Not For Profit/For Prophecy



Solitaire by Attracta Fahy

‘I don’t know what to feel, she said,

now you know the truth,

How can this cloak of shame

that shawls my body,

scrape the bad feeling from my skin?’


Where are the sisters, brothers, 

in psyche to reassure? 


What is it when we reveal scars

that make us who we are?

Through windows, basin eyes

stare at mine, precious

manuscript blobbed in stains.


And who can tell if pain has learned

to smile? Easier to blame ourselves,

to break the occult code

on your soul. Head in arms,

muscled over piercing ears.

Hearing either wounds,

or heals the listener.


There are no accolades for

this epic journey,

bare labyrinthine thorns,

a broken bird lived – in faith

that love would come,

sea silk full with arduous baggage,

holding the key.


Across fields, buttercups

carpet grass, tiny cauldrons

filled with sun.

Within, a door stayed open.

The cow who listened, benevolent

eyes cushioned youth, flaying on

a makeshift swing.

But never mind those things

for now,

You are here, and

I am listening. 


Continue reading “Solitaire by Attracta Fahy”


Two Poems by Annette Skade



The mirror in this rented room is fixed

exactly to reflect my pillowed face,

the first thing I set eyes on when I wake.


Most nights I hang a hasty covering

to save me from the sight of cheeks caved,

bags under eyes, mottled age.


Or is it in case my other self steals

out from behind thin silver, feels

its way across the gulf to enter me,


so I start to do everything backwards,

miss my mouth, turn notebook sideways,

my words always edgeways.


Or if for fear I die before night passes,

and that other world traps my soul fast.

I am forever pinned under glass.


Continue reading “Two Poems by Annette Skade”

L’Idole by Laura Izabela


you pray for the cure at dawn whilst the light melts off your skin.

Icarus, hopeless bird-child,

you put a knife in your back, twist,

fall off a bridge to vex the sun, tranquil.

It is meaningless

whatever you decide to do.

Shame clouds your judgement now, it consumes you as

you feed on your soul, always: search for the heart.

Thoughts destroy structure —

on a moonless night, with two dark stars,

they are the makers of the world.

Continue reading “L’Idole by Laura Izabela”

Plastic Eggs by C.B. Auder

Our parents were

not perfect but they qualified.

Unwrapped an egg every third June

and found a fresh baby the following spring.

For the rest, Mother relied on The Joy of

Cooking, Similac and Dr. Spock. Dad’s double-

starched dress greens. Precise and crisply

calibrated rules. Yellow JELL-O our standard

bone-and-hide treat. Annual portions

of Betty Crocker meted from any birthday

hopes we could pour neatly into a nine-inch pan.


A home that ran on time and solid logic, not some wild

moment’s unexpected demands. Nine rooms, all safe.

All quiet. Childhood without a care. Funny,

that I once believed we somehow shared

a superior brand of family

rites. I ate it up head-first, the hollow

bunny who gave its only chocolate life

to sweeten our spic-and-span Easter feast.

(And weren’t they healthful, those boiled

carrots? Weren’t they dependable, those

finely-grated feelings and well-peppered fears?)


Forty years later, Mother still tries.

The kitchen calendar says MARCH

so she hustles to baptize the fresh baby

asparagus to mush. She forks a ham

before our childless eyes. Hacks

with knob-fingered vigor at its unnaturally-pink

cloved flesh. Half-blind, she still rises

to measure every oinking slice. She will die vying

for control of all the mashed notions of the perfect

adults she’s somehow gathered

we have become.

Continue reading “Plastic Eggs by C.B. Auder”

Three Poems by Laura Potts

The Body Broken


Mass and Sunday mourning pass the chancel black

and chalice-back of I, spire-spined and last to part

my plumping bud to take the nocturne wine. Mine


the softly hills, mine the spill and steeple-swing

of fruiting breasts and bells, yes. We break the bread

and bless. Lady in the lancet holds the apple mocking red.


Dappled chant and dark, ahead the blood-bright night

and first-light glass of gasping Eve, winter’s heave

hangs always here with heads that bow before the vow


to never grieve the leaving eyes of youth. Truth

is lost and winterworn. Borne away on snarling winds,

the greening drop of spring falls from my hair. The cleric’s


cloak is a darkly thing. My deeper, deeper throat

receives the gloaming sermon there, heir of the berry

dreamt to burst in his hand. Damn the vestal


up-and-swung of lust that Woman loved, budblood

and the Garden singing skin and pink bouquets, but

turn the tongue beyond the Book and in the darkest


places hold the harvest fruit and look above and long

to lasting-touch the apple that is loathed so much.

Such is Sunday mass and curse of we, the curled


Madonnas kneeling with a screaming in our skirts.

The weakly bread we break and nurse. And vow and

kneel and slaughter one more godless book of verse.

Continue reading “Three Poems by Laura Potts”

Charon’s Amusement Arcade by BR Williams

It really messed me up, it did. For months after my discharge, even the sound of my own farts would send me, you know, wherever it was I went. I would just freeze up. Go into a kind of dead-face trance. I was a big lad back then, and it was difficult for people to get me moving again once I’d stopped. So I’d end up staying there for a while like, in the street, wherever, just staring at the grey clouds on the horizon. At one stage, it got so bad that when I was offered a job at the local arcade – one of them bandit places – my counsellor practically begged me not to take it. She said the flashing lights and the noise of the coins dropping would be too much for me to handle. She made it sound like I’d end my shift fitting on the mucky carpet there, like some sort of fucking fish. But I had to give it a try. It was the only job offer I’d had since landing back on civvy street, and staying in the house all day with my parents tip-toeing nervously around me, well that was sending me another kind of crazy. I was starting to feel like one of them fucking bombs I was so Continue reading “Charon’s Amusement Arcade by BR Williams”

Three Poems by Jared A. Carnie



The offices merge, and the

dinners and the nights out.


Even, embarrassingly, the aunts

and the children of friends.


But never the sunrises.

Each one mapped distinctly

across my veins

like a new and still-blossoming love.

Continue reading “Three Poems by Jared A. Carnie”

gibbous moon waxing by Lewis Ellingham

gibbous moon waxing

Continue reading “gibbous moon waxing by Lewis Ellingham”

After the 10th Date by Sam Frost

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”

Professional Mermaid by Megan Dunn

A tail can be manufactured

Neoprene, dragon skin silicone, urethane,

flukes customised &

sold to finfolk

lost@sea. Staccato tweets,

eyespots as strange as olives.

At work the dorsal fin separates

easily from the mould.

The mertailor’s apprentice eats.

Knife and fork

reveal flesh as pink as corned beef.

Afterwards, he skims the stock.

(His soup smells good in the pot.)

waves-1 (2)



On weekends she’s a wish in a tank

satisfaction guarranteed,

will do small fry,

Are you real?

(Are you?) Continue reading “Professional Mermaid by Megan Dunn”

Submissions Are Open!!! from 1st March – until 24th March – for our second guest editor Amee Nassrene Broumand!!!

Burning House Press are excited to welcome Amee Nassrene Broumand as our second guest editor! Amee will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of March – when she will then hand over the reins to our third guest editor for the month of April.

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

Amee will be responding and publishing your submissions on a rolling basis during the month of March – and has chosen her themes for submissions!

Amee’s Themes are Masks // Transformations // Cosmos // Personal Myth.

Amee has introduced the themes herself for your guidance:


Wrestle with illusion, seek truth. See your various aspects as masks; consider their individual appearances & reflect upon why they’re shaped as they are. We all have masks; what are yours? Play with this idea, infuse it with mystery. Perhaps make yourself a new mask, one that taps into important yet hidden aspects of your life or mind. Create something that intrigues you, not as a product but as a catalyst for personal transformation. Make something magical; give yourself chills. Mark it with the fire that comes from grappling with your own consciousness. “We are made of star stuff.” –Carl Sagan. Create work inspired by astronomy or cosmology. Contemplate time & the universe & how it all began. Consider the origins of matter & your place in All This. Note the night sky, the turning earth, auroras, eclipses, & the solar system; contemplate nebulae where stars form over eons, contemplate supermassive black holes brooding like giant spiders in a great intergalactic web. Forge a connection to the vastness; create a personal myth that integrates your own mind / dreams / experiences / family / heritage / community / culture / local plants or animals or natural landmarks with the universe at large. Become a drop swimming in an ancient & sublime night. Astrophotography welcome!

GENERAL SUBMISSIONS: If you have work that doesn’t fall into any of these categories, submit it anyway! Hybrid, experimental, & highly imaginative work encouraged. My taste in all media is eclectic but tends towards the strange (in both subject & style). I love clarity, complexity, intelligence, genuineness, introspection, mystery, risk, & symbolism. If it’s too weird for the average literary journal, send it my way; if you walk to the beat of your own drum, I want to hear from you.

NOTE: I especially encourage submissions from women, POC, immigrants, members of the LGBTQ community, the neurodiverse, and other traditionally marginalized groups.

* * *

For submissions, Amee 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.


Submission Guidelines

All submissions should be sent as attachments to

Please state the theme and form of your submission in the subject of the email. For example: MASKS/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 March til 24th March – and will reopen again on 1st April for our third guest editor.

BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing Amee Nassrene Broumand– friends, send her your best!


Florence Lenaers – BHP Guest Editor February 2018

And… that’s a wrap! Florence’s month as guest editor of Burning House Press online finishes today, and she has presented her final selected pieces on the site.

We would like to thank every single person who took the time and had the faith and trust to submit your work to Burning House Press – we appreciate every single piece of work sent to us and all who take the time to engage with our submission calls.

And, we want to say a massive thank you to Florence Lenaers – for choosing the three fantastic themes of Languages // Letters // Lists – which inspired so many wonderful responses – and also for the incredible way she has selected, curated and presented the work, and the impeccable way she has dealt with the general tasks and interactions of her editorship – we are sure that all who engaged with Florence through the submission process can testify to her approach.


Now, the keys and the reins of BHP online are handed over to our second guest editor, who will take over for the month of March…





Gena’s Birthday Song // Песенка крокодила Гены by Lauren Dostal

Alligator punches out at five, grabs his hat, ready to go. ( Я крокодил )
He plays the accordion– // гармо́н
Such a shame, such a shame!
Balloons, streamers, the kinds of things worth celebrating
Only once
Once a year
His birthday.
K sozhalyen’yoo. // К сожаленью Continue reading “Gena’s Birthday Song // Песенка крокодила Гены by Lauren Dostal”

Wolfspeak by Lara Alonso Corona

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”

Bóthar by Daniel P Callanan & Colm McAuliffe

Continue reading “Bóthar by Daniel P Callanan & Colm McAuliffe”

On Personal Transformation

by Amee Nassrene Broumand


This isn’t an essay. It started life as an essay but then it began to twist & bristle & sprout distinctly unessaylike appendages.

The eyestalks struck me by surprise.

Perhaps it’s an insect or some sort of strange crustacean.

* * * * *

Imagine you find a giant handbag bleating in the corner like a lost lamb. You take it & shake its contents out onto the table.

What do you find?

Take a minute to think about this.

* * * * * Continue reading “On Personal Transformation”

Excavations #3 by James Pate

It would otherwise not have been the oaks
In their flat field of shadow

With neon stars between their arches
Blinking. Everyone was alive

Then, in their various guises, even as fewer
Of us feasted at the table, and the figures

Moving through burgundy rooms in
The film we remembered

Grew more gaunt and porous. Mostly
We dealt with languages Continue reading “Excavations #3 by James Pate”

Three poems by Jaclyn Piudik


1 —

Everything has a skin:

my parents’ sectional sofa had its plastic slipcover
that stuck to summer-thighs leaving deep, clammy crevasses

prunes that float to the top of the compote
boiled milk, roasted chicken

and what remained of me

________  pictorial, dégagé
________________________________accepting the flow
________________________________________________________________water on the wrist.

Continue reading “Three poems by Jaclyn Piudik”

Two poems by Aysar Ghassan


Aspects of Dan

Dan. Danzel Washington. The Blue Danube. A dan of iniquity. The Great Fire of Londan. First dan black belt. Obi-Dan Kenobi. Javier Bardan. South Sudan. Dancing the dan-dan. Lapdan souchong. The bank of mum and dan. Muscle, bone and joint pain caused by mild dangue fever. Will.I.Dan. Danber Gascoigne. Underground, overground, wombling free, the Wombles of Wimbledan Common are we. Dan! Dan! Continue reading “Two poems by Aysar Ghassan”

List Poem: To Do by Hazel Warren

Wash Up
Clean House
Sort life
Phone Dad
Smile for no reason
Run for no reason
Commit small act of treason
Question your beliefs
Believe your answers
Listen to your heart
Fall in love
Fall in the sea
Fall to your knees
Stop. Continue reading “List Poem: To Do by Hazel Warren”

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