We’ve added new things for the summer issue. JoAnna Novak’s wonderful “Five Minutes with the Baby,” Zvezdana Rashkovich’s “How to Love a Man in Cairo,” and Richard Lange’s “Instinctive Drowning Response.”
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Late Summer Reading
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Chloe Poizat
A gallery of images by the French illustrator Chloe Poizat.
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Now Read This
Anne GorrickThree Poems
Will Clingan Disappeared
Barbara Hamby Three Poems
James Robison The Late Style
Rupprecht Mayer Three Stories Mouse by Chloe Poizat -
New Issue
Click Summer 2014 or use the main menu. Note that we continue to read new material for the issue–fiction, poetry, nonfiction, anything else, whatever you have, short
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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.
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Winter 2014
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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.”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Elizabeth Wagner
Lake 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.
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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.
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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
We’re working hard to finish up the summer issue of NWW. Starting now we have several new pieces online, with more to come.
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Additions to Spring
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Spring Issue 2013
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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.
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A Postcard from Chloe Poizat