New World Writing Quarterly

I pre­fer pick­les to naked cucumbers.
I pre­fer cats to kit­tens and kit­tens to children.
I pre­fer to sit near­est the door, though not for the rea­sons you might suspect.

I pre­fer the col­or fuch­sia to the num­ber seven.
I –more

IRL VPN

Patrick nev­er fit in, so he fit out. Wherever he was, he was and was not. Touching down for hol­i­day in Berlin, he start­ed to feel divid­ed, so he changed his Virtual Private Nationality to Korean.

Annyeonghaseyo, he greet­ed the Germans. Tuning –more

You acquire a habit, then the habit is you. You are a per­son-sized con­tain­er that the habit pours into. The habit fills to your edges. You are a trans­par­ent pip­ing bag, a pil­low case, a jel­ly, a frag­ile mem­brane. You are ambu­la­to­ry and have pock­ets –more

The Homeless Knitter

A cre­ative woman was evict­ed from her small apart­ment for not pay­ing rent. She’d once had a large bank bal­ance until her husband’s health declined. His slow death wiped out their accounts.

Because she was ambi­tious and resource­ful, –more

Home from the Hospital

I have a brand-new spine
built from an Erector Set,
the surgeon’s favorite tool kit.
T10-S1, or S1-T10 depend­ing on
which direc­tion you are looking.
I con­va­lesce by watch­ing videos
haunt­ed –more

Larry and I were ROTC cadets in high school in El Paso. When the mood took us, we would go plink­ing with our .22-cal­iber rifles in the desert north of the city. It was a huge expanse, fifty square miles criss­crossed with dirt roads and trails, but –more

So pay atten­tion, will you?

~

The philo­den­dron will live for some time after Daniel dies. Plants don’t think, sur­vival their only con­cern. A yearn­ing towards growth and sprawl, light and nour­ish­ment. Were the code of the plant’s final crav­ings to –more

I didn’t real­ize how sticky human blood was until I slipped in my kitchen last August and fell into the mouth of my pried-open dish­wash­er with a but­ter knife rest­ing edge-up. I remem­ber think­ing that I was like a piña­ta filled with black cher­ries, –more

Maisie Fails to Anticipate the Ordinary

As her body began to break down, first one joint at a time—knees, hips, shoul­ders, then the discs in her spine, then the cham­bers in her heart, Maisie grum­bled that the human body had been designed bad­ly, and –more

After They Ban Flowers

We hold a women-only wake in the com­mu­ni­ty hall, weep­ing for our snap­drag­ons and hol­ly­hocks, our alchemil­la mol­lis and love-in-a-mist. We repur­pose our pho­to albums to press sam­ples of every­thing: sprigs of gyp­sophi­la beside our –more

Breakfast

I’m at my favorite break­fast place, Monday morn­ing, hop­ing I can eat in peace, when I see Muldoon enter, just as I’d dread­ed. I’ve already ordered, too late to run. I can’t stand to hear what he’s think­ing, and I can’t stand what –more

No one forced me into silence

No one forced me into silence.
I prac­ticed for it on my own, always
con­fus­ing being tired for being done.
In America, what mat­ters most
is that the flow­ers are cheap enough,
flown in from Columbia –more

The Oasis

Borschewski tugs at the bed­spread and pil­lows until they lie just so. Not that he gives a shit about pil­lows, real­ly, or that Nina does. The street is emp­ty under an iron sky. What, or who, is keep­ing her? The last time she was in his apart­ment, –more

I’m a dec­o­ra­tive throw pil­low, I’m a pair of mem­o­ry foam house slippers

After Eric Scot Tryon

I work the after­noon shift at the TJ Maxx Homegoods. I eat yogurt for break­fast because my last bone den­si­ty test was not good. –more

On the morn­ing the last trans­la­tor died, Meera began to under­stand things she had nev­er been taught to hear.

The ceil­ing fan spoke first. I have been tired for years, it said, not stop­ping. She lay still, watch­ing it turn. The voice was not –more

Poor-peo­ple food is very in right now, Madam says, with­out a trace of self-consciousness.

Just like jowar and bajra, she says. We rarely ate them before.

But now… she doesn’t fin­ish her sen­tence. She is dis­tract­ed by her face in the mirror.

–more

 The Edgewater Beach

They called it the Jewel of Uptown. A slice of roy­al Monaco dropped on Lake Michigan’s hum­ble shore. Pink stuc­co tow­ers. Oak and mar­ble every­where. Frank Sinatra and Bette Davis. Nat King Cole and the –more

Swayed

The hori­zon per­sists: an edge, a mark­er of dis­tance. It’s either dusk or dawn. You choose. The light imma­nent. The shad­ows tip­ping out­ward, rotat­ing. You wait for the present to encroach, not an as event, but as a con­di­tion to be estab­lished. –more

What If Gravity Isn’t a Fundamental Force?

A friend of mine wakes from a coma and for a second
I get con­fused between the spelling of coma and com­ma. Hesitation
is every­where. Now it’s a year lat­er, and I for­get which friend
it –more