New World Writing Quarterly

Separate Beds

They slept in sin­gle beds. My sis­ter and I would sneak upstairs to lie on them when Granny was in the kitchen. We’d divide by gen­der. Laura would take Granny’s and I would take Granddad’s.

Today we have for you three sto­ries by Jeff Landon and a short inter­view with the author. Check the FEATURES page or go direct­ly to Algebra.

A Pool in February

“From this angle it appears absolute­ly dead,” said Levon. He was look­ing at the legs, the cow stiff in the pool as if it were doing the dead man’s float. He walked around the body slow­ly. Steam still rose from it. It hadn’t been dead long.

“I –more

The Pep

Saul’s tra­di­tion in the 80s, going to the new Peppermint Lounge on 45th, turned rit­u­al once he met the wait­ress with the spark­ly cleav­age, her oral cav­i­ty the most las­civ­i­ous thing he’d ever made it with, which he did every chance he got on those –more

Added today a fea­ture sto­ry by George Singleton along with an inter­view con­duct­ed by Meg Pokrass and Jim Whorton. See FEATURES above or go direct­ly to Gripe Water.

We’re delight­ed to fea­ture a new sto­ry by Olufemi Terry, whose short sto­ry “Stickfighting Days” won the 2010 Caine Prize for African Writing. See our FEATURES page or go direct­ly to Dark Triad.

Our next issue is sched­uled for July 2011.  This will be a spe­cial issue of fic­tion and non­fic­tion pieces 1000 words or less, edit­ed by fic­tion writer and essay­ist Jane Armstrong, James Whorton, Jr., Frederick Barthelme & friends. Submissions –more

Buckling, Gasping, and Dead

The trick to falling is to do it in the up direc­tion, betray­ing grav­i­ty but fol­low­ing the wind. Try it six times, in a hur­ry, as if you were pour­ing cof­fee from the unsta­ble top step of a lad­der, the musky smell of clove and skunk ris­ing back toward –more

We are delight­ed to present a devel­op­ing fea­ture show­ing the work of French artist and illus­tra­tor Chloe Poizat. We’re begin­ning with just a few images, but hope to have more in the near future.  Click on the FEATURES link above or go direct­ly to –more

I can’t sleep because it is not nec­es­sary, a bath won’t help, I have a bath but it is not one I will use and last week he did not have any prob­lems and also the sound of the ocean pleas­es me; can’t sleep because under is a sub-con­ti­nent, a cap­tain –more

A won­der­ful new sto­ry by Kim Herzinger.

We’re pleased to pub­lish today a short fea­ture on Lori Ostlund, includ­ing a won­der­ful sto­ry and a short inter­view. Please look on the FEATURES page or just click here.

I just wish you didn’t feel the need

You are most­ly silent but when you do speak you take that tone with me.

My bones break eas­i­ly. You see me as frag­ile, watch where I walk, wrap my ankles in cot­ton when it rains. The doc­tor pulls my bones apart, bends my wrist back, push­es in a way –more

iPad users might see BLIP in the Onswipe mag­a­zine theme, spe­cial­ly set for tablets. We’re just try­ing it out at the moment so it gets turned on and off.

Opposite of Succubus?

The Asian girl was a graph­ic design­er. I stole her ideas when I could. She said she gave them to me. She had a thing about gifts. You couldn’t take any­thing from her. That was what frus­trat­ed me the most; she made every­thing I stole seem like a favor. –more

We’re look­ing for 100–200 word pieces of fic­tion, non­fic­tion, or oth­er, key ele­ment that they be inter­est­ing and not run-of-mill fare.  If inter­est­ed, send to us using this email link: Send me to BLIP at once!

Our fine staff of edi­tors will –more

Transparent Horse (I)

Equine anato­my fills the room,
a muz­zle at the edge of the rug,
its pastern between the coro­net and fetlock,
you are hap­py it is evening.
The can­non bone is spec­tac­u­lar and sharp,
and I hold the left one
to the light. –more

— unused fragment
It crossed my mind, this one’s view­point, but he has dry hands, bony wrists.
He drinks toma­to juice from a paper cup. I sip on my cof­fee, read this mag­a­zine from back to front.

–more

Ancient

“What’s the mat­ter with you?” she asks.
Years ago I had a lot of time and would answer such idi­ot­ic ques­tions.  She was thin then, and used mas­cara, blush.  Now everything’s loose and nat­ur­al and I don’t like it one bit.  Even the –more

Gri-Gri

Early in our asso­ci­a­tion, the Warrior Poet said, “I’m a war­rior poet.  Before I walk into a place, I look around to make sure I can kill every­one in the room with my bare hands.”

Now the Warrior Poet is dead.  Self-inflicted.

My father.  WWII.  U.S. Army, front­line infantry.  Battle of the Bulge.  Bronze Star.  Purple Heart.

Before he shoots him­self, he tries to take a cou­ple of peo­ple out with him.  My evil ex-step­moth­er, her cur­rent hus­band.  The bul­lets graze the hus­band, but miss the step­moth­er.  She hits the floor, plays dead, and prays and prays to her snow-globe Jesus, her cow face pressed against filthy carpet.