Tachypsychia. The word we use for defining the neurological condition which alters our perception of time. Time lengthening, time moving slower, time contracting. A blurred vision of time as response to a traumatic event. Time as a collection of unrelated passages. Time as red lines on the temptation to exist. Time as well-captured intentions, the same throughout all journeys. Every inked reflection, a paradise lost. Continue reading “Christina Tudor-Sideri: PASSING THROUGH THE HOME OF THE DYING”
Burning House Press would like to thank August’s Guest Editor John Trefry for selecting a fantastic theme in // NON-NONFICTION // – and for all of the endeavour and hard work that has gone into selecting/curating/presenting the contributions received over the month – THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING, JOHN!!!
Massive thank you also goes to everyone who contributed to John’s theme and who continues 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 NON-NONFICTION edition – every selection in one place for you to read/peruse – enjoy!!! xX
I stand in the shower and let the water pound against the knot in my neck until the spasm seems so strong I register pain before terror. Every possible nerve I can find rests against the jarring freeze of the granite. Water drenches my arms, face, and stretch-marked body – kissing parts of me I used to reserve for your masochistic ego. Continue reading “Translations of a Post-Apocalyptic Love by Jessica Ciccarelli”
Out of all four seasons, summer is the least inviting to love. Continue reading “The Unforgiving Season by Paula Geanau”
Burning House Press are excited to welcome JAMES PATE as our fifth guest editor! James will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of June – when he will then hand over the reins to our sixth guest editor for the month of July.
Submissions for James are open from today – 1st June and will remain open until 23rd June.
James’ Theme/s for the month are as follows
James has introduced his theme for your guidance:
I’m fascinated by those spaces that are on the threshold between the interior and exterior, the conversational and the unnamable, the recognizable present and the intangible future. Please send work you feel might be too eccentric for other venues—writing with twilight-lit edges, photography that blends the particular with the anonymous, art that is charged with the radically other.
Are there images and phrase that only grow more cryptic the more we think about them? Are there barely audible voices still waiting to be recorded? Alejandra Pizarnik’s poetry, Shirley Jackson’s novels, Sun Ra’s discography, Tarkovsky’s films, Beckett’s plays, Francis Bacon’s humanoid creatures, voices reading the Tarot heard in the static between radio stations, night gardens with metallic-seeming insects…mystic political tracts, literary realism haunted by sci-fi, Gothic verse imagining lunar vistas of paradisiac ruin…Please send work involving liminal spaces that question and invoke.
James Pate is a poet and fiction writer. His books include The Fassbinder Diaries (Civil Coping Mechanisms), Flowers Among the Carrion: Essays on the Gothic in Contemporary Poetry (Action Books Salvo Series), and Speed of Life (Fahrenheit Press). He teaches creative writing at Shepherd University, in Shepherdstown, WV.
* * *
For submissions, James is looking for your poetry, short stories, flash fiction, prose poems, art, collage, painting, photography – as well as non-fiction submissions: essays, reviews, commentary, features, interviews – and all hybrids and cross-forms.
All submissions should be sent as attachments to firstname.lastname@example.org
Please state the theme and form of your submission in the subject of the email. For example: LIMINAL SPACES/POETRY
Poetry and Fiction
For poetry submissions, submit no more than three of your best poems. Short stories should be limited to 1,500 words or (preferably) less. We encourage flash fiction submissions, no more than three at a time. Send these in as a .doc or .docx file, along with a short third-person bio, and (optional) photograph of yourself.
Submit hi-res images of your works (drawings, paintings, illustrations, collages, photography, etc) with descriptions of the work (Title, Year, Medium, etc) in the body of the email. Files should be in .JPEG unless they are GIFs or videos, and should not exceed 2MB in size for each work. File names should correspond with the work titles. Video submissions can be uploaded onto Youtube or Vimeo for feature on our website. Send these submissions along with a short third-person bio, and (optional) photograph of yourself.
Non-fiction submissions (essays, reviews, commentary, interviews, etc) should be no more than 1, 500 words and sent as a .doc or .docx file along with your third-person bio/and optional photograph.
Submissions are open from 1st June til 23rd June – and will reopen again on 1st July for our sixth guest editor.
BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing JAMES PATE – friends, send him your best!
Guest Editor: Amee Nassrene Broumand
Professional Mermaid by Megan Dunn
After the 10th Date by Sam Frost
gibbous moon waxing by Lewis Ellingham
Three Poems by Jared A. Carnie
Charon’s Amusement Arcade by BR Williams
Three Poems by Laura Potts
Plastic Eggs by C.B. Auder
Night Photos of Newstead Village & a Poem by Sophie Pitchford*
L’Idole by Laura Izabela
Two Poems by Annette Skade
A Bacon Sandwich by Jim Gibson
Solitaire by Attracta Fahy
Three Poems by Ivan de Monbrison
Forgotten Astronaut by Spangle McQueen
What Else Can I Do? by Rob True
How to Tell Men Apart by Breslin White
Invitation To Move On by Jonathan Humble
Two Poems by Kate Garrett
Stealing Sleipnir by Alison Lock
The Transformation by Emma McKervey
Three Poems by Samuel J Fox
Sing a Song of Ever Changing Perception by Michelle Diaz
Photographs of Bristol & a Poem by Jason Jackson*
When Food Goes Bad by Kelly Froh
Two Poems by Anna Wall
7yrs bad luck by Richard Biddle
Jack by Gene Farmer
Two Pieces by Erin Calabria
genesis by Clark Chatlain
Baroclinic Instability by katillac tweed
A Catalogue of Small Shatterings by Makensi Ceriani
Bear off a Leash by Stephen Lightbown
Photographs of New Orleans by Julia Skop*
Two Poems by Kate Dlugosz
Interminatus by Cory Willingham
The Boyfriend Pinch by Christopher John Eggett
Dissociation in a Museum Café by Belinda Rimmer
Two Poems by Soodabeh Saeidnia
The Linen Man Suite by Lorie Broumand
An Interview with Poet Laura Potts by Amee Nassrene Broumand*
Featured Image: Solar Eclipse from Salem, Oregon 2017 by Amee Nassrene Broumand
Individual featured images by Amee Nassrene Broumand unless marked with an asterisk
I have always had a fascination with transformation. With taking incongruent parts to make a whole. With cutting and stripping and building up from the bottom and the artist as self-portrait. I could easily be found in childhood obsessing over the arrangement of furniture and décor of my Laura Ashley doll house. Today this is a dining room with a red velvet tablecloth and a chandelier light that chimes a segment from the Four Seasons because my Polly Pocket is the queen and she’s having the tour group Bratz over for tea. Tomorrow it is a miniature of my family’s dining room with boxes and old paint chips and no tablecloth and striped walls that look like silk and show damage easily.
Most of my toys were dolls, the easiest to buy for a girl, the easiest to buy for a child who liked to imagine new worlds. I remember the Betty Spaghetti dolls with neon bodies and plastic hair whose arms and torsos and heads could pop out to be interchangeable. To be made anew. How many times did I snap and unshape the forms of girls to get the end result I wanted. How many times did I teach myself what is, is not always. I remember the What’s Her Face dolls with smooth, blank complexions I could stamp their expressions on. This one is surprised. This one is happy. This one has stars for eyes and an eye for a mouth. The stars were permanent marker, the eye easily removed. My mother did not buy me anymore of those dolls after that. She would tell me not to cut Barbie’s hair because it did not grow back; I could not understand her anger when I cut my own bangs with clunky construction paper scissors. I thought we both knew it would grow back. It must have been the shock, of my swift reveal from one face to another. She must not have recognized me. I was not allowed to cut my hair again. Continue reading “A Catalogue of Small Shatterings by Makensi Ceriani”
My younger brother just scheduled bariatric surgery.
They will reduce his stomach to the size of a banana.
He said he can’t go another decade being heavy.
He asked me to remember when our parents got divorced, when he was 10 and I was 15 and I said, “See ya later!” as he filled time and loneliness with dry cereal and Swiss cake rolls.
I tried to commiserate, even though I knew I risked insulting him, since his weight issues have always been much greater than mine — said we both snacked way too much, and paired it with convenience eating:
Hamburger Helper on the countertop was mom telling us what’s for dinner
And award systems:
1 visit to church on Sunday = 1 sausage biscuit with egg at the drive-thru
We fell into negative routines: Dad yelled at me, I yelled at my brother, and then we nursed our wounds together with salt, sweet, repeat. Continue reading “When Food Goes Bad by Kelly Froh”
I’ll make jokes about death. Give names to the bunnies locked between coyote teeth as we walk through the forest with bare feet. Go to your apartment. Drop to the floor. Hide under blankets until the air is too warm. Stick heads out and kiss. Stand up, I’ll watch as the covers shift off, leave you naked. Grab a bottle from the counter. Come back. Take the first sip then pass it to me. I’ll crinkle my face and say no more. But that just means I want you to get a glass of water for me to sip after each pull. You’ll know that.
Play music. Dance with me. Wait till our eyes are clouded just a bit. I’ll look up at you. You’ll look down. The whole world between my nose and yours. Eyes lock. We’ll have to fill the gap. Lace your fingers through my hair. Sit on the ground. Grab the bottle. Continue reading “After the 10th Date by Sam Frost”
for Daniela Cascella
Last August, in one of his habitual Sunday trips to the flea market my father found an old dictionary of Bable – Bable being the dialect of our region Asturias. Unlike the Basque or the Catalonian, we didn’t have a strong independence movement to help preserve the mountain languages, and by the time I was born most of it was lost. We are getting it back little by little. But how do you recover sounds no one has heard in generations?
Like this: my father started taking pictures of the dictionary, and sending them to me, one page per day. He intends to do this until he runs out of pages, until he runs out of words to recover.
I should have started like this: I apologize for my accent. (I always do) Continue reading “Wolfspeak by Lara Alonso Corona”
Speech always moves.
When a person speaks they drive lung fulls of air through disruptive muscles that vibrate the flowing air before it moves in an open space. Language on a page, however, is generally static.
Meaning, most people would have us read against the text rather than into it.
Because letters in English are only phonetic signifiers, which in no consistent way relate to their sounds, neither speech (an object in the all-being type of way) or the object to which they refer, written language actually doesn’t say a thing. Usually… Continue reading “Poetry Letters by Dan Dorman”