I woke up thinking of you,
and the word, Komorebi
Japanese, for the light
that filters through the trees
I woke up and thought of the sunshine I found
in your arms
in your eyes
Britain’s Most Wanted
It was while opening a package from the States
That it happened
The package contained the artwork to my latest novel
Burrito Deluxe
By Calif’s finest
Jose Arroyo
Holed up and rolling with the punches
East of East LA
The artwork was perfect for
The novel and nobody but Arroyo could’ve come up with it
Unique
But as I stood there admiring the creation
Britain’s Most Wanted
Came on the television
A list and faces of UK’s most wanted criminals
And the shock when I heard the name
And looked up
And there on my television
In High Definition
Was the hero of my novel
The inspiration and catalyst to
Everything that had happened
On our great Mexican adventure
The man who once said the creation of a myth
Was the only thing he was interested in
And that if you join them, you will always be at odds with them
And everything they stand for
And there he was on the run
Still running free
And laughing at the sun
Long may he run. Continue reading “4 Poems by Joseph Ridgwell”
Just Pull It Out
The doctor was getting younger, by the minute. And I kept telling him I recognized him from somewhere.
The more I sucked on the gas the more I knew him, and the younger he got. When I’d first come in he was middle-aged. Now he was early twenties. We’d shared an experience together, we were good mates, didn’t he know that?
There was sweat on his forehead, his top lip.
He looked to the nurse. ‘We need to call a surgeon.’ Continue reading “‘Just Pull It Out’ by Peter Jordan”
bloody phantom planet
ghosts aren’t
invisible
or made of strange
otherworldly
vapors
look around
you
every occupied
house
is
haunted
&
ghosts are
made
The Greatest Critical Apparatus
Can public imagination,
not public
reason,
realize explosions
are rewarding
for survival? Continue reading “3 Poems by Patrick Williams”
my body is not my body
when i’m held mouth wide open, blood oozing, dreading your extraction of part of my body. i’m only six. i’m not asleep. i never forgot.
i’m eighteen. adult, or so they say. part of my body breaks so more space is filled with you & all you carry. it hurts. in retrospect, it always hurt. it always will. Continue reading “‘my body is not my body’ by Nadia Gerassimenko”
Untitled (for Andre Breton)
Nostalgic sentiments and new wave nocturnes
intersecting in a normal chaos of life
an hourglass of neglected affinities
idols of saturated phenomena
night of filth, night of flowers
the aporia of revelation Continue reading “5 Poems by Rus Khomutoff”
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”
The Pool
The water in the pool
was not the same blue
when summer faded.
Colors of autumn
was a confusion–
when green became brown.
Waves of the wind,
Reflection of emotion,
unable to be translated. Continue reading “The Pool by Orawan Cassidy”
An Expenditure of Munitions
Twenty-seven orphans
cleaning and oiling,
polishing up their rifles. Continue reading “3 Poems by Gary Carr”
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”
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”
Part 3: ‘Discussing Death’
My first memory of death is linked to a man I never knew. My mother’s father died of a heart attack before I was born; the irony is that I know more about his death than I do about his life.
The entirety of the man has been reduced to a single black-and-white obituary photograph that my mother faithfully keeps at her prayer altar. Then, there are the stories. The stories of what an influence he was in my mother’s life, how he used to work with the British Royal Navy (this was in the 1940s and 1950s, in a pre-independent Singapore that seems as much of a myth as my late grandfather), and of course, the stories about how he died, and how that changed his entire family’s life.
It is funny, what death does. It slowly morphs to form the central narrative of a person’s life, as if only through death did his life gain meaning and importance and weight.
Continue reading “‘Walking Towards Death’ – 5 Essays on Mortality by Arathi Devandran”
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.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 
3 Poems & An Interview With Poet Amee Nassrene Broumand
The Sandpipers
It’s time for a ghost story—now,
while opalescent giants, dark-robed, stride
over us, hair blazing with the night
to come—
they imagine themselves
masked, bejeweled, descending
to the asylum window. The inmate’s lament—
They came in the night and stole my head.
What did they do with it? My old green head. Continue reading “3 Poems & An Interview With Poet Amee Nassrene Broumand” →
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