT YOU MADE X
FRANKLIN HIRAM KING WRITES A BOOK CALLED “THE SOIL”
The one who begs
the elements
to be no more
than elemental
also prays
that his wife’s mouth
may be more
than the dust
she swallows trailing
you around
the dry seasons.
It’s simple that way.
Simple compounds
into the whole
of the universe. It
does that every time.
Inevitable
The hardest worked waters wore out
The rivers lost in time
Perhaps it is a way to maintain happiness without people
To fly freely from
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 