Issue 119 · October 2026 Submissions open for the January issue · close Dec 10 Submit → BookstoreCart (0)
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115 pieces.

Sarah Sorensen

January 2026 | Best of Net nominee, nonfiction

Nonfiction · Issue 117So You’ve Decided to Convert Your Middle-Aged Bedroom into a Magical Forest But All You Have is Amazon and WeedTake the edible and ask yourself which discount rug seems most like grass. Whisper the now popular refrain “touch grass.” Then make sure that it won’t feel like grass, but draw the line at watching an “unboxing” video. Select accompanying “portal” curtains, wall-size mushroom tapestries, and a comforter that looks like glistening moss under the cool blue moonlight. Change the quantity on the grass vibe rug. You will need 3. You should be ensconced. One rug cannot provide more than a sample patch. Will your feet sink into it? That’s necessary. Of course, if they sink in too far the vacuum will devour it and burn out its belt. That’s what happened when it ate a catnip mouse. Check for a depth measurement.

Meggie Royer

October 2025 | fiction, Pushcart nominee

Fiction · Issue 116CrawlspaceVeronica opened the paper bag of tomatoes, inhaling their earthy scent. Big Rainbow, Early Girl, Jubilee. Her favorite, heirlooms, were stacked at the bottom. They always had such beautiful cross-sections. Outside the window, a trail of birdseed stretched to the banks of the creek, raspberries clustered in rows along the hill. A thunderstorm was building at the horizon, clouds so dark she estimated ten more minutes before the rain fell.

Rome Smaoui

July 2025 | Best of Net nominee, fiction

Fiction · Issue 115The Tender EarthOur mothers die quickly. When we grieve, time rushes out of us like old light. They lowered the body into the black end of the ground. All the worms turned, delighted. The sun threw itself on the dirt like a lover returning. I couldn’t help but sink after her. I went in like a delirious fly. My body thunked with the weight of all its years. I was made of gold. They didn’t pull me out; a mutual understanding flossed between their silence. One hand after the other tossed the tender earth over us, the dirt a showering of black stars. I curled my head on my mother’s dead shoulder and pressed against her like a newborn shadow. A year later, I emerged from that grave, a thousand sheets of air driving though me. I could feel her moving beneath my feet like a barge on the river. But I adored the sight, the sun with its throat on display, yellow on either end of this terrible world.

Angela Townsend

July 2025 | nonfiction, Pushcart nominee

Featured Author · Issue 115My New Exercise BikeHerman is going to restore the vigor of my youth. Herman is going to prevent me from traipsing through the discount store when I am bored. Herman is going to remind me why God created hip-hop music. Herman is going to lend purpose to my soles. Herman is going to memorize my cat tattoo. Herman is going to become a shaman specializing in blood glucose. Herman is going to grant absolution if I miss a morning. Herman is going to do hand-to-hand combat with anxiety. Herman is going to sing Rod Stewart’s “Hot Legs” to keep me motivated. Herman is going to acquire decals of cats in spacecraft. Herman is going to learn the feel of God’s hands over my hands on the handlebars. Herman is going to be a secret for twenty-one days, the gestation for a habit. Herman is going to find out whether I can keep faith with Herman. Herman is not going to tell anyone that I get out of breath on speed #3, “moderate.” Herman is never going to experience speed #7, “vigorous.” Herman is going to smell like Lemon Cupcake hand soap. Herman is going to mesmerize my cat. Herman is going to inspire me to name a future cat “Flywheel.” Herman is going to hear hymns and Creedence Clearwater Revival. Herman is going to provoke the purchase of jaunty sweatpants. Herman is going to learn the names of all the West Wing characters. Herman is going to merit a five-star review urging others to obtain Hermans. Herman is going to celebrate day twenty-one with a congratulatory pat on my buttocks. Herman is going to hear me shriek, “was that you, Herman?” Herman is not going back to the Herman factory, even though returns are free.

It’s Ungodly Cold in Kahramanmaraş

January 2024 | Best of Net nominee, nonfiction

Nonfiction · Issue 109When I google Turkey earthquake photos, I find a man sitting amidst broken concrete slabs, holding the hand of his daughter, her body sandwiched between mattress and pancaked upper floors. Her hand is smooth and white, spared from the broken and slid. Her palm is open— an invitation. The pink sheet too spills off the bed, the way she’d slide off each morning, sleepy-eyed, following smells into the kitchen, her chair across from his. His other hand is in his pocket. Men dig around him with bare hands. His stare barely touches upon their movements, the sunsets and sunrises that will come and go.
Burningword

Burningword Literary Journal publishes poetry, fiction, nonfiction and visual art three times a year, in January, April and October, on the web and in print. Established 2001.

ISSN 2161-8992 (print) · ISSN 2157-7366 (online)

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