Featured

    Featured

    False Father

    Hunter Choate

    There was a time, not long ago in the grand scheme, when John would have known how to handle this conspiracy theorist...

    Read Now
    Slider
    Slider
    Short Story

    The Driver

    ·
    I should also mention he was holding a gun. A friendly gun. A gun that belonged in a gun show or an old Spaghetti Western. In fact, everyone in the room had a gun.

    Award Winners

    Poetry

    Four Poems

    ·
    that smoke; detail of shears; detail of matches; i go to a hole in the wall carribean restaurant because their beans taste like my father’s beans...
    Enjoying our online journal?
    We're even better on paper.
    Image not available
    Essay
    Rancher
    Selah Saterstrom
    Image not available
    Mixed Media
    A Field Guide
    to Embodied Archiving
    Leah Sandler
    Image not available
    Poetry
    Little God
    Avni Vyas

    These limited edition books are currently only available as part of a 2021 Burrow Press subscription. Subscribers directly support our publishing program, allowing us to take more artistic risks and provide a home for work that might otherwise be overlooked.

    learn more & subscribe
    learn more & Become a Subscriber Today
    Slider
    Poetry

    The Armadillo

    ·
    The old man told us to spend more time in graveyards and I will not I will spend more time with the armadillo because he shows me there is such a thing as un-sad

    Reprints

    EkphrasticFiction

    Wish You Were Here

    ·
    I feel like I want to apologize for the quality of these postcards. I wish they had been better ones, and that I could have sent you images of sunsets and palm trees and dazzling flamingos.
    Poetry

    Mouse

    ·
    Disney stuck an explosive in the mascot’s mouth, lit it up, then pop, smiled at his blackface in the mirror
    Poetry

    Nakba

    ·
    This language tastes like songs of my sedo and before, days when land was soft beneath bare feet, before bombshells bore into ground, before bullet skins showered seeds in the dust.
    Short Story

    How the Devil Finds Out

    ·
    It happened on the corner of 147thand Miller, beneath the long branches of an oak hanging over the corner. It happened often enough— usually to white kids crossing U.S.1 in front of the University of Miami or other tourists on The Beach—but seldom in this residential area, and never on this intersection.
    Poetry

    Amber Stream

    ·
    He fished the Suwannee: slow- flowing, tea-stained, wild, where the river drops through limestone and revives itself.
    Short Story

    What Blood

    ·
    Mr. Chuck Stonehill walked over from next door and told me he found a tackle-box, a bullet, and a rubber by the picnic table in the backyard under the palm tree between our rusting beach trailers.
    Nonfiction

    Schnozzle

    ·
    I was so innocent that my first thought was he didn’t know he was exposed. But the way he was staring at me so fixedly soon made me realize it was on purpose.
    ExcerptsFiction

    An Excerpt from Radio Dark

    ·
    The streets of Memphis’ town had been orange groves when he was a boy. He remembered as, one by one, the groves were bulldozed to make room for neighborhoods, for the people from up north, finally tired of the long winters, to settle into their respiratory diseases and neurological disorders.
    Nonfiction

    Lonely Boy Fights

    ·
    The ending to my story in Orlando flickers. I thought I knew how the story would end when I first set out to write this series. The scene would be framed at the Orlando International Airport...
    Nonfiction

    Lonely Boy Dates

    ·
    If I like her and she likes me, we run the gauntlet: Wally’s, Lil Indies, Tako Cheena, and then a fifty percent chance of never seeing each other again...
    Nonfiction

    Lonely Boy Dances

    ·
    At Lil Indies, a hipster bar, it doesn’t seem like many people are getting into the music. People pause conversation and look at the empty dance floor like someone left on the TV. So I decide to get wasted out of my mind until I believe in myself...
    Short Story

    Reservations

    ·
    It’s peak season and all the snowbirds are here, trying to escape the horror of the outside, for the last few weeks the smell of decayed ocean life has fallen like a curtain of death.
    Poetry

    2 Poems

    ·
    They laughed the day they broke my humerus and splinted it with wire coat hangers wrapped in black tape so my skin couldn’t breathe, so I’d understand honest pain.
    ExcerptsPoetry

    Thoughts and Prayers

    ·
    These days we still don’t stop for death. Instead, we pass by and outside the window lining the suburban boulevard one tree gleams in the morning sun—the trunk wound tight in tinsel...
    Poetry

    Flatwood

    ·
    We walked along the edges of the pickup bed to avoid the alligators in the center, we were tipping and taunting and finally falling into the bed and scrambling, forgetting there were alligators when we found the sun-rotted tarps . . .