New World Writing Quarterly

I ran by Bob’s grave this morn­ing. He died on September 10th, 2016. He was only thir­ty some­thing. On his grave were some fake flow­ers and a small, stuffed Ninja tur­tle. Raphael, I think. It had red armbands.

Bob lived in the house –more

Before the first date Petra already knows how futile it all is. She is aware of how inad­e­quate she looks, stand­ing half-undressed in the mid­dle of her room, three or four dis­card­ed dress­es at her feet. Last night, unable to –more

Sour Taste

The gay guy from ear­li­er in the year still cruis­ing at the mall, more cir­cum­spect today with his mum attend­ing. Neat, well-dressed, tidy woman retain­ing her looks, uncer­tain whether she knows.

Two small amuse­ments from ear­li­er in the afternoon.

–more

I AM STRANGE

I take the leafy road
in midsummer,
below a trove of hid­den stars,
drawn by orange light
in the distance,
beyond wheatfields,
in step with a dragonfly,
like the wind’s instrument,
head­ing –more

Forget the sleazy store­front agency. I am here. Next to you. Dressed in a fray­ing trench coat with sun­glass­es made from an owl. I am liv­ing in cel­lu­loid. In a piece of black-and-white 16-mil­lime­ter film, cut hard and past­ed –more

In your next life you could be an orchid
or dan­de­lion. Who’s to say who’s better?
Fragile beau­ty or gold grit? Seriously:
it takes all kinds. Literally: everything

is designed to be what it is, to do
as it does. You can stamp your tat­too
–more

Nameless

Not look­ing for trou­ble, I avoid­ed an encounter with my for­mer friend, who shall remain name­less because nam­ing him would seem too much like con­tact. Taking walks helped clear my head, but see­ing Nameless (NL) on one of my –more

Looking Twice

—Tracy Sweeney’s Rain in Moonlight (oil on wood)

The rain strings a gloomy tune
for the line dance of trees,
the sky beats its heart drum
to silence the croak­ing frogs,
the moon veils her face
behind fleet­ing clouds.

This is a shad­ows­cape
–more

Ristorante

A nine-year-old boy, I want­ed a sir­loin steak at a neigh­bor­hood restau­rant, an Italian place on 4th Avenue in Dayton, Kentucky. The week before, I’d heard some guy at the next table ask for that, a leisure-suit man with –more

After work, I find a head­less man­nequin lying face down in my dri­ve­way. The man­nequin is dressed in a gold tuxe­do and pol­ished, black leather oxfords. A crust of red crys­tal clings to the crag­gy stump of the mannequin’s –more

Rumors to the Contrary

Tired, I was fight­ing with myself, a duel between my good and bad inten­tions. I should have known but I could­n’t pre­dict what my oppo­nent would do next. I found myself in every direc­tion in my kitchen. Where could I run? I had an ordi­nary face, thin –more

The Scitico Water Tower

Looming black beside the railroad,
the Scitico water tower
shad­ed and shield­ed my childhood
from too much sun and puberty.
Dreaming of a rail­road life,
obso­lete before I was born,

kept me pleas­ant­ly infantile.
The water –more

On a per­fect sum­mer day in Annecy, France, Valerie rides a bicy­cle down a wind­ing path toward Lake Annecy’s azure waters.

She reach­es a patch of grass by the beach and pulls a baguette from her pack.

A boat pass­es pulling –more

The Sewing Table

It creaks at either end
if you don’t hold on
to it from underneath
when you move it

and we move it often
around the small kitchen.
Pine plank with engraved
six-inch rulers burned into to it

on both of the long sides
so that the –more

Manuel was up and about before dawn. He’d always start the morn­ing with a cold show­er, a rit­u­al that relieved mus­cle sore­ness from the day pri­or and jolt­ed his motor sens­es for the day ahead. To Manuel, a cold show­er was also a dai­ly test of pain –more

NWWQ sub­mis­sions are closed. We will accept sub­mis­sions again October 1–14, 2023. You will find below almost two dozen intrigu­ing works –more

Mr. Kim takes atten­dance as the kids work on their warm-up: list­ing items for their sur­vival back­packs. The all-fac­ul­ty email had sug­gest­ed col­or­ing sheets as a calm­ing mea­sure, but Mr. Kim had want­ed it to feel like a nor­mal –more

Empty Bucket List

I heard a voice I nev­er saw.
“You’ve only got six months to go, so live.”
While walk­ing on a trash-strewn beach,
regret­ting those squan­dered years,
I built an urgent men­tal spreadsheet.

I liq­ui­dat­ed all my wealth, applied
for twen­ty-sev­en –more

They’d been going out for six months but this was their first trip out of town as a cou­ple, using a week­end of win­ter break to browse Greenville, two hours and change from where they taught col­lege in Atlanta.   Back in –more

Saturday Afternoon, Ansonia

Sixty years ago this winter
I am still eight years old, grieving
the death of my mother.

The mêlée of children
teem­ing around me could be
a tableau from a paint­ing by Brueghel.

We are await­ing our turns
on a tobog­gan –more