New World Writing Quarterly

Ever since she left her hus­band, Kit has been rid­ing the train. She gets on at the sta­tion down the street from the one-bed­room she can’t real­ly afford, in the direc­tion of New York City. The train is already quite full –more

We wait­ed for the trains. The stolen match­es we struck burned out across the tracks. Our father packed sleeves of crack­ers in a plas­tic bag and told us to come home in the morn­ing. Mother was away again. This time, maybe Memphis. –more

They kept the cir­cum­stances of his dying to them­selves: what he said and what he did. The way the nurs­es looked at each oth­er. The way the anti­sep­tic air hung heavy in the room. Who was clos­est when they gath­ered in a cir­cle –more

He was hun­gry for news. It was cold and he was read­ing Wittgenstein. Wondering if a weed was a tree. If all hous­es were hous­es. If he, in fact, was him­self. Some peo­ple had been avoid­ing him. Refusing his entreaties. Leaving –more

Build

 “Where are they liv­ing now?” my mem­o­ry-impaired broth­er asked. “I’d like to get in touch with them.” Whenever I vis­it­ed Dave he talked about our par­ents. “Do you remem­ber being in that house? Do you remem­ber –more

The House Beneath the Highway

At 3:30 a.m., my wife and I wake up ful­ly clothed and clump into the walk-in show­er in the crawl­space. There we step over the bronze skele­ton on the floor and scarf our sog­gy break­fasts amid the –more

NWWQ January 2024 sub­mis­sions close 1/14/24. We will next accept sub­mis­sions April 1–14, 2024. We thank all who sub­mit­ted to this –more

Slice

Eight of us at a din­ner par­ty, four cou­ples, noth­ing left to eat but dessert. Cathy, one of our hosts, has ordered a Bundt cake dec­o­rat­ed with a large frost­ing flower and petals from a local bak­ery, and our friend Ruth vol­un­teers –more

Not so long ago, you felt the fuzz of pussy­wil­low against your skin, spring rain on your face. Then, the hit of hard times, the rush and drench of gut­ter-flood, and The Woman you once thought kind­ly lift­ed you up, tucked you –more

They had made a puri­ty of his age. 

That’ll show em, the old, sto­ried, lament.

The streets he mean­dered upon were stone­less. A long time ago, before asphalt per­haps, they might have been tiled with weeds and inde­ci­sion. A –more

Migration

This year, the pota­toes rot. The wind’s full of malice.
The judge notes among cer­tain birds unhinged movements
a hard­wired loop braid­ed from instinct and forecast.
Threaded saf­fron cro­cus bloom
delib­er­ate crowds dye­ing the flagstones.

Across coun­try, –more

Soraya’s lips curl in a sat­is­fied smile as she nears the front door and looks at her watch—9:33 pm. Baba won’t be home from his late shift at the phar­ma­cy for near­ly a half hour. Mama will have fall­en asleep watch­ing –more

Cara came home one morn­ing with some kid in tow. He looked around four­teen maybe – hard to tell some­times – but his eyes were those of a man who’d spent his whole life in a war­zone with noth­ing much to eat. He stood –more

Wearing the hot pink faux fur coat yet receiv­ing com­pli­ments only on the hot pink sequined sneak­ers one intend­ed as mere complement.

Eating a food, the ingre­di­ents of which one can­not iden­ti­fy; it scarce­ly mat­ters if the –more

–more

The weasel under the cock­tail cab­i­net. – Harold Pinter

How queer.

‘The Man from Brazil’ a no-show.
Those cities of the plain in the jun­gle so many cas­tles in Spain.
Dishes pile up. Bills go unpaid. The mas­ter of the house sinks into –more

Private Zoo

The keep­ers and a giraffe have the only keys. No one much comes any­more. Just the Wild Man’s oth­er old friend, the camel. The pub­lic doesn’t even know it’s open.  The grass in back is so tall that your knees –more

The wind rat­tles the trees that envel­op her house deep in the near impen­e­tra­ble woods. It’s her home, but the struc­ture is more like a camp real­ly. She burns wood for heat and fetch­es water from the near­by stream to drink –more

“20 G’s, can you believe?” Mrs. Digby jabbed her fin­ger at her face in a harsh point. The sunglasses—diamond-encrusted with gold trim, lens­es a pink ombré—glinted in the sun, which I swear, up here in the Tops, is can­died. –more

She set the bags on the steps and then sat.  A car passed and then anoth­er, and up the street the sound of kids play­ing car­ried and fad­ed.  The steps were dirty under her skirt, and she told her­self to get up, that she should –more