• Robert Shapard

    A Note on Flash Fiction

    A won­der­ful­ly short essay on the his­to­ry of very short fic­tion. Must read­ing for all. Ed.

    I like Jane Ciabattari’s piece, “The World Wide Web at 25: Changing Literature Forever.” It’s fun and informative—but she does make the mis­take that so many peo­ple these days do, under­stand­ably. She assumes the Internet has caused the short sto­ry form to grow ever short­er with a flood of micro and flash fic­tion. It’s much truer to say the Internet has reflect­ed the trend.

  • Winter 2014

  • Fall issue

    The Fall 2013 issue of NWW is up with new work from Andy Plattner, Eric Pankey, Joe David Bellamy, Rose Hunter, Alfred Corn, Richard Mirabella. All that plus Quincy Lehr’s won­der­ful­ly abun­dant poem, “The Dark Lord of the Tiki Bar.”


  • Gary Percesepe ~ Notes From Buffalo, August 9, 2013

    On February 16, 1965, the Sheriff of Dallas County, Alabama threw one of the most famous punch­es in American his­to­ry, on the steps of the cour­t­house in Selma. The man that Sheriff Jim Clark punched in the face, C.T. Vivian, was named yes­ter­day as a recip­i­ent of the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

  • James Whorton Jr.

    Notes on Don Quixote, Volume One

    This morn­ing a small pos­sum was res­cued by my wife from a swim­ming pool. He was a sad, wet, cold-look­ing crea­ture with large, glossy eyes that were sol­id black. Who knows how he had wound up in the pool, but my wife dis­cov­ered him on the top rung of the lad­der, wait­ing I guess for some­one to come and offer him a way out, which my wife did, using a net on a long pole, and then she helped him onto a tree branch, which he stepped onto unsteadi­ly, cling­ing with his long toes, and then he looked all around him­self in a stunned way, and then he walked fur­ther into the tree where we could­n’t see him anymore.

  • Jane Armstrong

    Repurposing Your Big Box

    Before you begin, you must divest your­self of sen­ti­men­tal mem­o­ries of your grand open­ing.  The park­ing lot was full, cars cir­cling, spilling out onto the sur­round­ing streets.  The cus­tomers wait­ed on the side­walk for hours, sprawled on fold­ing chairs, bun­dled in blan­kets, gulp­ing big gulps. They near­ly crushed one anoth­er when the doors first slid open. 

  • Claudia Smith Chen

    from Box City

    1983, Houston, Texas. October­.  According to the Colonial Americans, this was the Hunter’s moon.  Trip found a big swath of vel­vet tucked away in Judy’s clos­et.  It was mid­night blue.  “This is what the guy meant when he sang about blue vel­vet,” Trip told Nora.   They cut stars from card­board and wrapped them in tin­foil, attach­ing them to the cloth, and sang By the Light of the Silvery Moon as he cut the cres­cent moon. 

  • Elizabeth Wagner

    2011-04-13 18.08.45Lake Resort

    Almost fif­teen years ago, Lane bought a lake resort with her sis­ter, Elsa. It was a wild thing to do. It was the sort of thing you did when the world was blar­ing around you, when every­thing seemed too real and impos­si­ble any­way and dan­ger was famil­iar enough that you were tired of being afraid of it. Maybe some peo­ple would do drugs or cut off all their hair or go out danc­ing and bring home a stranger. Lane took out an enor­mous loan and bought a row of house­keep­ing cot­tages on 400 feet of lakeshore. 

  • Frances Lefkowitz

    Three Pieces

    A Red, Red Rose

    When you shiv­er in heels, there is always the chance that you will fall in a hur­ry. I would like to learn the trick to not turn­ing to con­fet­ti when dressed up. Until that time, which will no doubt be nev­er, I will stick with these extreme­ly unprovoca­tive crêpe-soled shoes designed to pre­vent roman­tic encoun­ters; they work, essen­tial­ly, like hel­mets for the entire body (and soul, what­ev­er that is). My moth­er did not avoid rock and roll, or heels, or the prac­tice of unfold­ing her body (and maybe even her soul) in a flash, even when she had young chil­dren, even when she had old children. 

  • Beth Gylys

    Three Poems

    On Birds, Women and Fire

    The goldfinch needs fire,
    the cold slip of her flicks past
    as sound­less as a thought
    lost to a ques­tion.  But you,
    you need water.

  • Sowmya Santanam ~ Coovum River

    I had lived all my life in the city but nev­er paid much atten­tion to the riv­er. I always thought Coovum was the Tamil word for sew­er, until I met him. The fetid, repul­sive stench was all that came to my mind at the men­tion of the riv­er. But, his face lit up every time he spoke about the Coovum riv­er; how it carved its way through the crammed city and its four mil­lion peo­ple. He was new to the city. New-age yup­pie would insult him, he had old class and new money. 

  • Summer issue

    1997-01-10 05.05.30

    We’re work­ing hard to fin­ish up the sum­mer issue of NWW. Starting now we have sev­er­al new pieces online, with more to come.

  • Additions to Spring

    2013-01-20 13.41.52Delighted to report that we’ve added a ter­rif­ic new Jennifer Pashley sto­ry “Hearts” to the Spring issue, along with four won­der­ful pieces by Diane Kirsten Martin. And last but not least, an intrigu­ing short non­fic­tion work by Tiff Holland.  Click –more

  • Spring Issue 2013

    2005-08-10 16.02.36We’ve pub­lished the Spring 2013 issue tonight, clev­er­ly avoid­ing pub­lish­ing it on April 1. The issue includes work by Baron Wormser, Peter Shippy, Sidney Rifkin, Paul Lisicky, Robert Lopez, Lydia Copeland Gwyn and more. All of the work is won­der­ful –more

  • Ann Tashi Slater

    Gypsy Cante

    Inside my mother’s clos­et it was cool and dim. Everything fell away: the sound of raised voic­es, clos­ing doors. I’d breathe in the musky scent of a pash­mi­na embroi­dered with vines and lilies, run my fin­gers over a bead­ed clutch the azure of the Himalayan sky—things my moth­er brought from India when she board­ed the plane that long ago day in the 50s and flew to America.