Everything could have been dif­fer­ent, yet all remains the same. For years Batgirl cir­cled the globe, her eyes pud­dled with tears. Euripides, I’m told, despite his fame, clipped toe­nails in soli­tude. What I mean to say is, be patient with me, I’m lolling on the banks of a thought. I wait­ed while she applied mois­tur­iz­er to her legs. She resem­bled in those days a lake of gravy into which I was –more

A moth­er whose chil­dren go to my child’s school mes­saged me and four oth­er moth­ers from the school because she was in a quandary. Corinne is her name. As most of us knew, Corinne said, she didn’t have a good rela­tion­ship with her sis­ter, who could be con­trol­ling and nar­cis­sis­tic.

The truth is, she wrote, she’d been get­ting along with her sis­ter fair­ly well these last few months. Then, out of –more

All that sum­mer my broth­er, Kevin, padded around the house in the Pink Panther cos­tume my aunt had made him for his birth­day: pink paja­mas for the body and a match­ing tie for the tail. The paja­mas were thick and sort of vel­veteen. Despite the fact he was pre­pu­bes­cent, after about a week, he began to stink. He didn’t care. Our wash­er was bro­ken, and he was unwill­ing to give up the out­fit long enough –more

“Yep, just fish­ing for some tires,” said the fish­er­man. “I only need four. I’ll catch one, one day, and then I’ll only need three more. I’ll catch them, as well. Tires, they float by like glac­i­ers. Like worn, rub­ber glac­i­ers, and I only need four to get me to where I need to go.”

The fish­er­man cast his line from the bridge into the churn­ing water of the riv­er. The hub­cap struck the –more

In the four months since my hus­band died, I dreamt of him only twice. In the first dream, he ate berries, reclin­ing in a shad­owy room while our girls played on the floor. What a thrill to see him eat­ing. No tumor block­ing the way. No feed­ing tube. No puk­ing in pink plas­tic bins, no con­sti­pa­tion alter­nat­ed with atom­ic diar­rhea. His hair had grown back. His body, too. And his clothes: no gown, no –more

Sumi waits out­side the dorm for thir­ty min­utes before Mary, a fel­low grad stu­dent, shows up. They’re late for the brain­storm­ing ses­sion at Wray’s house.

The radio in Mary’s car crack­les, vol­ume on high since the win­dows don’t roll up. There’s a grassy smell inside the car. Sumi won­ders if it’s mar­i­jua­na. The taxi dri­ver who brought her from the air­port last week said he could smell weed five miles –more

Carol brought the baby home and put him in the bassinet, then sat on the edge of the bed star­ing at him. He slept peace­ful­ly while she toyed with a loose thread on the flo­ral quilt. She was young, but not fool­ish, and she, along with her hus­band, Dan, both want­ed this baby. But what struck her that day, what she hadn’t real­ly thought about until that very moment, was the per­ma­nence of this baby. –more

We were half way through the sec­ond course before she men­tioned it. Quite in pass­ing. Not that she came out and said it direct­ly. Just in pass­ing as if it was some­thing I already knew. Something like oh my hus­band would have done such and such or my hus­band would have said such and such. That seems rea­son­able, I told her, I would under­stand that. As if I knew him. As if she thought I knew about –more

Like a Tranquil Island

Of course I ran out of time, just bare­ly
begun before I had to board, right as
I dis­cov­ered at last the best part of
the city, the place where the artists were
thriv­ing, paint­ing their win­dow frames pur­ple,
using five col­ors to coat one house, the
way I always imag­ined we would be
liv­ing before a bus became a
metaphor for what –more

It’s my nine­teenth birth­day and I’m swim­ming with ten friends in a quar­ry when this old man with a big beard comes charg­ing across the lawn. He’s one of those tall guys who makes him­self seem taller by walk­ing stooped, like he’ll become gigan­tic if he rears his head up. Plus, when your eyes sit inch­es above the water­line, every­body on land seems tall.

“Who let you in?” he says. “Who –more

THE HEART IS A JUNK DRAWER

Each sec­ond can be a new begin­ning. Let’s crawl into the back seat and make rough sense to each oth­er. Read epis­to­lary love nar­ra­tives by the oven light. Tell you my sto­ry using let­ters? Sounds like every sto­ry to me.

I haunt lone­ly paths, look for you in emp­ty rooms. The world intends to give me sharp edges. To remain soft is a rad­i­cal act of rebel­lion. A forked path –more

He mea­sured life in years and fifty-two had gone. Sometimes he thought, on a dif­fer­ent scale, one dri­ven by a num­ber that val­ued rich­ness and ful­fill­ment, but that num­ber was too low for his lik­ing. He had done lit­tle worth remem­ber­ing, and since it didn’t mat­ter,  years were used. One lone­ly evening, he wan­dered about his house in search of a pho­to or note worth sav­ing, but found none. From –more

We are pleased to announce that effec­tive imme­di­ate­ly, writer Tamara Grisanti will be tak­ing over all NWW social media activ­i­ty, chiefly on Facebook and Twitter. As a for­mer and future con­trib­u­tor, we are delight­ed to have her with us going for­ward.

The White Sheet

The dead come to me vul­ner­a­ble, shar­ing their sto­ries and secrets. Here is my scar. Touch it. Here is the roll of fat I always hid under that big sweater, and now you see. This is the per­son I’ve kept pri­vate, afraid of what peo­ple would think. Here I am, all of me. Scarred, flab­by, cov­ered in bed­sores. Please be kind. 

When a body comes to our funer­al home, it comes draped in a –more

Mattie clutched her bag. She clutched her bag so hard her arms tensed and ached. Her bag was a sea foam green that she want­ed to squeeze the col­or out of. The pain in her arms from the squeez­ing didn’t com­pare to the ache, the throb in her tem­ples.

She would be called back soon, this woman said. They would help her very soon.

She hadn’t slept since— hadn’t slept for two weeks, not real­ly. –more