Flash, Part I

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Here the open­ing salvo of our Spring 2014 issue.

We  con­tinue read­ing for the flash  issue and are par­tic­u­larly inter­ested in short essays dis­cussing the form–who, what, when, where, how, and is it worth it after all. All views of the rise of flash are invited, pro and con. Also views of lit­er­ary prac­tice on the inter­net. Please give us the opin­ion and the expla­na­tion of the opinion.

We sug­gest you read Jane Ciabattari’s piece in the March 4, 2014 issue of BBC.com/Culture. If inter­ested, please send your sub­mis­sions to our site at Submittable.

Flash Fiction Issue

We are prepar­ing a flash fic­tion issue this spring. We have pub­lished what were then called short shorts since 1995 or there­abouts, and we’ve done a cou­ple of issues of shorts/flash pre­vi­ously. Now we specif­i­cally invite sub­mis­sions of flash pieces (near or under 1000 words, or maybe a few more).

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Fall issue

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The Fall 2013 issue of NWW is up with new work from Andy Plattner, Eric Pankey, Joe David Bellamy, Rose Hunter, Alfred Corn, Richard Mirabella. All that plus Quincy Lehr’s won­der­fully abun­dant poem, “The Dark Lord of the Tiki Bar.” Click NWW, Fall 2013.

Gary Percesepe

Notes From Buffalo, August 9, 2013

On March 7, 1965, the Sheriff of Dallas County, Alabama threw one of the most famous punches in American his­tory, on the steps of the cour­t­house in Selma. The man that Sheriff Jim Clark punched in the face, C.T.Vivian, was named yes­ter­day as a recip­i­ent of the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

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James Whorton Jr.

Notes on Don Quixote, Volume One

This morn­ing a small pos­sum was res­cued by my wife from a swim­ming pool.  He was a sad, wet, cold-looking crea­ture with large, glossy eyes that were solid black. Who knows how he had wound up in the pool, but my wife dis­cov­ered him on the top rung of the lad­der, wait­ing I guess for some­one to come and offer him Continue read­ing

Jane Armstrong

Repurposing Your Big Box

Before you begin, you must divest your­self of sen­ti­men­tal mem­o­ries of your grand open­ing.  The park­ing lot was full, cars cir­cling, spilling out onto the sur­round­ing streets.  The cus­tomers waited on the side­walk for hours, sprawled on fold­ing chairs, bun­dled in blan­kets, gulp­ing big gulps. They nearly crushed one another when the doors first slid open.  Continue read­ing

Claudia Smith Chen

from Box City

1983, Houston, Texas. October­.  According to the Colonial Americans, this was the Hunter’s moon.  Trip found a big swath of vel­vet tucked away in Judy’s closet.  It was mid­night blue.  “This is what the guy meant when he sang about blue vel­vet,” Trip told Nora.   They cut stars from card­board and wrapped them in tin­foil, attach­ing them to the cloth, and sang By the Light of the Silvery Moon as he cut the cres­cent moon.   Continue read­ing

Elizabeth Wagner

2011-04-13 18.08.45Lake Resort

Almost fif­teen years ago, Lane bought a lake resort with her sis­ter, Elsa. It was a wild thing to do. It was the sort of thing you did when the world was blar­ing around you, when every­thing seemed too real and impos­si­ble any­way and dan­ger was famil­iar enough that you were tired of being afraid of it. Maybe some peo­ple would do drugs or cut off all their hair or go out danc­ing and bring home a stranger. Lane took out an enor­mous loan and bought a row of house­keep­ing cot­tages on 400 feet of lakeshore.   Continue read­ing

Frances Lefkowitz

Three Pieces

A Red, Red Rose

When you shiver in heels, there is always the chance that you will fall in a hurry. I would like to learn the trick to not turn­ing to con­fetti when dressed up. Until that time, which will no doubt be never, I will stick with these extremely unprovoca­tive crêpe-soled shoes designed to pre­vent roman­tic encoun­ters; they work, essen­tially, like hel­mets for the entire body (and soul, what­ever that is). My mother did not avoid rock and roll, or heels, or the prac­tice of unfold­ing her body (and maybe even her soul) in a flash, even when she had young chil­dren, even when she had old chil­dren.   Continue read­ing

Sowmya Santanam ~ Coovum River

I had lived all my life in the city but never paid much atten­tion to the river. I always thought Coovum was the Tamil word for sewer, until I met him. The fetid, repul­sive stench was all that came to my mind at the men­tion of the river. But, his face lit up every time he spoke about the Coovum river; how it carved its way through the crammed city and its four mil­lion peo­ple. He was new to the city. New-age yup­pie would insult him, he had old class and new money.  

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Additions to Spring

2013-01-20 13.41.52Delighted to report that we’ve added a ter­rific new Jennifer Pashley story “Hearts” to the Spring issue, along with four won­der­ful pieces by Diane Kirsten Martin. And last but not least, an intrigu­ing short non­fic­tion work by Tiff Holland.  Click ‘em at right or drop down the drop down menu above. Note that some­times that menu drops down, and some­times not, depend­ing on the “theme” being used. We change our “theme” some­times, just so you know. Hygiene, etc.