theNewerYork Press

WHAT THE HELL?

We publish experimental literature in print and online. We're funded on Kickstarter.
We don't publish poetry. Our book fits in your back pocket. Issue #3 due Fall 2013

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We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/marina-marine/ Marina and the Marine Birth by Aniela Sobieski www.anielasobieski.com And so just as I finish saying what it is that I want to say there are three beats of silence – beat, beat, beat – and she starts to open her mouth, but then I notice a bird sticking its head out from between her pink lips, its beady eyes blinking in the harsh light, and it jumps onto her protruding bottom lip, using it like a perch, and flaps a bit before flying onto the top of my head, and I look at her and she looks at me as if to say “Understand?” right before a wind carries her away like sand over a dune, and then I feel the weight of the bird lift off of my head and I see it fly towards a tree where it perches itself on the lowest branch, within arms reach, and so I run to the tree, jumping and grasping, but I can’t get to it, and then I see all these other people jumping and grasping for frisbees, balls, knapsacks, food, clothes, rifles, books, but then the bird flies past my face and up towards an open window of a building I had not seen was behind me, so I run in and up the staircase, two steps at a time, sometimes three, sometimes missing a step and falling, and I see the bird on the window ledge and just as I dive to grab it it swoops down and takes a shit on JFK and everyone in the cavalcade starts to scream and run around, and no-one notices the bird skipping along the grassy knoll because all of their eyes are zooming in on me, so I run back down the staircase and out into the street, but it’s empty – not a car, not a building, not a tree, not a blade of grass, not a person to be seen – it is just me, the bird, and a white nothingness that stretches on into the ether for eternity.

We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/marina-marine/

Marina and the Marine

Birth by Aniela Sobieski http://anielasobieski.com/

Birth by Aniela Sobieski www.anielasobieski.com

And so just as I finish saying what it is that I want to say there are three beats of silence – beat, beat, beat – and she starts to open her mouth, but then I notice a bird sticking its head out from between her pink lips, its beady eyes blinking in the harsh light, and it jumps onto her protruding bottom lip, using it like a perch, and flaps a bit before flying onto the top of my head, and I look at her and she looks at me as if to say “Understand?” right before a wind carries her away like sand over a dune, and then I feel the weight of the bird lift off of my head and I see it fly towards a tree where it perches itself on the lowest branch, within arms reach, and so I run to the tree, jumping and grasping, but I can’t get to it, and then I see all these other people jumping and grasping for frisbees, balls, knapsacks, food, clothes, rifles, books, but then the bird flies past my face and up towards an open window of a building I had not seen was behind me, so I run in and up the staircase, two steps at a time, sometimes three, sometimes missing a step and falling, and I see the bird on the window ledge and just as I dive to grab it it swoops down and takes a shit on JFK and everyone in the cavalcade starts to scream and run around, and no-one notices the bird skipping along the grassy knoll because all of their eyes are zooming in on me, so I run back down the staircase and out into the street, but it’s empty – not a car, not a building, not a tree, not a blade of grass, not a person to be seen – it is just me, the bird, and a white nothingness that stretches on into the ether for eternity.

We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/iquit-twitter-feed/ #IQUIT: A TWITTER FEED Day 1 of my attempt to change my own DNA after 15 years of self-inflicted genetic modification. Wish me luck. Day 2 of the end of the world. It’s dark in here. Day 4 of the Apocalypse, something ate Day 3. But this is easier than I thought. Day 5 of constant hallucinations. Ghost cigarettes flare alight in my hands, making me drop things in a panic. Smoke rings over my tea mug. Day 6 of my Escape from Tobacco. (Furious hyperbole adds colour to this journey: reality is too boring.) “They” are after me. Must push on. Day 7, or is it 9? I am losing track of time in my hellish world of bone-ache and vomit (read: slight anxiety). I keep rolling random shreds of paper into tubes and cones. Day 10 of incessant questions. Am I doing this for myself? Peer pressure? Will cancer get me anyway? Is fatalism cool? Am I still cool? Day 12 of thinking I’d pick a filterless Gitane over a BJ right now. Day 13 my Nicorette inhaler tastes like a spicy fart. Sense of smell returning, hopefully will maintain trend until superpower levels are reached… Day 14 of holding my breath. “Either write something worth reading, or do something worth writing about.” Achievement is relative. Day 16 of riding blind into the future. Look Ma, no hands! (Mom, if you read this, I love you. Call me please.) Day 17 of juggling with 2 rabid, hog-tied kittens and a chainsaw. (Because tightrope imagery just doesn’t cut it.) All is A-OK. Day 19 of my MMA training regime. Today, splits, jump-rope and kicking a concrete pillar. No pain, no gain. Day 20 of chewing my fingernails down to the bone. Os à moelle snacks at any time of day? Priceless. (And bloody.) Day 21 of open-heart surgery, my pulse is strong and the tar-sands in my lungs might actually have market value to BP. Win win. Day 22 of grieving for a lost cerebral hemisphere; like a semi-facial paralysis; an amputated ego; a phantom sixth finger, itching like mad. Day 23 of my exile from French nonchalance, from a baritone voice I shouldn’t have, from a strange and misplaced sense of carpe diem. Day 24 of my campaign for presidency of the Self-Control Committee. Am procrastinating at work, but I digress… Day 27 of my lonely walk, the wind in my face is unabated, and now there is hail. Day 28 of oxygen starvation, finally adapting, hallucinations now fading, reality is creeping back. It’s ugly, but it’s all there is. Day 29 of kicking the ass of a small, pencil-thin guy with one orange foot and a mouthful of dry leaves soaked in petro-chemicals. Still winning. Day 30 of sink or swim – it was a doggy paddle, now I’m doing the backwards butterfly while saving two blond bombshells from drowning. *Cue Baywatch theme. Day 33 of my rejuvenation treatment. Nanobot functions at 100%. Skin and lung tissue repair progressing as expected. Status: Ongoing. Day 34 of holding a malfunctioning lighter in my hand and staring at the flint sparks and wondering if lung power is really worth it in the end. Day 36 of wondering why I waited so long. And immediately thinking: stupid question. Day 39 of my self-help poetry recital, last day of speaking to a mirror in an empty room. Life goes on, outside, and Spring isn’t that far off. Day 1 of writing about something else. High-res

We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/iquit-twitter-feed/

#IQUIT: A TWITTER FEED

Day 1 of my attempt to change my own DNA after 15 years of self-inflicted genetic modification. Wish me luck.

Day 2 of the end of the world. It’s dark in here.

Day 4 of the Apocalypse, something ate Day 3. But this is easier than I thought.

Day 5 of constant hallucinations. Ghost cigarettes flare alight in my hands, making me drop things in a panic. Smoke rings over my tea mug.

Day 6 of my Escape from Tobacco. (Furious hyperbole adds colour to this journey: reality is too boring.) “They” are after me. Must push on.

Day 7, or is it 9? I am losing track of time in my hellish world of bone-ache and vomit (read: slight anxiety). I keep rolling random shreds of paper into tubes and cones.

Day 10 of incessant questions. Am I doing this for myself? Peer pressure? Will cancer get me anyway? Is fatalism cool? Am I still cool?

Day 12 of thinking I’d pick a filterless Gitane over a BJ right now.

Day 13 my Nicorette inhaler tastes like a spicy fart. Sense of smell returning, hopefully will maintain trend until superpower levels are reached…

Day 14 of holding my breath. “Either write something worth reading, or do something worth writing about.” Achievement is relative.

Day 16 of riding blind into the future. Look Ma, no hands! (Mom, if you read this, I love you. Call me please.)

Day 17 of juggling with 2 rabid, hog-tied kittens and a chainsaw. (Because tightrope imagery just doesn’t cut it.) All is A-OK.

Day 19 of my MMA training regime. Today, splits, jump-rope and kicking a concrete pillar. No pain, no gain.

Day 20 of chewing my fingernails down to the bone. Os à moelle snacks at any time of day? Priceless. (And bloody.)

Day 21 of open-heart surgery, my pulse is strong and the tar-sands in my lungs might actually have market value to BP. Win win.

Day 22 of grieving for a lost cerebral hemisphere; like a semi-facial paralysis; an amputated ego; a phantom sixth finger, itching like mad.

Day 23 of my exile from French nonchalance, from a baritone voice I shouldn’t have, from a strange and misplaced sense of carpe diem.

Day 24 of my campaign for presidency of the Self-Control Committee. Am procrastinating at work, but I digress…

Day 27 of my lonely walk, the wind in my face is unabated, and now there is hail.

Day 28 of oxygen starvation, finally adapting, hallucinations now fading, reality is creeping back. It’s ugly, but it’s all there is.

Day 29 of kicking the ass of a small, pencil-thin guy with one orange foot and a mouthful of dry leaves soaked in petro-chemicals. Still winning.

Day 30 of sink or swim – it was a doggy paddle, now I’m doing the backwards butterfly while saving two blond bombshells from drowning. *Cue Baywatch theme.

Day 33 of my rejuvenation treatment. Nanobot functions at 100%. Skin and lung tissue repair progressing as expected. Status: Ongoing.

Day 34 of holding a malfunctioning lighter in my hand and staring at the flint sparks and wondering if lung power is really worth it in the end.

Day 36 of wondering why I waited so long. And immediately thinking: stupid question.

Day 39 of my self-help poetry recital, last day of speaking to a mirror in an empty room. Life goes on, outside, and Spring isn’t that far off.

Day 1 of writing about something else.

We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/the-lost-ear-flash-fictio/ the lost ear i lost an ear in starburger once, not one of mine obviously. it had been left outside my door, on the step some days before. ‘it’ll be a kidnap victim,’ said mam, ‘and they’ll have gone to the wrong house.’ i took it down the pub in case the kidnappers realised their mistake. they could jump me and make me let them in to get the ear back, so i carried it about with me in a richmond menthol superkings packet so that i could hand it back if manhandled, until i was distracted in starburger by a fajita option. ‘Ear Found In Starburger’. i thought it a bit cheap even for ‘the daily star’. they had an artist’s reconstruction of an ear poking out of an open richmond ciggy box, and a pic of van gogh with a bandage round his head. no one-eared people have turned up to claim it they say, but as mam said ‘if they were still kidnapped they wouldn’t, would they?’ now they’ll have to cut the other ear off to send to the right house but at least the victim’s head will be symmetrical. i find asymmetry very offputting in a person. i had a boss with an eye-patch once and i had to leave. made new friends over the internet. if only i knew their real names…

We posted a new story: http://theneweryork.com/the-lost-ear-flash-fictio/

the lost ear

i lost an ear in starburger once, not one of mine obviously. it had been left outside my door, on the step some days before. ‘it’ll be a kidnap victim,’ said mam, ‘and they’ll have gone to the wrong house.’ i took it down the pub in case the kidnappers realised their mistake. they could jump me and make me let them in to get the ear back, so i carried it about with me in a richmond menthol superkings packet so that i could hand it back if manhandled, until i was distracted in starburger by a fajita option.

‘Ear Found In Starburger’. i thought it a bit cheap even for ‘the daily star’. they had an artist’s reconstruction of an ear poking out of an open richmond ciggy box, and a pic of van gogh with a bandage round his head. no one-eared people have turned up to claim it they say, but as mam said ‘if they were still kidnapped they wouldn’t, would they?’ now they’ll have to cut the other ear off to send to the right house but at least the victim’s head will be symmetrical. i find asymmetry very offputting in a person.

i had a boss with an eye-patch once and i had to leave.

made new friends over the internet. if only i knew their real names…

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