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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Not For Profit/For Prophecy

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memory

A short story by Meryl Baer

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‘memory/loss in the key of blue’ by caitlin m. spencer

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3 poems by Gabriel Mundo

(Image, Simson Petrol, Unsplash)
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3 poems by Akpa Arinzechukwu

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A poem by Lee Wright

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Anonymity of the Rural: A Photo Series by Awa Konaté

Flash fiction by Tim Agaba Baroraho

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A poem by Nikki Wallschlaeger

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A poem by Michelle K. Angwenyi

(Photograph by Michelle K. Angwenyi)

THERE ARE STILL NO WORDS TO MAKE UP FOR LOST TIME

Every slight in the wind will turn the city
Another shade of our re/[-]/mind. For now
There are fragments, going all the way back
To that of that sky, and that when the wings, 
And those when the scream, and that how —
How uneventful; to remember so much. 
Imagine what we have done [we will do] with our unfinished memories.


Michelle K. Angwenyi @mkangwenyi  is a writer from Nairobi, Kenya. She blogs at notjustwiththelions.wordpress.com.

A poem and a sound piece by Matt Atkins

(Photograph by Matt Atkins)

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A poem by Ian Seed

(photograph by Ian Seed)
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3 poems by Ashley Miranda

(Photo by Nowshad Arefin on Unsplash

oh my eurydice
–––after arcade fire, for don

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Two poems by Lisa Rhodes-Ryabchich

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A poem by Juliane Okot Bitek

( “Kerala 070”by aroopmp is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 )

A Ghost Poem

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Redoubt by John Trefry

Your consciousness is homeless and itinerant for quite some time in a significant physical journey. And you must build it its home, or its redoubt. That redoubt is specific to the journey. And like a tortoise’s shell the redoubt accompanies you on the journey even as it grows. Its construction is excruciatingly frustrating and failure-ridden. Accept this. Construction of the redoubt is the journey.

01.jpg
Skjerdal, Norway, 9:00 PM, June 9, 2015

Arrival takes place much later cognitively.
Accept this.
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The Watersteps by BR Williams

The Watersteps are ruins now, but you can still see what is left of them by walking through the dank forest on the edge of town, over the train lines and then down to the crease where two wave-like hills meet. The steps sit half-swallowed inside a wide clay gorge. A little further up the gorge, there’s a stream at least half as wide as the gorge itself. It drops down an accidental waterfall caused by the collapse of the Watersteps. A sheet of tarpaulin wafts, hit by the unravelling crystal carpet of water. For the most part, the stream disappears amongst the rubble and soft ground at the foot of the waterfall. Only further down does a meagre version of it reform, bypassing the steps entirely.

The Watersteps have haunted my imagination for a long time. The first poem I ever wrote was about the steps. I hated it, re-wrote it, destroyed it and started again. I have been repeating each step ever since.
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