Washington Writers' Publishing House
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First, we were thrilled to meet so many of you at AWP in Baltimore. Thank you for stopping by our WWPH booth, buying WWPH books, and for coming out to our standing-room-only Kind of a Big Dill reading at Pickles Pub with five other fabulous DMV presses (Yellow Arrow Publishing, Mason Jar Press, Modern Artists Press, akinoga press, and Baltimore Review)--this is literary community!
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Now, if you are a writer from DC, Maryland, or Virginia and have a full-length manuscript in poetry, fiction (novel or short story collection), or literary nonfiction (essay, memoir, or hybrid), WWPH opens for contest submissions on April 1. Details below.
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Read on to the poetry of Jenn Koiter, Bobby Elliott, and the speculative flash fiction of Christian Barragan!
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Caroline Bock & Jona Colson
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Jenn Koiter is an ADHD and writing coach specializing in writer’s block. Her debut poetry collection, So Much of Everything, was published by Day Eight. She wrote and produced the short film “Birds of the Air,” which screened at twelve film festivals, won three awards, and will be distributed by iWomanTV. Her poems and essays have appeared in Barrelhouse, Copper Nickel, Smartish Pace, and other journals. You can find her at literary events around DC or on Instagram as @jennkoiter.
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Bobby Elliott is an award-winning poet and teacher. His debut collection of poems, The Same Man, was selected by Nate Marshall as the winner of the 2025 Agnes Lynch Starrett Poetry Prize from the University of Pittsburgh Press. Raised in New York City, he earned his B.A. from Sarah Lawrence College and his M.F.A. from the University of Virginia, where he was a Poe/Faulkner Fellow. His writing has appeared in or is forthcoming from Adroit, BOMB, Poet Lore, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. He lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and sons.
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WWPH celebrates a new book of poetry in translation by pressmate Nancy Naomi Carlson.
Sylvie Kandé’s Gestuary offers a collection of gestures—of death and life, of tenderness and brutality—that fractures the flow of time. Senegalese riflemen from World War I are juxtaposed with migrants at borders who sew their lips shut in protest over immigration policies. In dream-like sequences, the dead refuse to stay underground and “push against the fence / that swings between our realm and theirs.” Inspired by unexpected sources, including jazz, sculpture, the legacy of the slave trade, proverbs, and elements of Diola culture, Kandé’s poems are rich in musicality and sophisticated syntax, rendered into a lyrical and luminous English by Nancy Naomi Carlson. Now available everywhere books are sold. More information here.
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AFTER THE SPILL
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Adrian’s younger counterpart had already spilled the cereal. “Chip,” as his parents used to call him, stared down at the mess. Adrian hated that nickname. It sounded like something you’d place in the dirt. Something stoic and unmalleable. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to refer to the figure in the projection with his own name.
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It was hard for him to believe none of it was real. He aimed to uncover some imperfection, but nothing gave it away. The only thing tainting the flawless visual recreation was the attendant standing behind him. He had wanted to view this memory alone, but she insisted on introducing the technology since it was his first time. As with everything, he didn’t protest. He adjusted the interface on his head, hoping the memory would remain as accurate as possible before the rewrites started.
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Adrian sniffed the air. Of course, the hologram could only provide visuals and sound, but he swore he could smell the bland starchy odor of the cereal. The milk pooled on the carpet, dotting the drab beige floor with equally colorless oat rings. Chip slowly wiped at the mess with the hem of his sweater, knowing he wouldn’t have enough time to clean it all. Adrian frowned when Chip suddenly jumped off the table and ran to his room.
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The attendant stood just behind him, folding her arms. Her posture radiated with practiced neutrality, but was betrayed by a ripple of impatience.
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“Is there another memory you would like to rewrite?”
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“This isn’t how it happened. It’s the carpet too,” said Adrian.
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“I’ve been imagining a beige carpet, but now I remember we didn’t get that carpet until after my father left. The old one was white. I’ve been misremembering it. It’s not final, is it?”
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The attendant held up the remote. There, they had input the rewrites at the start of the session. Rewrites that would permanently change his memory. He was to run to his room before his father arrived.
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“No, the changes haven’t been finalized,” she replied. “Would you like to input a different rewrite? Or perhaps use a…more important memory?”
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Adrian paced across the scene.
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The attendant continued. “It’s not an exact science. Our brains are constantly rewriting memories. The earlier the memory, the more potential a rewrite has to make a domino effect.”
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Adrian knew what she was saying. She didn’t think he could navigate the scene on his own. He nervously fidgeted before mustering up enough audacity. “I want to try something.”
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The attendant reluctantly handed Adrian the remote.
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“I’ll be outside. Just make sure not to finalize the rewrite unless you’re certain. It can’t be undone.” She stealthily exited.
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Adrian stepped back and pressed the remote, rewinding the scene to the moment of the bowl’s impact and allowing it to resume unedited.
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Chip darted his head back and forth between the exit and the mess before him. It was too late. Always too late. Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Adrian flinched at the presence of his father’s cologne: a cheap, citrusy sting pungently mixed with perspiration and alcohol. The man entered and stood above Chip, his low voice bellowing. Adrian didn’t need to hear the exact words. He had heard them hundreds of times throughout his life, ingrained in his mind. He remembered what they meant.
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His father took out his belt.
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Adrian wondered why he was still watching. He specifically came in to change the memory before this part. Why couldn’t he look away or make a decision?
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His father’s face blurred, dream-like, as the belt whipped up and down. Perhaps Adrian was already starting to forget what he looked like. Everything else in the scene aligned with his memories. He wondered how many of those were inaccurate. His father abandoned them just days after this incident, for reasons his mother never explained.
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His mother. Where was she during all this? Hiding, probably. He detected the faint aroma of the pitch-black coffee she’d parade through the hallway every morning, remembering how even that warmth seemed to retreat in his father’s presence. She became increasingly aversive to Adrian after this incident. Perhaps she saw him as a fragment of his father. A putrid capsule of memories. He wasn't sure if he could blame her for that.
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Adrian approached the table as his father continued his onslaught, laboring under the exertion. Milk soaked through Chip’s sweater. Adrian closed his eyes and pictured the burning shame. The wet fabric was clinging to his arms. His own heartbeat pulsing in his ears, louder than any insult.
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He finally forwarded the memory to when his father exited. Chip crouched on the floor, hugging himself to still his shivering body. Adrian knelt beside him.
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“You could have said something. He was about to leave. For once, you could have said something.”
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“You could have run away. Slammed the door. Anything! But you chose nothing. You let him carve those words into you. And that silence has followed me everywhere.” Adrian sank his head in his hands.
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“Is this what you wanted? To live as a…”
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Adrian looked up and saw the projection flicker.
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Chip sat up. The mess was clean, though Adrian could still smell the oats. He remembered how this went. He’d go to his room and mope for the next few hours, flinching each time a door moved.
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But that’s not what Chip was doing. The boy stood up with measured conviction and walked toward the front door. Adrian followed him with mounting curiosity. Surely, he couldn’t have gotten this part wrong? He searched the screen on the remote for rewrites, but it was empty.
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Chip swung the front door open, allowing the air to breeze past him. The earthy gale cut through the milky musk that still clung to the house’s interior. He steadied the interface in confusion. In the distance, he could see his father rushing back up to the front door, belt already in hand. Fuming.
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In one motion, Adrian finalized the rewrite and pulled the interface off his head, freezing his surroundings. He sniffed in anticipation of the familiar texture—speciously sweet oats, faint sourness, and a cloying sugar layered over a metallic tang of fear—but nothing came. The projection slowly faded.
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Christian Barragan is a graduate of CSU Northridge. Raised in Riverside, CA, he aims to become a novelist or editor. He is currently an MFA candidate at Hollins University in Virginia. His work has appeared in the Raven Review, Across the Margin, and Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, among others.
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We believe AMERICA'S FUTURE has a place in your classroom. With 179 works of poetry, fiction, essays, and visual language spanning 526 pages, it offers a rich mosaic of writers looking at what's next for our nation through a literary lens. We have developed sample lesson plans suitable for AP-level high school classes and college-level work. We offer a special …
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WWPH SUBMISSIONS OPEN APRIL 1st
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Books & Authors
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Curious if WWPH is the best place for your manuscript? Check out our books and authors here (and it's always good karma to buy a book from a small press that you are thinking of submitting to! Many of our recent titles can be purchased direct from WWPH).
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The Washington Writers' Publishing House aims to publish books that reflect the rich diversity of our region and represent literary excellence on a national level.
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WWPH WRITES is currently OPEN FOR SUBMISSIONS. We are reading for Summer, 2026.
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Poetry. Prose under 1,000 words. $25.00 contributor payment.
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The WWPH PRIDE Poetry and Prose contest is coming back! Submissions open in mid-April. Cash prizes and publication in June. Keep reading WWPH WRITES for details. Need inspiration?
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CAPITAL LOVE publication date: MAY 5th! Stay tuned for more details!
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Prose editor, WWPH Writes
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Poetry editor, WWPH Writes
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Copyright © 2025 The Washington Writers' Publishing House, All rights reserved.
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