"Beneath the old man staring sullenly at the bedspread, he can still see his brother Paris perfectly well. He can see him aged just over twenty, around the time of their last great bout of fraternal fisticuffs. He doesn't remember his own cracked lip, or the clumsy punches they traded, or even the reason for them. His brother has always remained in his memory as the one who, having stopped fighting, had threatened him from far off, running away and crying, with that ridiculous disadvantage he'd always had of shrieking whenever he got excited."

              - Luísa C. Gomes

"Now only about seventy-five feet ahead on the shoulder, in the spill of a sodium arc highway light, I saw the Jeep that had passed us back by the accident. The driver reached across the front seat and pushed the passenger door open. I made out the silhouettes of two bears climbing in. The door closed somehow and the Jeep pulled in front of us, accelerating fast. "Sten!" I shouted. He turned to me, white eyes in sharp contrast to the raw meat of his face. "That Jeep!" I pointed. "It just picked up your bears."

              - Stuart Conelly

"Venice smelled like sun-cooked skin, and ocean, sand, flowers stolen from hotels, and Ella, slowly turning golden. I could feel us both healing over, like we had been walking around with holes all over us that we didn't know were there. Our bed was tiny just for me, but as soon as Ella climbed in it got bigger, stretching till there were the two of us curled up with plenty of room to move around in."

              - Jon Carr

The mountains look different than the Rockies. The Rockies are old in the way that somebody's grandfather might be old. These mountains are old like a Tyrannosaurus Rex. The Dempster goes up into the mountains, sometimes winding, sometimes dead straight. Sometimes there's just a minor embankment between the roadway and the muskeg; sometimes the drop-offs can be forty, fifty, as much as one hundred feet or more. Dangerous terrain in the best of times.

              - W. S. Olsen




Creative Non-Fiction

Del Sol Review
Hosted and Published by Web del Sol
2020 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Suite 443
Washington, DC 20006



What do they tell us? Enough to enable freedom? They inscribe deep rifts in our consciousness, hearken back to universal needs, loves, and fears. Our conceit makes us believe we are "beyond them," and yet, they linger between the lines, giving rise to the same issues, begging the same questions. They form the primordial core of all we will ever say. You will find them here, waiting for you, in Del Sol Review.

                              - MN


Of all the writers and magazines Web del Sol plays host to, Del Sol Review is our own; an indulgent street corner in the WDS neighborhood where we publish the lit we like--the best money can't buy.

To this end we choose to solicit writers and poets who make our hearts arrhythmic.

Del Sol Review publishes the best work available anywhere, and only the best work. We do not engage in politics that harm the content of the publication, or publish inferior work simply because a "name" tag comes attached. We do not publish writers because of their connections to us or anyone else. We reject such activities as harmful to the art. We publish a new issue only when we deem it ready.

  - Michael Neff


 Michael Neff

 Senior Poetry Editor
 Joan Houlihan

 Associate Poetry Editor
 Allyson Shaw

 Fiction Editor
 RoseMarie London

 Creative N-F Editor
 Frank Tempone

 Contributing Editors:
 Kenneth Atchity
 Rachel Callaghan
 Walt Cummins
 Tom Kennedy
 Gary Lutz
 William Slaughter
 Richard Zenith
 Richard Zimler

Web Editor