New World Writing Quarterly

Opens for sub­mis­sions July 1, 2025.

The old woman, nine­ty-five come July, had lived a life of fires.

She used to hear sto­ries about the one in 1903 that ate the ranch nes­tled in the hills of the 13,000-acre Spanish Land Grant that her grand­par­ents bought—Rancho Topanga Malibu Sequit. –more

Recent awards to Lynn Mundell’s “Valuables” in –more

Open for sub­mis­sions 4/1/25 — 4/15/25

Western

The hori­zon backs up
the landscape
is full of real estate.
The light is bright
then goes out
alto­geth­er.  Roundup—

it’s time to consolidate.
Trot and gallop
then sag.  Straighten out
in order to circulate.
Red hills pop up
in baby blue air.

The –more

After Math

Were we ever the alge­bra­ic equa­tion we thought we were. Symmetric at each step. A mar­riage of tuxe­do, satin dress. Matched as brack­ets. As paren­the­ses of veil, lapels, clasped hands. A math­e­mat­i­cal cer­tain­ty. At least a par­a­digm for cer­tain­ty. The –more

Matteus told me he believed the dog was stolen. One moment it was with him out­side the cor­ner gro­cery on Mission, on the side­walk where he spends his days wait­ing to see Camila, the next, gone. I’m a store reg­u­lar. I know –more

Delores woke to a wheez­ing sound, float­ing up from the heat­ing vent, a sound sim­i­lar to what she heard when her daugh­ter still lived in the bed­room below and thought no one could hear her cry. Now away at col­lege, Tillie was –more

On the sec­ond floor of a beige stuc­co ding­bat apart­ment com­plex in my Dad’s neigh­bor­hood there’s a win­dow with blue cur­tains. I’m often vis­it­ing my Dad, late­ly. After (or some­times dur­ing) a vis­it I take a walk. The win­dow –more

It is almost Halloween, and the lit­tle girl is in cos­tume as a bal­le­ri­na: a fluffy skirt of pink tulle, a shiny plas­tic tiara on her head, thin slip­per-shoes on her feet. But no tights because the day is unsea­son­ably hot. –more

Last night, I had a dream in which my ex-girl­friend Pamela sent me an esca­lat­ing series of out­ra­geous requests. In her first email, the sub­ject of which was REQUEST, Pamela informed me that she was apply­ing to study alter­na­tive –more

Next to Nothing

A poem is an instant of lucid­i­ty in which the entire
organ­ism par­tic­i­pates.            — Charles Simic

I was just about to under­stand the graph
the sun through the blinds made on my desk,
when a cloud, as –more

Memory of Arms

The neigh­bor’s chim­ney cin­ders the air in a new breed of fall days. I walk through, breathe it in, merge with it. My side of the for­est, bare-limbed and damp.  Beyond the fence, back fields hold the steps of my chil­dren run­ning through, cau­tious of –more

It had not been nec­es­sary to vote for the ghost pres­i­dent. I remem­bered this at odd times, when they seemed more tan­gi­ble. For instance when they were giv­ing a speech on tele­vi­sion and they were less trans­par­ent than usu­al, when you could see the gleam –more

1. Nothing.

2. Just some­thing on my phone, that’s right.

3. Words.

4. What time’s soc­cer practice?

5. Nothing real­ly. It’s just—I need—

6. What if we just step outside?

7. What if we—

8. Let’s sit.

9. Right here.

10. Sit down.

–more

Roy orders the fries. He knows by now that his cheapo friends, Megan, Scott, and Wendy, will eat most of them, so he makes it a dou­ble. He wish­es for once in their god­damn lives they would offer to chip in. Okay, maybe not Megan, who he hopes, like –more

For my sister

They say coy­otes are relat­ed to wolves in fam­i­ly and genus. We have few wolves in Iowa, but a coy­ote can be found at the abun­dance side of every corn row, and behind each stalled trac­tor. One stood in our dri­ve­way a few years back, stared –more

My friend Shadow believes that the boy Franklin is call­ing for his dog, Apple, late at night. I believe this too. The boy Franklin, of course, was last seen in Bramble in 1910, while being dragged away from his family’s –more

Once, I Dreamed a Story That I Forgot to Write Down

It began some­where in the mid­dle. The char­ac­ters were a cou­ple, I think. There was con­fu­sion. And anger, I remem­ber. A death, maybe? Or a dif­fi­cult birth? Perhaps a still­birth? The kind of tragedy that would cause any cou­ple –more

The man sit­ting next to Henry wore an army fatigues jack­et and appeared to be in his late twen­ties. A pack of Marlboro sat on his desk. That was the thing about col­lege, Henry was learn­ing, you could have some­one any age in –more