New World Writing Quarterly

July 2024 sub­mis­sions close 7/14/24. We will next accept sub­mis­sions October 1–14, 2024. We do not accept sub­mis­sions between issues. Thanks to all who sub­mit­ted to this issue and spe­cial thanks to our Senior edi­tors –more

1. VR with 360, with immer­sion, with imme­di­a­cy: it is the ulti­mate empa­thy machine says one practitioner/promoter. Thing is, the writer in Art Forum argues, it’s empa­thy for your­self, in your­self, with your­self. VR is stuck in its vivid­ness –more

The Clip

You have just buried your sec­ond dog. The after­noon is get­ting sticky. You put the spade back in the garage, kick off the boots and pour your­self two fin­gers of Gordon’s. You sit down and lis­ten to the neighbor’s guard –more

I @mentioned Yang in our WeChat group chat at eight AM my time and PM their time, telling her I dreamed of her being a North Korean spy. In my dream she was only revealed as being from North Korea, –more

(René Taïcon: 1930 Archives départ­men­tales Pas-de-Calais 4Z482 Sous-pre­fec­ture de Saint-Omer, France) 

My moth­er was Fridolin, a boy of four­teen. He pushed me for­ward in the soup line, and dealt –more

It wasn’t real­ly a food court, which was a bunch of restau­rants in a mall or a build­ing lob­by. This was a buf­fet, dif­fer­ent offer­ings set up in a sin­gle din­ing space, a meal includ­ed in the price of a room, here in the hotel.

“It’s –more

Tonight, while we sleep, new cones are devel­op­ing in the eyes of ten mil­lion, nev­er before seen. If you have ever watched a time lapse of a water­mel­on grow­ing, it’s like that. Nothing for weeks, until mirac­u­lous­ly, some­thing. –more

Paintings

She paint­ed all sorts of paint­ings, my oth­er grand­moth­er. Lots of paint­ings of clowns. Nudes. When I was a kid she paint­ed the Space Shuttle Columbia. Not the one that explod­ed, that was the Challenger, –more

What I tell him is this—let’s shoot a film / not a seri­ous fea­ture / but a movie you make with your friends / no stunts or dia­logue / only us / goof­ing off / draw­ing in dirt / paint­ing white cir­cles with mops / clap­ping –more

- a region of south­ern Greece
- a mytho­log­i­cal place of rus­tic inno­cence and pas­toral plea­sure: par­adise, utopia, Eden, Shangri-La, nirvana
- a metaphor for an ide­al but unat­tain­able world

“Et in Arcadia Ego”

I missed the –more

Here’s one thing about my mum.

She used to col­lect paper. She had an old grey-blue fold­er, tat­tered, giv­ing up at the edges. Written on it, in her pre­cise yet boun­cy red mark­er let­ters, it read: “Cartotecnica e varie”. Which –more

Soon

I didn’t say any­thing to Naomi about the old man at the restau­rant. I was in town for a con­fer­ence, telling myself the usu­al lies. That this soli­tary meal was not lone­ly or bor­ing, but a valu­able exer­cise in mindfulness.

The –more

1. Heavy Cream

I decide to mem­o­rize one new word from the dic­tio­nary each day, so I sit in the cen­ter of the liv­ing room and stare at the heavy book in my lap. Gunshots and train whis­tles burst from the tele­vi­sion behind me. Insectoid let­ters –more

My Problems

are so much more intriguing
than your problems.
My prob­lems have heft,
(although heft is not one
of my prob­lems thank God,
my genes, and my fine
metab­o­lism). Your problems
are a clus­ter of lofty –more

became –more

A young Christian cou­ple sell­ing pie slices. As you approached their table, the woman swept away a lit­tle card­board tent, one that you were pret­ty sure said $3, tucked it behind her back, stood up straight next to the young –more

Marcus swipes right. Thumb against crys­tal, that pres­sure. He’s look­ing for a woman. He’s fast. He clicks, he winks, he sends.

The bus stops at a light. No one looks up. Only the dri­ver looks, because she is for­bid­den to use her phone.

–more

On the cor­ner adja­cent stood the bank, the super­mar­ket diag­o­nal­ly oppo­site and bus stops the oth­er side of the street. The planned new shop­ping precinct where Forges had been since Federation had stalled well before –more

The young Shakespearean lived in a shot­gun house near the small town’s oak and cypress shad­ed lake, not far from the cam­pus where he taught.  He was excit­ed to host the vis­it­ing writer for an eru­dite evening of cock­tails.  –more

                                                                                    ‘Blow some my way’ – Chesterfield

Do you smoke Kools?

‘For –more