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...

By TJ BEITELMAN BWR Editor 2000-2001   This is the story of his life he drew up around himself: what catches his interest will not hold his interest. That part is a given. One man’s sneeze. Another man’s bow tie.——I just talked to Ellen I just talked to Ellen I...

By LYNN DOMINA BWR Poetry Editor, 1984-1985   Carole says choose an image and so I choose this African elephant. I want to lay my hand behind her massive draping ear, imagining her tenderness. If I could trace my finger along her fine wrinkles or the veins...

By MARK NEELY BWR Poetry Editor, 2000-2001   In this small world In this small world there is a starfish pressed on the beach like a crippled hand. A crumpled baby picture, the handsome strangers of the internet, and Bin Laden’s tiny television. Pine trees...

By JANET MCADAMS BWR Editor, 1986-1987   If white is the color of mischief, then these white walls, this little house of marble we hide behind willing the man with his notebook to find someone else to follow. We hide, kin to bone, to tuft of fur caught in the...