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

Collection

awards

115 pieces.

Shiny Perfect

January 2021 | fiction, Pushcart nominee

Fiction · Issue 97We went to see him at night. Upstairs, third door on the right. One room with a bed, chair and table. Clothes hung on a metal rack. A bathroom down the hall. He was working—taking the foil from an empty cigarette pack, folding it, cutting it with a razor blade, unfolding and folding it again, cutting it again. Finished, he laid it flat on the table and slowly pressed the creases out with his thumb. I couldn’t stop looking. Do you have more we can see? We moved aside as he got down on hands and knees beside the bed and pulled out one large ring binder after another.  Is this all of them? He smiled. No. I’ve got more. Fascinated by nature with edges, creases and spaces, I spend an hour sitting cross-legged on the floor, slowly turning pages, examining each one up close just as I have Van Goghs, Mondrians and Kandinskys. No two are remotely alike.

A Tale of Two Bicyclists

October 2020 | Best of Net nominee, nonfiction

Nonfiction · Issue 96I headed toward Central Park West and 75th Street after leaving Dr. Zimmermann’s office. As usual, I pretended my mood was improved in order to avoid prolonging any conversation about adjusting my antidepressants. But honestly my mood wasn’t all that bad. It was my favorite kind of fall day: the wind gusted fitfully, and it was just cool enough for a light jacket. I like to cover up as much as possible. With nowhere to go immediately and a long, lonely train ride ahead of me back to my lonely apartment in Poughkeepsie, I decided to idle along the park side of the street. As I crossed 75th, I sensed someone looking at me. Waiting at the light, a dramatically handsome man—wavy blond hair, early forties, square shoulders, soap opera good looks—smiled at me as if I was his long-lost best friend. Propped on his bicycle seat, he hunched forward slightly, right foot on the sidewalk to steady himself. He wore a flannel shirt over a white tee and faded jeans, and, like me, seemed in no rush to get anywhere. Or maybe he was just that kind of confident person who gives the impression of being exactly where he needs to be at all times. He smiled even more broadly, perhaps amused by my obvious shyness and the confusion on my face. It was an unexpected flirtation. A rare flirtation for someone like me.

Shoshana Tehila Surek

April 2020 | poetry, Pushcart nominee

Poetry · Issue 94Green.Like the Mississippi River where the Rock River cuts the Rock Island Arsenal bridge in three. Like heavy clouds in that evening period when birds huddle in nests to await the next. When a single bat cuts sky too early for the mayfly too late for robin. Like threats of let loose. Like cover, like hands over mouths, like breath. Like heat. In eddies where remains of my best friend were bagged, after bound, after held, after down. Like heavy and shut. Like what I call God, what I call Heaven, what I call Green. Where sand holds ankle, promise, and anklet. Bones trace fern. Memory trace warning sign. I sit on the second truss, halfway suspended, awaiting the storm.

Stop a Second

April 2020 | Best of Net nominee, fiction

Fiction · Issue 94It wasn’t a very good time at all, not good.  Edward Whitley stood in the corner like an old floor lamp.  He wasn’t looking at anything.  His beady little eyes just sat there like the last two peas on a plate, lost in some thought, away from everything around him.  Winnie Spencer was passing out homemade peanut butter cookies, a good thing to do, but there weren’t many takers.  It wasn’t that out of place.  This was peanut country.  Everybody loved a peanut.  It’s what made Southampton County tick.

The Obedient Daughter

April 2020 | Best of Net nominee, fiction

Fiction · Issue 94There once was a girl who lived with her parents in a clapboard house in the Bible Belt. One day, her mother died just as she was pulling a weed from the garden, as if the root had been attached to her heart. When the girl’s father found his wife, bent sidelong in the garden, he pulled out his hair and burned the bedsheets in the yard. Oh dear god, I am cursed, he cried. First my son and now my wife?! He watched his daughter as she watched him, her hair like coal- stained cattails, dents in her cheeks and chin, a Kodachrome of her mother when she was young, and he took her into his bed as his new wife.

Charles Springer

October 2019 | Best of Net nominee, poetry

Poetry · Issue 92Inauguration DayWife calls me from her cell, says all the way to work whitetails lined the roadway, four and five deep in places, says they looked like passengers behind the line to board a train. I remind her that today’s the day the governor comes to town with his entourage and motorcade. I ask her if she saw the rabbits. Come to think of it, she says, it did look like the doe were wearing fuzzy slippers. And were there birds perched atop bucks' antlers? Hundreds, maybe thousands, in the voice she gathers for amazement. She asks if they’ve all left their nests to greet the governor as he passes. I tell her each and every creature have been summoned for extinction. Did you not see the front end loaders, dump trucks in the background? Silly me, she says, you're right, always with a new administration.

Duality

July 2019 | Best of Net nominee, poetry

Poetry · Issue 91[et_pb_section fb_built="1" _builder_version="3.22"][et_pb_row _builder_version="3.25" background_size="initial" background_position="top_left" background_repeat="repeat" column_structure="1_2,1_2"][et_pb_column type="1_2" _builder_version="3.25" custom_padding="|||" custom_padding__hover="|||"][et_pb_text _builder_version="3.27.4" z_index_tablet="500" text_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" text_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" text_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" link_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" link_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" link_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" ul_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" ul_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" ul_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" ol_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" ol_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" ol_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" quote_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" quote_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" quote_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" header_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" header_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" header_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" header_2_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" header_2_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" header_2_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" header_3_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" header_3_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" header_3_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" header_4_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" header_4_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" header_4_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" header_5_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" header_5_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" header_5_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" header_6_text_shadow_horizontal_length_tablet="0px" header_6_text_shadow_vertical_length_tablet="0px" header_6_text_shadow_blur_strength_tablet="1px" box_shadow_horizontal_tablet="0px" box_shadow_vertical_tablet="0px" box_shadow_blur_tablet="40px" box_shadow_spread_tablet="0px"]it’s a question of relativity
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)

Newsletter

Deadlines, awards and new issues, once a month.

AboutContributorsSubmission GuidelinesTerms & CopyrightPrivacyCookie PolicyDisclaimerImprintContact© 2000–2026 Burningword Literary Journal and its authors