Congratulations to Dorianne Laux and George Singleton both of whom have had work from New World Writing selected for inclusion in the new edition of Best of the Net, due out soon from Sundress Publications.
Julia knocked on the door and I answered in a pair of ratty blue jeans, holding a putter and three golf balls. She had a friend with her, a teenage boy, who did all the talking at first. He delivered a scripted speech about creation versus evolution, and read from Hebrews something that said
WE’RE READING NEW FICTION AND NONFICTION with an eye toward the April 2012 issue. If you’d like to submit, please follow the link below, leave a short bio note and anything else we might need to know. We are particularly interested in work of medium length, say 1000–3000 words, but will read whatever falls upon our plate, and we will try to be speedy in our reply. Many thanks for your interest.
The man behind her said, “Let me ask you a question,” but she didn’t turn to see what the question would be. Something about what he said bothered her—it was the way he put it. She was out of sorts today, but, nevertheless, what he said was not the same as asking, “Can I ask you something?” Or saying, “Excuse me, I’ve been wondering…”
The mailman delivers the package on Tuesday. I rip open the small white Fed-ex envelope and a clear zip-lock sandwich bag falls out from between two pieces of cardboard. Inside is the necklace—a large metal cutout of two fists side by side with pinkies extended. “Too much rock for one hand.” It hangs from a cheap metal chain.
He had been watching her for four years—watering her plants, grooming her plants. First in grad school, then when they moved in together in Cambridge, and later in their first house as a newly married couple with house plants. It had taken years for him to credit: to observe, to suspect, to hypothesize about, and finally to believe.
Hello there, I say, and you’re stunned, so stunned you don’t say anything back, you just stare, stare open-mouthed and silent like I’m a ghost. And okay, all right: that’s what I am. People eventually stop calling when calls are not returned. The reflection in the mirror starts to look like someone else—or no one at all.
The Zanesville Bear Cub & the Puritan Tradition
A truism of American history and thought is our country’s tendency to project evil onto an object and then attempt to destroy that object. We call this “the Puritan tradition,” and it includes woods, Indians, women presumed to be witches, the entire South, New York City when near-bankruptcy, smokers, moderate drinkers and eaters of transfats,
mistranslation after Chinese “duck” riddle
Just one among the many ground-scrapers–
all my structures shaken from the rattle of the trains.
Everyone here balances their duties with such accommodating posture;
poses for their big dance number (I put down my book to watch):
Shoulders Up! And Stumble Back!
But it’s hard, everyone drops their intangibles,
Our Lady of Consolation
Ninety-one days after I quit smoking, my wife bushwhacked me with a brochure for Our Lady of Consolation. I was already in bed with a serial killer novel. Lake finished brushing her hair, then poked her hand into a purse hanging on the doorknob, fished out the brochure and dropped it in my lap. On the cover—an aerial photograph of a white stone monastery nestled among bushy pines.
“You need a
He’d always been stunned by his wife’s beauty when she slept. Sleeping, her natural beauty was undeniable, entirely uninfluenced by his feelings, her feelings, their various difficulties with one another, resentments, by their complex histories, unfulfilled longings, secrets. In repose, there was nothing to interfere with the undeniable fact of her physical loveliness. You might even
Click the link for a first look at Jurgen Fauth’s Kino, a startling novel coming next year from Atticus Books.
I Asked The Lord To Giveth Me A OneTouch
When I stepped barefoot on the bee I was allergic to bees. The Jesus-man steadied me with an even gaze. My attraction to the Jesus-man may have had something to do with feeling like a fraud, which I’d been feeling for too long.