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New Fiction: Tomboy by Victoria Zelvin 

I’m five and I’m a tomboy. I’m thirty-five and I’m a tomboy. Other words cut too sharply in other people’s mouths. Butch is occasionally blunt enough, dampened by jokes about relationships wearing pants, and lesbian is okay so long as you don’t say it too loud. The words aren’t right, but it’s what my family can handle. I’m thirty-five and I’m afraid to walk away.
I’m eleven and I’m kicked off the boy’s baseball team. Handed a ball that’s too big and told to throw it after some ludicrous dance. No more three up, three down, the girls with crowns of braids giggle and chant and sneer and I had noticed on the boys team that no one would smack my butt as I left the field. No one will meet my eyes when I tell them they can if they do it to everyone else, if they’d just let me back.
I’m twelve and I ask God for a penis. A priest overhears and makes me pray the rosary five times, back to back, in penance. I’m thirteen and I quit sports in protest of “girls team.” My parents lament the loss of potential scholarships. I couldn’t throw that melon anyway.
I’m seven and my grandmother calls me to help in the kitchen while the boys watch the game. I’m twenty-five and I’m stuck with white wine spritzers, staring out the window at beers and grills, straining to hear conversation over babies and engagement rings and “you’ll meet someone nice soon!” I’m seventeen and “you’ll want kids someday, you just don’t know it.” I’m eighteen and out and “how can you tell at such a young age, you’ll come around!” I’m twenty and they’ve met my first girlfriend, and I hear lectures on in vitro fertilization and how we can be pregnant at the same time.
I’m four and I cut all my hair off with safety scissors.
I’m thirty-six and I’ve said words, but they’re lost to petty complaints. I’m twenty-one and she breaks up with me. My mother is supportive enough to try to set me up with her much younger co-worker, an intern that just started. I’m thirty-six and I’ve been “he” everywhere but family gatherings for fifteen years now. I’m twenty-one, and “you won’t take my only daughter away from me!” I’m twenty-seven and this time I ask a doctor for a penis. I’m twenty-seven and my mother will not call me by the correct pronoun. I’m twenty-seven and “didn’t I say you could be a lesbian?!” I’m twenty-seven and “we expect you for Christmas, but you’ll stop upsetting your mother.” I’m twenty-seven and there’s no take backs. I’m thirty-five and my mother still calls me tomboy.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/tomboy-victoria-zelvin/ High-res

New Fiction: Tomboy by Victoria Zelvin

I’m five and I’m a tomboy. I’m thirty-five and I’m a tomboy. Other words cut too sharply in other people’s mouths. Butch is occasionally blunt enough, dampened by jokes about relationships wearing pants, and lesbian is okay so long as you don’t say it too loud. The words aren’t right, but it’s what my family can handle. I’m thirty-five and I’m afraid to walk away.

I’m eleven and I’m kicked off the boy’s baseball team. Handed a ball that’s too big and told to throw it after some ludicrous dance. No more three up, three down, the girls with crowns of braids giggle and chant and sneer and I had noticed on the boys team that no one would smack my butt as I left the field. No one will meet my eyes when I tell them they can if they do it to everyone else, if they’d just let me back.

I’m twelve and I ask God for a penis. A priest overhears and makes me pray the rosary five times, back to back, in penance. I’m thirteen and I quit sports in protest of “girls team.” My parents lament the loss of potential scholarships. I couldn’t throw that melon anyway.

I’m seven and my grandmother calls me to help in the kitchen while the boys watch the game. I’m twenty-five and I’m stuck with white wine spritzers, staring out the window at beers and grills, straining to hear conversation over babies and engagement rings and “you’ll meet someone nice soon!” I’m seventeen and “you’ll want kids someday, you just don’t know it.” I’m eighteen and out and “how can you tell at such a young age, you’ll come around!” I’m twenty and they’ve met my first girlfriend, and I hear lectures on in vitro fertilization and how we can be pregnant at the same time.

I’m four and I cut all my hair off with safety scissors.

I’m thirty-six and I’ve said words, but they’re lost to petty complaints. I’m twenty-one and she breaks up with me. My mother is supportive enough to try to set me up with her much younger co-worker, an intern that just started. I’m thirty-six and I’ve been “he” everywhere but family gatherings for fifteen years now. I’m twenty-one, and “you won’t take my only daughter away from me!” I’m twenty-seven and this time I ask a doctor for a penis. I’m twenty-seven and my mother will not call me by the correct pronoun. I’m twenty-seven and “didn’t I say you could be a lesbian?!” I’m twenty-seven and “we expect you for Christmas, but you’ll stop upsetting your mother.” I’m twenty-seven and there’s no take backs. I’m thirty-five and my mother still calls me tomboy.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/tomboy-victoria-zelvin/
This is The Watchman. He is made from one moss-covered pinecone that some guy down by the street found and reapportioned. He sells them in his wife’s clothing store. He watches over me while I work.

Remember, there are stories to tell everywhere. You can find them in the streets, in your closet, in the forest, and in your trash. It’s up to you to take them and sculpt them until they communicate your insides to others. 

Happy searching, everyone. High-res

This is The Watchman. He is made from one moss-covered pinecone that some guy down by the street found and reapportioned. He sells them in his wife’s clothing store. He watches over me while I work.

Remember, there are stories to tell everywhere. You can find them in the streets, in your closet, in the forest, and in your trash. It’s up to you to take them and sculpt them until they communicate your insides to others.

Happy searching, everyone.

New Fiction: The Home Decorator’s Dilemma  by Nathan Hill 

I come to this intersection each day and I ask myself: Am I a PotteryBarnGuy or a CrateAndBarrelGuy? It is no small matter. It is a question that, in hindsight, could explain any number of decisions or events or life. I see that Crate and Barrel is having a sale, so I walk in, then think twice. Is that the message I want to send? What would my mother say, seeing me standing on this street corner announcing Sale! like some cheap beleathered gigolo. What would the PotteryBoys think? There they are now, all sport coats and smart khakis, touching their silky hands to suede pillows, sniffing candles of cranberry and French mocha, running smooth fingertips over the rims of highballs ringingly. How we love them, watching, distant, from our cheap side of this disgusting street.
They are pussies and we could annihilate them. Me and my CrateAndBarrelBoys, with our begrimed hands and Mets caps. We sneer and carry brass knuckles in our back pockets, intimidate passersby for our greedy entertainment, and wear black sunglasses to hide our true feelings. Feelings inadequate and sad—the pathetic, hopeless, unspoken sexuality of men in big groups, in wretched fraternity, an aggregation of impotent macho energy. How we tingle and tire at the thought of it, of being them, of touching them, of seeing just one of their red, skinny pricks. And how we’re ashamed when we imagine it! And we beat the shame away by pummeling them, the potteryboys, limpdicks, crandberrycandlefags.
We fight them to exorcise our feelings. We fight them to give us permission for our feelings—feelings that do not go away, that require vigilance, upkeep, and constant violence. It’s not the act of fighting that we crave, it’s the cycle.
But in the intervals between the battles, I often wish we could join them, combine with them, create a new progeny, a beautiful aggregate Store. It’s my dream, but I don’t tell my comrades, the sex metaphor being too obvious, too close to the surface. I often sit at our warzone intersection and imagine it, the apotheosis of home-decorating perfection:
CrateAndPotteryBarrelBarn
We would have everything that anybody ever needed. And in this intersection, amid the traffic, would sprout a thick, green, tall, miracle tree. I would plant this tree’s seed. And I would watch it, happy, as it marvelously grew.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/the-home-decorators-dilemma-nathan-hill/ High-res

New Fiction: The Home Decorator’s Dilemma by Nathan Hill

I come to this intersection each day and I ask myself: Am I a PotteryBarnGuy or a CrateAndBarrelGuy? It is no small matter. It is a question that, in hindsight, could explain any number of decisions or events or life. I see that Crate and Barrel is having a sale, so I walk in, then think twice. Is that the message I want to send? What would my mother say, seeing me standing on this street corner announcing Sale! like some cheap beleathered gigolo. What would the PotteryBoys think? There they are now, all sport coats and smart khakis, touching their silky hands to suede pillows, sniffing candles of cranberry and French mocha, running smooth fingertips over the rims of highballs ringingly. How we love them, watching, distant, from our cheap side of this disgusting street.

They are pussies and we could annihilate them. Me and my CrateAndBarrelBoys, with our begrimed hands and Mets caps. We sneer and carry brass knuckles in our back pockets, intimidate passersby for our greedy entertainment, and wear black sunglasses to hide our true feelings. Feelings inadequate and sad—the pathetic, hopeless, unspoken sexuality of men in big groups, in wretched fraternity, an aggregation of impotent macho energy. How we tingle and tire at the thought of it, of being them, of touching them, of seeing just one of their red, skinny pricks. And how we’re ashamed when we imagine it! And we beat the shame away by pummeling them, the potteryboys, limpdicks, crandberrycandlefags.

We fight them to exorcise our feelings. We fight them to give us permission for our feelings—feelings that do not go away, that require vigilance, upkeep, and constant violence. It’s not the act of fighting that we crave, it’s the cycle.

But in the intervals between the battles, I often wish we could join them, combine with them, create a new progeny, a beautiful aggregate Store. It’s my dream, but I don’t tell my comrades, the sex metaphor being too obvious, too close to the surface. I often sit at our warzone intersection and imagine it, the apotheosis of home-decorating perfection:

CrateAndPotteryBarrelBarn

We would have everything that anybody ever needed. And in this intersection, amid the traffic, would sprout a thick, green, tall, miracle tree. I would plant this tree’s seed. And I would watch it, happy, as it marvelously grew.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/the-home-decorators-dilemma-nathan-hill/

Spam Email I got today #ExperimentalLiterature

Does it the older brother. Through his mouth and change. Room sofa beside his hands into matt.
Proverbs homegrown dandelions by judith bronte.
Taking care to stop thinking about. Some of not to mind.

åweEW§iNðì¤L0m¿ATX1R1V®GâJIEM∉6 ü§VYÈη²Oi0R܆BÂR3BO 4xJPrØzËK8ËNZ·LIõüVS7×9 sjBTMuCOB³pDB∩UA≅¤ªYiDµWhatever you want it before. Skip and stepped back into. Much to smile at least the second. He hesitated as she wanted. Really want to pay my own bathroom. Seeing the question made no matter.
Shannon said nothing to work that.
Everyone to sit on dylan.
þÆ3Čî¸øl0Fzi5AEc161kiv⌉ ËMloϒCMn8t9 0ľt2§ϖhÔèTeäéλ ŒÔöÅOm2t6§⊇t−vCaP‰3cA¨αh∧0zmmW®eΠ÷ðnYa¤t01w cTδΒ♣5ZeFidl4d4lBX÷o0g3wfmû:7’IDinner was afraid if anyone here.
Beth called to meet his brother. Ethan took to and cassie.
Everything was making sure you come.

Does that morning and put matt. Bedroom door to her red lips. Cass is alone in name.
Behind his head against matt. One day and did this.
Luke was glad to face. From behind his attention and her hands.

New Fiction: My Mental Health Lists to Save Sanity by Richard DeFino 

  Art by Eva DeMeo
Mental Health List – I
Where am I in life?
Unsatisfied ✔
Cooking in shithole restaurants for seven years ✔
Eleven years working in the unforgiving restaurant business all together ✔
Sad ✔
Broke ✔
Angry ✔
So what do I do now?
Get a doctor ✔
Come up with a solution ✔
Look back into the past in order to determine problem ✔
Work on problem ✔
Fix problem?
Go on and enjoy my life…To be later determined
Mental Health list – II
 Fixing the problem
Lose 20 pounds, start taking Vitamin D pills multiple times a day. (Good doctor)
Exercise rigorously. Start taking Zoloft (Good Doctor)
Take Adderall, Lexapro and Clonazepam all together, daily. (Bad doctor)
Eat a steady diet of fruits and vegetables and meditate daily. (Good doctor)
Mental Health List – III
 Denial
Low fuel light on in my car ✔
$40-$50 in my bank checking account ✔
Drove to work completely miserable and depressed sitting in my work parking lot washing down Clonazepam with cheap “Johnnie Bootlegger” malt liquor at 8:25 in the morning, then doing the same during my lunch break ✔
Talked myself out of driving my car head first into a tree at 120 mph so I could either get out of work or even better, die, in order to get out of going to my hated job and paying unwanted bills ✔
Mental Health List – IV
What I’ve done to fix the problem
Cocaine, Metaxalone, Soma, Hydrocodone, Tramadol, Adderall, Clonazepam and alcohol ✔
Problem still not fixed ✔
Wallowing around daily in my sorrows drowning in my own tears of self-pity ✔
Basically nothing at all accomplished ✔
Mental Health List – V
Acceptance
Fuck it, I’m not normal ✔
Get sober ✔ So far so good, granted the two relapses. Current sobriety date, 4/11/14 ✔
Stop being a bitch and accept my past and move on to my future ✔
Drink many Chai Lattes and read and write crazy poetry ✔
Happy family and healthy marriage ✔
Go on and enjoy my life ✔✔✔


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/my-mental-health-lists-to-save-sanity-richard-defino/ High-res

New Fiction: My Mental Health Lists to Save Sanity by Richard DeFino

glacierpeople2 Art by Eva DeMeo

Mental Health List – I

Where am I in life?
  • Unsatisfied ✔
  • Cooking in shithole restaurants for seven years ✔
  • Eleven years working in the unforgiving restaurant business all together ✔
  • Sad ✔
  • Broke ✔
  • Angry ✔
So what do I do now?
  • Get a doctor ✔
  • Come up with a solution ✔
  • Look back into the past in order to determine problem ✔
  • Work on problem ✔
  • Fix problem?
  • Go on and enjoy my life…To be later determined

Mental Health list – II

Fixing the problem
  1. Lose 20 pounds, start taking Vitamin D pills multiple times a day. (Good doctor)
  2. Exercise rigorously. Start taking Zoloft (Good Doctor)
  3. Take Adderall, Lexapro and Clonazepam all together, daily. (Bad doctor)
  4. Eat a steady diet of fruits and vegetables and meditate daily. (Good doctor)

Mental Health List – III

Denial
  1. Low fuel light on in my car ✔
  2. $40-$50 in my bank checking account ✔
  3. Drove to work completely miserable and depressed sitting in my work parking lot washing down Clonazepam with cheap “Johnnie Bootlegger” malt liquor at 8:25 in the morning, then doing the same during my lunch break ✔
  4. Talked myself out of driving my car head first into a tree at 120 mph so I could either get out of work or even better, die, in order to get out of going to my hated job and paying unwanted bills ✔

Mental Health List – IV

What I’ve done to fix the problem
  1. Cocaine, Metaxalone, Soma, Hydrocodone, Tramadol, Adderall, Clonazepam and alcohol ✔
  2. Problem still not fixed ✔
  3. Wallowing around daily in my sorrows drowning in my own tears of self-pity ✔
  4. Basically nothing at all accomplished ✔

Mental Health List – V

Acceptance
  1. Fuck it, I’m not normal ✔
  2. Get sober ✔ So far so good, granted the two relapses. Current sobriety date, 4/11/14 ✔
  3. Stop being a bitch and accept my past and move on to my future ✔
  4. Drink many Chai Lattes and read and write crazy poetry ✔
  5. Happy family and healthy marriage ✔
  6. Go on and enjoy my life ✔✔✔
Read it: http://theneweryork.com/my-mental-health-lists-to-save-sanity-richard-defino/
New Fiction: The Small is the Message by S. Kay 

00:07
Thrilled to get an acting job for an airline tourism ad, I don’t mind jumping off a cliff for 17 takes. I hate the logo mask I have to wear.
00:15
I take a break from editing the in-flight video ad to empty my cat’s upcycled TV litter box waste shelf with a pewter souvenir spoon.
60:00
Strapped into a tiny seat, a monitor directly in front of my face, squirming for hours watching meta ads repeat. No wonder I get airsick.
00:01
I reach millions of passengers, data mining attempts to shut off ads on nonresponsive touchscreens as they’re held captive in the sky.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/the-small-is-the-message-s-kay/ High-res

New Fiction: The Small is the Message by S. Kay

00:07

Thrilled to get an acting job for an airline tourism ad, I don’t mind jumping off a cliff for 17 takes. I hate the logo mask I have to wear.

00:15

I take a break from editing the in-flight video ad to empty my cat’s upcycled TV litter box waste shelf with a pewter souvenir spoon.

60:00

Strapped into a tiny seat, a monitor directly in front of my face, squirming for hours watching meta ads repeat. No wonder I get airsick.

00:01

I reach millions of passengers, data mining attempts to shut off ads on nonresponsive touchscreens as they’re held captive in the sky.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/the-small-is-the-message-s-kay/

We need more male voices in literature.

So we found a literary mag/publisher that believes we need more male voices in literature. 

Since that is ridiculous, from between now to the end of August we are asking you, men and women alike, to fill their inbox with ridiculous satirical submissions. Maybe so satirical they wont even notice. 

Also submit to us and we will feature the best submissions on our website. 

Email us the submission for free or submit for $3 on Submittable and 100% of the proceeds will be donated to WriteGirl!

Tell your friends!

Guidelines and info here: 
https://theneweryorkmag.submittable.com/submit/33685

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