New World Writing Quarterly

In no par­tic­u­lar time, you were sit­ting idly and look­ing out the win­dow, not real­ly at any­thing, and you thought, in a com­plete and audi­ble sen­tence, “I am look­ing out the win­dow.” Later, anoth­er day, you are idly look­ing –more

Somewhere along the line the cig­a­rette that we were pass­ing back and forth became my fin­ger. My fin­ger, pass­ing through into your mouth quick­ly, leav­ing damp—held firm­ly but gen­tly in between your index and mid­dle. I was –more

Empty Plinths

Daemon nev­er believed the word diaphanous could apply to stone. Once he began carv­ing souls from mar­ble after he lost his wife at the age of fifty-two to breast can­cer, how­ev­er, diaphanous became the only word –more

When my father starts bring­ing things over from the big Georgian house in Wynberg to my small cot­tage at Zeekoevlei I see trou­ble ahead. Logically, a one-room flat­let can­not con­tain the con­tents of a five-bed­roomed home where –more

The Pig Roast

One of the guests, a stout, big-haired woman in a tight-fit­ting dress, asked the head of cater­ing for the pig’s nose, which he glad­ly sev­ered with a quick chop of his cleaver. The pig, slow-cooked to the col­or –more

Telecommunications III

Last week Alexandra N. post­ed a self­ie on X.com, the every­thing web­site from which much good cheer emerges. It was a good self­ie. It fea­tured a fash­ion­able dress and a full-length mir­ror and all kinds –more

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