Tiff Holland ~ Ending Up in the Ditch

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

Bram Riddlebarger ~ The Fisherman and the Tires

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

Jennifer Wortman ~ The Forest of Foodstuffs

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

Sudha Balagopal ~ Spring Quarter, 1980

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

Janet Clare ~ Flight

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

Jon Kemsley Clark ~ White

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

Sandra Kolankiewicz ~ Four Poems

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

Samuel J. Adams ~ Everybody Did

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

Tamara Burross Grisanti ~ Four New Fictions

THE HEART ISJUNK 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

Foster Trecost ~ Memories

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

Welcome to new Social Media Editor

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.

Susan Henderson ~  from The Flicker of Old Dreams

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

Natalie Gerich Brabson ~ Office Visit

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

Shane Kowalski ~ Politeness

I was meet­ing the man who pre­vi­ous­ly owned the house I now called home. After mov­ing out of the house, almost imme­di­ate­ly, his wife died of a brain aneurysm. His chil­dren were now grown and at col­leges on dif­fer­ent coasts. It had been a few years. The rea­son for the meet­ing was to give him a box of pho­tos I had found in the bot­tom of a clos­et in a room I hard­ly used in the house. The pic­tures were –more

George Moore ~ Three Prose Poems

Drop City

It was the mid­dle of the night, or it wasn’t. Do you remem­ber how that works? Now, the psy­choac­tive drugs por­trayed on each new series seem to be about mad­ness, as if that were an end to every­thing. But you remem­ber the day when we wad­ed into the school pond? How does mem­o­ry come back to hal­lu­ci­na­tions, or even the recall of a dys­func­tion, or the loss cre­at­ed by not being con­scious of who was –more