by JIM HILGARTNER BWR Genre Editor, Fiction, 1996-1997   Cutting cordwood on the ridge Where the wind sweeps snow From fallen leaves and bracken, I paused, and stood holding the saw. Blue mountains shone Distant in the blue air. And at my feet an old plow horse,...

By DAN KAPLAN BWR Editor, Fiction, 2003-2004   What is that jingle again Who is roofer to the world. Re: Beethoven and the electric toothbrush: not true. Over the afternoon, masses disagree with heat. How easily it fits into any briefcase or purse. What we are...

By B.J. HOLLARS BWR Genre Editor, Nonfiction, 2008-2009   From the interior of The Shadow Room, I watch his shadow fade.  Though not yet two, Henry understand the intricate process: how we tuck ourselves into the darkened room in the children’s museum, slap a...

By SARAH BLACKMAN BWR Genre Editor, Fiction, 2005-2006   My father stared at me. You can imagine: his hands on either side of his plate, his chop growing gray as it leaked into the peas. We sat that way. Then my father lifted his fork and knife and cut a bite out...

By LOUIE SKIPPER BWR Guest Poetry Editor, 1978   I flew into San Francisco on the Monday night before 9/11, the unthinkable becoming that point where beginning has no choice but going on. Planes grounded, I spent days in front of Rothko, his great canvas...

By KATE LORENZ BWR Editor 2009-2010   Carla is on a dinner date, sitting across from a man her work friend has set her up with. This is an unusual scenario, since these days a person usually consults the internet to find a potential match. The internet algorithms...

By LUCAS SOUTHWORTH BWR Genre Editor, Fiction, 2007-2008   In the weeks after the murder, the world is silent, motionless. Blood or the possibility of blood covers everything. It marks the white shirts hanging in the closet. It sinks into cracks on wood floors....

By ARIANA-SOPHIA KARTSONI BWR Genre Editor, Fiction, 1997-1998   I have loved you as time searched for its wristwatch and several hours rushed over the hill or was it years while the loss cost us all.  I meant to say the lost (or was it lust) cut us all. In any...

By SUSAN GOSLEE BWR Genre Editor, Poetry, 1999-2000   As if for a military portrait, in profile, a perfect right triangle of a sit, the wolf-hybrid stares toward   the back of the truck’s camper. His long, full tail wraps his side and snaps into place at his...

By MICHAEL PETTIT BWR Editor 1981-1982   What is not Watson?  Who? Isn't he you, imagining yourself Watson? Watson, Alexander Graham Bell said, come here, I want you. So the telephone was born, and telemarketers calling strangers at what they no doubt know is...