• 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


    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

  • John F. Buckley ~ Notes at the End of the Thirteenth Baktun

    I need to speak out about death and human­i­ty,
    don’t I? The world ends in three hours. All
    I have is you, a limp car­rot, and a change buck­et
    on the kitchen counter. The flesh on my elbow
    is ragged and hood­ed. I can almost pull it
    over my head like a wim­ple. I don’t want to see
    the aliens land. I don’t want to watch any
    rabid vol­ca­noes emerge by the gar­den shed.

    Survival’s no longer a giv­en, –more

  • Susan Thornton ~ Full Partner

    Leslie squint­ed at the menu and willed her stom­ach to coöper­ate. She’d done her reg­u­lar half hour on the stair mas­ter, and sat in the steam room for a good 20 min­utes. That had always worked before to sweat out a hang­over. Maybe she was get­ting old. Thirty and change was when things caught up to you, she’d always heard, but didn’t want to believe. The over­head light caught on the heavy sil­ver –more

  • Rob Roensch ~ Come to Me and I Will Give You Rest

    In the Carl’s Jr. park­ing lot across the street, two teenage boys in hang­ing-open red Carl’s Jr. shirts were argu­ing with a square woman who was stand­ing in the dri­ve-through lane. Parked at the pick-up win­dow was a dingy white mini­van with a punched-out head­light. The woman stabbed a fin­ger into the air between her and the teenagers. One of the teenagers clutched his belt with a fist as if –more

  • Lucinda Kempe ~ Jeanne d’Arc

    I woke up miss­ing my big toe, my hair in a mul­let, and with a half-eat­en donut on the bed­side com­mode. A shep­herd preached in the court­yard and the witch had parked her broom in the mid­dle of the dri­ve. Some kids were smack­ing each oth­er sil­ly with its fun­ny end.

    I clam­bered up from the linens, grabbed the donut and head­ed to the yard.

    The kids point­ed at my hair and the ooz­ing stump of toe.

    I had –more

  • Karen Craigo ~ Lighter Than Water or Lighter Than Air

    One of the men men­tions buoy­an­cy, and that’s when I know: they’re talk­ing about me.

    I had sus­pect­ed. This is our third day in the same hotel, the third day I’ve ven­tured down to the pool in ear­ly evening to catch what gold remained from the day, and the third time four bespec­ta­cled Australian men pulled lounge chairs up pool­side to face me and talk togeth­er while I swam.

    It’s a small –more