theNewerYork Press

WHAT THE HELL?

We're irreverent literary publishers. No short stories no poetry, just weird stuff with words. Posting several stories a day, printing books, putting on events, selling art, making art, making movies, killing it. 

Posts we like

More liked posts

New Fiction: In the Milk by Chuck Young 



Clip clip the conductor, his sixteenth notes. He lives in my ears, his baton, my brain, we are the source of all the world’s music. I was Dior-pale, rubbery, six months old. My mother took me to the doctor. He stuck a long, long, very sharp needle into my head and inside the needle was the conductor, so tiny I didn’t feel it at all when he burst inside me. It was only his baton, the virginity of my head, a little blood. His lilacs bloom in my hair.
I lick the mattress tufts, the morning shines through a little slot. A nurse puts bitters under my tongue. She says I’m better every day. I have always been better every day. My father drove a big truck filled with milk. I swallowed a whole field of Holsteins, stronger, better, every day. God comes and pulls out my ribs. I swing in the cage of bone. I whistle.
I don’t know who put it inside me, poor tadpole paddling my belly. I confine myself. I board up the windows, the doors. The wind is thick with brunettes. They will cut it out. It happened before. I was hanging from the rafters. They used two knives and a sickle. They took it away in a red-striped blanket. It lies wailing the cathedral steps.




I can see my toes, very small toes, someone else’s toes. From the bottom, the sealed top of waves moves milky like wheat. A tall man pulls me from the water. I admire his red shorts. I observe his yellow mustache. Mouth on mouth on someone else’s mouth. I study the mystery of his tongue. He coughs up a city in me, steel and concrete balance the sea, the taxis are toys. Every person in the city is an insect. My chest is choked with crickets. They rub their legs together, the taut strings sing.
There was a storm of violins. Sunday, nineteen sixty-four. I rocketed out of my mother, straight through the wall. I never lived in her house. I never saw the red bucket. I never sat the stinging tub, its pink soap, its shower cap. I never shaved my underarms. The rash was mysterious, my swollen throat, its solid white lump. I learned to swallow and swallow, glass after glass of water. It probably was the mumps. But no one could locate my swollen cheeks.
I must speak to you directly. I must warn you for I cannot help myself. They are already inside me. The MRI showed nothing but I can feel them chewing me, swimming up and down, side to side, blowing me in and out of their mouths. It’s that roll of gum. It masquerades as tobacco. My elbows are aching. I’m obliged to cobblestone, the path to the vestry. I hold my breath, my lungs burn, bowels full of black feet.
I learned early to lie. I lied about the birds in my stomach, I lied about the thick, log-cabin quilt. I lied




about North Dakota. I lied when I said no, no the aluminum tumblers, no no the big sky. I am in great need of sharp things. The Russian army is marching across the roof, across the windows. I hurl my spear at the Captain. He is my lover. He twirls me round and round my dizzy tulle, my patent shoes. I learn fast, the sterile gloves of the Brownie Parade, such large bags of Little Debbies pouring into the deep freeze; you can smoke a cold Swiss Roll.
It survives the fit, it survives the scream. Every jar on every shelf in my kitchen is full of abortions. I don’t know how they got here. The heavy oak, its plastic cover, its suckling pig, baby mouth stuffed with peelings, potatoes, lemons. You can use every part. I made a balloon of the bladder and tossed it to the boy next door. His mother opened the gate and rushed him inside. It’s a very, very long time ago. The doctor told me to take off my shirt. He gifted me his stethoscope. That’s what they do when they’re grateful, that’s what they do when you pick the berries yourself. That’s what they do when you bake them pies.
Of course, I can’t tell you everything. They only left half my tongue. I was full of cancer. I couldn’t stop singing, so slick inside with oil. It drips from our truck, the black truck with the silver choke, the engine fire, the curled up head of woman threw her denim shirt over the engine. All I could do was stare at her breasts. Then a hand fast over my eyes, my face. I was nailed up with secrets. 
The day was circled on my calendar. I kept to my schedule. I folded up the house, the inside of the house, the children who live inside the house, their racket, the whir of the ceiling, the stack of yellow chimneys. It fits perfectly into the duffle. I found it in my brother’s closet. They wired his brain to the Eastern grid. Everything sparks. It’s a thing that hurts so beautifully, everything hurts so beautifully. Father Joseph crosses my head, I flame with Jesus water.




There’s a drip when it rains. I can no longer move. I should have told you earlier, I should have told you it’s all a lie. I should have told you I make up stories. I should have told I married my old Royal. No one but us can make love this way. The keystrokes, the black-red ribbon. Every mistake can be whitened out. My term paper, the vision of my mother reading the little, velvet book, the green book full of Jane’s crisp hand.
No one taught me endings. I missed that day of class. But I do know the river will cover everything, Achilles will go down. The plains will sprout tumbleweeds. The buffalo will insist on complete silence. You must burn the field to bring up the grass. God created the world in six days. I must make hast. The Mother Superior helps me. She is fat and good with a shovel. We eek out a new world with mud, with andirons, the ribboned candy—it goes all the way through, all the way outside itself before it melts into your hands.
Somehow I have ended up in the blue pup tent with my cousin. It must be nineteen seventy-six. We needed to practice. We knew they were coming for us. She kissed my cheek, a soft rose. I kissed her the way the woman kissed the man on the movie screen I watched from our family tent somewhere in Missouri. She said that’s like a movie star kiss. I was shamed. We never mentioned it. Pretty soon we learned blowjobs and babies, take-out Chinese, six packs and day-old bread. We learned well the fist through the wall, how a man can draw you back and back, back to the too-soft bed, back to kisses up and down and all around. We learned best the too quick world overtaking us. We learned our lives would hurt us, so beautifully, so exquisitely. And that’s the only true thing in this story.




Read it: http://theneweryork.com/in-the-milk-rebecca-cook/ High-res

New Fiction: In the Milk by Chuck Young

Clip clip the conductor, his sixteenth notes. He lives in my ears, his baton, my brain, we are the source of all the world’s music. I was Dior-pale, rubbery, six months old. My mother took me to the doctor. He stuck a long, long, very sharp needle into my head and inside the needle was the conductor, so tiny I didn’t feel it at all when he burst inside me. It was only his baton, the virginity of my head, a little blood. His lilacs bloom in my hair.

I lick the mattress tufts, the morning shines through a little slot. nurse puts bitters under my tongue. She says I’m better every day. I have always been better every day. My father drove a big truck filled with milk. I swallowed a whole field of Holsteins, stronger, better, every day. God comes and pulls out my ribs. I swing in the cage of bone. I whistle.

I don’t know who put it inside me, poor tadpole paddling my belly. I confine myself. I board up the windows, the doors. The wind is thick with brunettes. They will cut it out. It happened before. I was hanging from the rafters. They used two knives and a sickle. They took it away in a red-striped blanket. It lies wailing the cathedral steps.

I can see my toes, very small toes, someone else’s toes. From the bottom, the sealed top of waves moves milky like wheat. A tall man pulls me from the water. I admire his red shorts. I observe his yellow mustache. Mouth on mouth on someone else’s mouth. I study the mystery of his tongue. He coughs up a city in me, steel and concrete balance the sea, the taxis are toys. Every person in the city is an insect. My chest is choked with crickets. They rub their legs together, the taut strings sing.

There was a storm of violins. Sunday, nineteen sixty-four. I rocketed out of my mother, straight through the wall. I never lived in her house. I never saw the red bucket. I never sat the stinging tub, its pink soap, its shower cap. I never shaved my underarms. The rash was mysterious, my swollen throat, its solid white lump. I learned to swallow and swallow, glass after glass of water. It probably was the mumps. But no one could locate my swollen cheeks.

I must speak to you directly. I must warn you for I cannot help myself. They are already inside me. The MRI showed nothing but I can feel them chewing me, swimming up and down, side to side, blowing me in and out of their mouths. It’s that roll of gum. It masquerades as tobacco. My elbows are aching. I’m obliged to cobblestone, the path to the vestry. I hold my breath, my lungs burn, bowels full of black feet.

I learned early to lie. I lied about the birds in my stomach, I lied about the thick, log-cabin quilt. I lied

about North Dakota. I lied when I said no, no the aluminum tumblers, no no the big sky. I am in great need of sharp things. The Russian army is marching across the roof, across the windows. I hurl my spear at the Captain. He is my lover. He twirls me round and round my dizzy tulle, my patent shoes. I learn fast, the sterile gloves of the Brownie Parade, such large bags of Little Debbies pouring into the deep freeze; you can smoke a cold Swiss Roll.

It survives the fit, it survives the scream. Every jar on every shelf in my kitchen is full of abortions. I don’t know how they got here. The heavy oak, its plastic cover, its suckling pig, baby mouth stuffed with peelings, potatoes, lemons. You can use every part. I made a balloon of the bladder and tossed it to the boy next door. His mother opened the gate and rushed him inside. It’s a very, very long time ago. The doctor told me to take off my shirt. He gifted me his stethoscope. That’s what they do when they’re grateful, that’s what they do when you pick the berries yourself. That’s what they do when you bake them pies.

Of course, I can’t tell you everything. They only left half my tongue. I was full of cancer. I couldn’t stop singing, so slick inside with oil. It drips from our truck, the black truck with the silver choke, the engine fire, the curled up head of woman threw her denim shirt over the engine. All I could do was stare at her breasts. Then a hand fast over my eyes, my face. I was nailed up with secrets.

The day was circled on my calendar. I kept to my schedule. I folded up the house, the inside of the house, the children who live inside the house, their racket, the whir of the ceiling, the stack of yellow chimneys. It fits perfectly into the duffle. I found it in my brother’s closet. They wired his brain to the Eastern grid. Everything sparks. It’s a thing that hurts so beautifully, everything hurts so beautifully. Father Joseph crosses my head, I flame with Jesus water.

There’s a drip when it rains. I can no longer move. I should have told you earlier, I should have told you it’s all a lie. I should have told you I make up stories. I should have told I married my old Royal. No one but us can make love this way. The keystrokes, the black-red ribbon. Every mistake can be whitened out. My term paper, the vision of my mother reading the little, velvet book, the green book full of Jane’s crisp hand.

No one taught me endings. I missed that day of class. But I do know the river will cover everything, Achilles will go down. The plains will sprout tumbleweeds. The buffalo will insist on complete silence. You must burn the field to bring up the grass. God created the world in six days. I must make hast. The Mother Superior helps me. She is fat and good with a shovel. We eek out a new world with mud, with andirons, the ribboned candy—it goes all the way through, all the way outside itself before it melts into your hands.

Somehow I have ended up in the blue pup tent with my cousin. It must be nineteen seventy-six. We needed to practice. We knew they were coming for us. She kissed my cheek, a soft rose. I kissed her the way the woman kissed the man on the movie screen I watched from our family tent somewhere in Missouri. She said that’s like a movie star kiss. I was shamed. We never mentioned it. Pretty soon we learned blowjobs and babies, take-out Chinese, six packs and day-old bread. We learned well the fist through the wall, how a man can draw you back and back, back to the too-soft bed, back to kisses up and down and all around. We learned best the too quick world overtaking us. We learned our lives would hurt us, so beautifully, so exquisitely. And thats the only true thing in this story.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/in-the-milk-rebecca-cook/
New post from theNewerYork Dispatch: theNewerYork’s Best of the Net 2014 Nominations 

theNewerYork is pleased to present our submissions for the Best of the Net 2014 anthology.
 
Kait Heacock – “Third-Party Agreement”
http://theneweryork.com/third-party-agreement-kait-heacock/
 
Scherezade Siobhan – “Genres of …

Read the rest: http://theneweryork.com/dispatch/theneweryork-best-net-2014-nominations/ High-res

New post from theNewerYork Dispatch: theNewerYork’s Best of the Net 2014 Nominations

theNewerYork is pleased to present our submissions for the Best of the Net 2014 anthology.   Kait Heacock – “Third-Party Agreement” http://theneweryork.com/third-party-agreement-kait-heacock/   Scherezade Siobhan – “Genres of …

Read the rest: http://theneweryork.com/dispatch/theneweryork-best-net-2014-nominations/
New Fiction: Diary of a Hypergraphic, or Dolly Mix: A Portrait and/or a Dream by Naemi Cederholm 

The following transcript has been extracted from Maxwell MC60 and RadioShack MC90 microcassette tapes manufactured in Mexico and distributed in the US. Several tapes are heavily distorted from overuse, while others are completely waterlogged. A side labels have been torn or scribbled over in black.
TAPE 1, SIDE A­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­
(Short screech, muttering)
WOMAN 1: Oh, okay!
(Train whistle approaches)
(Passenger conversation speeds into high­pitched chatter)
(Ringtone plays)
PA SYSTEM: Please watch the gap.
(Child cries out)
(Laughter)
(Applause)
ACTOR: This … world war. (Sighs)
CHILD: (Continued sobs) Father? Father? FATHER? [Tape loops child’s whimper]

END OF SIDE A
­Pour toi, l’Amérique qu’est­ce que c’est?
­C’est une société a laquelle je trouve énormément de qualités, mais sans laquelle je n’aimerais pas vivre.
­Pourquoi pas?
­Parée que c’est une société trop intense! Duun cote, j’admire l’ardeur avec laquelle les Américains tentent de résoudre les problèmes auxquels ils sont exposes. D’un autre cote, je ne comprends pas la violence continuelle Dans laquelle ils vivent…
“En esta casa dentro de la zona nuclear,
el terremoto                 de
septiembre                  quebró el
retrato de un                  familiar “‘C’est la vie?’ ­Antoine de Saint­Exupéry” ­Albert Camus, Labyrinths
(…) Dos                  perros “‘Shikata ga nai.’ ­Yukio Mishima, 1Q84” ­Haruki Murakami, 2666
pelean en las                 calles vacías
(…) Un solitario activista de los derechos
animales camina a lo largo de la costa de
F____.” ­ National Geographic Diciembre 2011: ‘Los refugiados nucleares de Japón,’
I feel like I know you sweetheart – Dad talks so great about you all the time!!
This unusual combination of flavors makes a rich, sweet beginning for a special meal. Tip: Add a squeeze of lemon and a dash of Tabasco sauce to really perk up the flavor.
Complete by slipping down through knot in front. Tighten and draw up snug to collar.
MY TASK IS TO MAKE YOU HEAR FEEL SEE STOP
This peace settlement took                                                            of North America

led to a reluctant truce between Indians1 and the British2.                                            Skew lines go in different directions and never touch; as a result, they are not coplanar (not in the same plane).
3 marble cover composition books, black, 100 sheets
36 medium point red stick pens
These chromatic approach notes will generally be outside of the scale used with the chords, but the pull of the half­step resolution to the new root note justifies leaving the tonality you’ve created.
Perhaps there is a way of cheating time. Evidence suggests that, as space travelers approach the speed of light, time       will      slow         down           for them. This is time dilation. Spεεd of light = 299,729.5 km per second
LORAIN, OH. –His death,
witnessed by 16000 live audience
members and millions more on TV,
led to a brutal seventeen month
legal battle of finger pointing
for responsibility.
What a rush… Scary… Can’t Stop… The force—Launching me like a missile–­­! And when … to someone who makes a bright and beautiful diference in this world. That is you and that is why we love you so much. Te queremos mucho, Abuela y Abuelo
This item has been examined by one or more DNA experts. It is in our opinion that this item is genuine. The item has been permanently marked with a proprietary invisible ink containing a patented strand of synthetic DNA. Certification number: G 98228
Years from now, we will be able to look back and remember what everything truly looked like – the classrooms, the clothes, the people. It will bring back memories of a chapter in our lives we will never forget FRONT WHEELS HAVE DISC BRAKES
This Amplifier System is capable of producing VERY HIGH sound pressure levels which may cause temporary or permanent hearing damage. U s e c a r e w h e n s e t t i n g a n d a d j u s t i n g v o l u m e l e v e l s d u r i n g u s e .
Vielen Dank fur Deine beiden Nriefe. Ich hof e, Du verzei­ hst mir, das ich Dir auf dem ersten nicht gleich antworten kon­nte. Wir sind also am 8.12.73 umgezogen, Die neun Anschrift findest Du auf dem Umschlag. Im Augenblick geht es mir gar nicht gut und ich warte auf den Arzt. Hof entlich kann er mir doch ein wenig helfen. 4.1.74!
DREAMS, PASSIONS (Reveries; Passions)                                                  PASS IN REVIEW (Carl Fischer)
At first the young man thinks of the uneasy and nervous condition of his mind, of somber longings, of depression and joyous elation without any recognizable cause, which he experienced before the Beloved One had appeared to him. Rhapsody in Hue (Arrangement with Strings)
 “I was delivered a fan letter that Steve picked up from our P.O. box and I opened it up and it was ɟᴉllǝp ʍᴉʇɥ ɔɹnsɥǝp pǝɐp ɟlᴉǝs ɐup ʇɥǝʎ ɟǝll onʇ ouʇo ʇɥǝ ɯᴉxᴉuƃ ɔousolǝ ɐup Nᴉɔʞ looʞǝp ɐʇ ɯǝ ɐup
called me a bad name.” “Once you don’t start sleeping, then the carnival starts.
a evah I .es rep ,seciv fo tol a evah I kniht t’nod I )…(very clear mind, and I fall asleep very easily at night. Its staying up thats the problem.onceimawakethefirsttimeimdone”
1 u <3
im awake 
just fell asleep right there :^O
yea, im gonna go now
sry u had to go through that
torture, if you did decide to read it :*(
…
well, happy belated holidays!
u2.
­ February 21st, 2011Rènnas del Castèl 
1. who felt oppressed.2. who felt oppressedas well as the Indianswho felt depressed. and travelled west in defiance.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/diary-of-a-hypergraphic-or-dolly-mix-a-portrait-andor-a-dream-naemi-cederholm/ High-res

New Fiction: Diary of a Hypergraphic, or Dolly Mix: A Portrait and/or a Dream by Naemi Cederholm

The following transcript has been extracted from Maxwell MC60 and RadioShack MC90 microcassette tapes manufactured in Mexico and distributed in the US. Several tapes are heavily distorted from overuse, while others are completely waterlogged. A side labels have been torn or scribbled over in black.


TAPE 1, SIDE A­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

(Short screech, muttering)
WOMAN 1: Oh, okay!
(Train whistle approaches)
(Passenger conversation speeds into high­pitched chatter)
(Ringtone plays)
PA SYSTEM: Please watch the gap.
(Child cries out)
(Laughter)
(Applause)
ACTOR: This … world war. (Sighs)
CHILD: (Continued sobs) Father? Father? FATHER? [Tape loops child’s whimper]


END OF SIDE A

­Pour toi, l’Amérique qu’est­ce que c’est?
­C’est une société a laquelle je trouve énormément de qualités, mais sans laquelle je n’aimerais pas vivre.
­Pourquoi pas?
­Parée que c’est une société trop intense! Duun cote, j’admire l’ardeur avec laquelle les Américains tentent de résoudre les problèmes auxquels ils sont exposes. D’un autre cote, je ne comprends pas la violence continuelle Dans laquelle ils vivent…
“En esta casa dentro de la zona nuclear,
el terremoto                 de
septiembre                  quebró el
retrato de un                  familiar “‘C’est la vie?’ ­Antoine de Saint­Exupéry” ­Albert Camus, Labyrinths
(…) Dos                  perros “‘Shikata ga nai.’ ­Yukio Mishima, 1Q84” ­Haruki Murakami, 2666
pelean en las                 calles vacías
(…) Un solitario activista de los derechos
animales camina a lo largo de la costa de
F____.” ­ National Geographic Diciembre 2011: ‘Los refugiados nucleares de Japón,’

I feel like I know you sweetheart – Dad talks so great about you all the time!!

This unusual combination of flavors makes a rich, sweet beginning for a special meal. Tip: Add a squeeze of lemon and a dash of Tabasco sauce to really perk up the flavor.

Complete by slipping down through knot in front. Tighten and draw up snug to collar.

MY TASK IS TO MAKE YOU HEAR FEEL SEE STOP

This peace settlement took                                                            of North America

hypergraphic1led to a reluctant truce between Indians1 and the British2.                                            Skew lines go in different directions and never touch; as a result, they are not coplanar (not in the same plane).

  • 3 marble cover composition books, black, 100 sheets
  • 36 medium point red stick pens

These chromatic approach notes will generally be outside of the scale used with the chords, but the pull of the half­step resolution to the new root note justifies leaving the tonality you’ve created.

Perhaps there is a way of cheating time. Evidence suggests that, as space travelers approach the speed of light, time       will      slow         down           for them. This is time dilation. Spεεd of light = 299,729.5 km per second

LORAIN, OH. –His death,
witnessed by 16000 live audience
members and millions more on TV,
led to a brutal seventeen month
legal battle of finger pointing
for responsibility.

What a rushScary… Can’t Stop… The force—Launching me like a missile–­­! And when … to someone who makes a bright and beautiful diference in this world. That is you and that is why we love you so much. Te queremos mucho, Abuela y Abuelo

This item has been examined by one or more DNA experts. It is in our opinion that this item is genuine. The item has been permanently marked with a proprietary invisible ink containing a patented strand of synthetic DNA. Certification number: G 98228

Years from now, we will be able to look back and remember what everything truly looked like – the classrooms, the clothes, the people. It will bring back memories of a chapter in our lives we will never forget FRONT WHEELS HAVE DISC BRAKES

This Amplifier System is capable of producing VERY HIGH sound pressure levels which may cause temporary or permanent hearing damage. U s e c a r e w h e n s e t t i n g a n d a d j u s t i n g v o l u m e l e v e l s d u r i n g u s e .

Vielen Dank fur Deine beiden Nriefe. Ich hof e, Du verzei­ hst mir, das ich Dir auf dem ersten nicht gleich antworten kon­nte. Wir sind also am 8.12.73 umgezogen, Die neun Anschrift findest Du auf dem Umschlag. Im Augenblick geht es mir gar nicht gut und ich warte auf den Arzt. Hof entlich kann er mir doch ein wenig helfen. 4.1.74!

DREAMS, PASSIONS (Reveries; Passions)                                                  PASS IN REVIEW (Carl Fischer)

At first the young man thinks of the uneasy and nervous condition of his mind, of somber longings, of depression and joyous elation without any recognizable cause, which he experienced before the Beloved One had appeared to him. Rhapsody in Hue (Arrangement with Strings)

 “I was delivered a fan letter that Steve picked up from our P.O. box and I opened it up and it was ɟᴉllǝp ʍᴉʇɥ ɔɹnsɥǝp pǝɐp ɟlᴉǝs ɐup ʇɥǝʎ ɟǝll onʇ ouʇo ʇɥǝ ɯᴉxᴉuƃ ɔousolǝ ɐup Nᴉɔʞ looʞǝp ɐʇ ɯǝ ɐup

called me a bad name.” “Once you don’t start sleeping, then the carnival starts.

a evah I .es rep ,seciv fo tol a evah I kniht t’nod I )…(very clear mind, and I fall asleep very easily at night. Its staying up thats the problem.onceimawakethefirsttimeimdone”

1 u <3

im awake

just fell asleep right there :^O

yea, im gonna go now

sry u had to go through that
torture, if you did decide to read it :*(

well, happy belated holidays!

u2.
­ February 21st, 2011
Rènnas del Castèl


1. who felt oppressed.
2. who felt oppressedas well as the Indianswho felt depressed. and travelled west in defiance.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/diary-of-a-hypergraphic-or-dolly-mix-a-portrait-andor-a-dream-naemi-cederholm/
New Fiction: Immunity Test. by Julia Long 

1. Sleeping Beauty.
Your whole body is asleep and it is chronic.
Like always by a muscle cramp you are being slowly, wrestled.
Like always by an alive root, you are being gripped and restricted at the ankle and the asleep feeling is mockingly ‘massaged’ by this teasy vague omnipresence from ankle to calf, a god sized ache. Somewhere it feels good, because you know you deserve a hellish punishment. Here this is, whatever it is. You’ll never be what you could.
When you feel next to yourself in your bed at night there are people.
There are people.
There are people there in the bed next to you and you don’t feel safe. But you don’t feel alone.
It’s the same people over again, rotating nights.
You forget exactly who they are to you, how they got into your life.
There is a woman (single). Middle aged. Sinewy. She will usually read there next to you with a flashlight until really late. That’s actually how you usually first sense her, not by feeling next to yourself with your numb hand but by getting woken up by light. It’s really hard to go back to sleep once you notice it. Sometimes if she really goes long you ask as politely as possible (after putting it off for a while) if she can shut off the light. She does if she ‘was going to anyway’ and when she doesn’t want to she says people should ‘rest their eyes’ for hours before sleep. She likes her personal space and will grunt or something if you accidentally, in your sleep nudge her when she is finally tired too, laying down beside you, a cold unloving bitch.
There is a female ogre and her (human) husband. It starts out with just the ogre next to you and then her husband comes in and asks her to sleep with him. Then she says she’d rather sleep with you. The husband makes some joke where you know he genuinely mostly doesn’t mind and leaves. Then you sleep very close to the ogre to do what you’re supposed to do in life. Every time you wish it was the husband instead.
There is a man. He looks chronically concerned. He looks younger than the age you sense he is. He’s your favorite. He’s sane. He’s not doomed. You empathize with him. On Christmas morning he was actually downstairs, doing some chore (dishes?) in the kitchen sink. It was the only time you saw any of the people outside bed. You just saw the back of him, focusing on his long hair. You were in your house but it really didn’t feel like it, somewhere it felt like the remote outback. He made a joke about how you ‘better get the snow shovel’ and you knew he was at least somewhat serious but didn’t sense it was winter so asked why. He said it was Christmas morning. Sure enough there were presents all over the couch, you didn’t know from whom. “What the fuck,” you said. He was like “I know. I know. I thought October 31st was one day ago.” “It was one day ago, it was,” you said. You were shell-shocked, crying in frustration. You sat on his lap, cried into his shirt and said “We have the same anxieties.” He called you a good person. Being called a good person is the best compliment you can think of.
There is an elderly couple. With them sometimes it is ‘a problem,’ sometimes not. There was one instance you had a nocturnal seizure where you accidentally bumped them a lot and screamed in your sleep. The elderly man said “What-the-fuck, people are sleeping” and it was enough to provoke them to attack. You could sense they didn’t just want to rough you up, they wanted to kill you. As you tried to escape the old killers the massagey muscle pain of chronic asleep body got really bad and really cruel, making your movements slow where the couple’s were slow already and it was just a long, drawn out, sad, slow, one sided fight, with the elderly people beating you with their fists. It turned out the ugly massaging force from the thing ache was enough you couldn’t escape the bed and you really panicked inside. The elderly man finally pulled out a knife and, throbbing with numb muscle cramps, you told him “No okay I’m good I’m silent I’m silent I’m silent.”
Did not die.
2. Goldilocks.
There is a hole.
A hole in my face.
A hole between my legs.
A cancer monster hole in the vague world. Everyone senses and no one will say there’s a hole, but oh, but God, we know.
Unspoken, invisible gaping god sized void, a god sized hungry spider, scritchy scratchy like a hairball, scribble.
A hole in my bed that once sucked me up.
Sucked me.
At that moment in time I was so solipsistic-restless the world revolved around my throbbing mouth and pussy.
Such awareness of my physical holes because I’ll never be solid in theory either, I’ll never be total inside.
I’ll never, be what I could.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/immunity-test-julia-long/ High-res

New Fiction: Immunity Test. by Julia Long

1. Sleeping Beauty.

Your whole body is asleep and it is chronic.

Like always by a muscle cramp you are being slowly, wrestled.

Like always by an alive root, you are being gripped and restricted at the ankle and the asleep feeling is mockingly ‘massaged’ by this teasy vague omnipresence from ankle to calf, a god sized ache. Somewhere it feels good, because you know you deserve a hellish punishment. Here this is, whatever it is. You’ll never be what you could.

When you feel next to yourself in your bed at night there are people.

There are people.

There are people there in the bed next to you and you don’t feel safe. But you don’t feel alone.

It’s the same people over again, rotating nights.

You forget exactly who they are to you, how they got into your life.

There is a woman (single). Middle aged. Sinewy. She will usually read there next to you with a flashlight until really late. That’s actually how you usually first sense her, not by feeling next to yourself with your numb hand but by getting woken up by light. It’s really hard to go back to sleep once you notice it. Sometimes if she really goes long you ask as politely as possible (after putting it off for a while) if she can shut off the light. She does if she ‘was going to anyway’ and when she doesn’t want to she says people should ‘rest their eyes’ for hours before sleep. She likes her personal space and will grunt or something if you accidentally, in your sleep nudge her when she is finally tired too, laying down beside you, a cold unloving bitch.

There is a female ogre and her (human) husband. It starts out with just the ogre next to you and then her husband comes in and asks her to sleep with him. Then she says she’d rather sleep with you. The husband makes some joke where you know he genuinely mostly doesn’t mind and leaves. Then you sleep very close to the ogre to do what you’re supposed to do in life. Every time you wish it was the husband instead.

There is a man. He looks chronically concerned. He looks younger than the age you sense he is. He’s your favorite. He’s sane. He’s not doomed. You empathize with him. On Christmas morning he was actually downstairs, doing some chore (dishes?) in the kitchen sink. It was the only time you saw any of the people outside bed. You just saw the back of him, focusing on his long hair. You were in your house but it really didn’t feel like it, somewhere it felt like the remote outback. He made a joke about how you ‘better get the snow shovel’ and you knew he was at least somewhat serious but didn’t sense it was winter so asked why. He said it was Christmas morning. Sure enough there were presents all over the couch, you didn’t know from whom. “What the fuck,” you said. He was like “I know. I know. I thought October 31st was one day ago.” “It was one day ago, it was,” you said. You were shell-shocked, crying in frustration. You sat on his lap, cried into his shirt and said “We have the same anxieties.” He called you a good person. Being called a good person is the best compliment you can think of.

There is an elderly couple. With them sometimes it is ‘a problem,’ sometimes not. There was one instance you had a nocturnal seizure where you accidentally bumped them a lot and screamed in your sleep. The elderly man said “What-the-fuck, people are sleeping” and it was enough to provoke them to attack. You could sense they didn’t just want to rough you up, they wanted to kill you. As you tried to escape the old killers the massagey muscle pain of chronic asleep body got really bad and really cruel, making your movements slow where the couple’s were slow already and it was just a long, drawn out, sad, slow, one sided fight, with the elderly people beating you with their fists. It turned out the ugly massaging force from the thing ache was enough you couldn’t escape the bed and you really panicked inside. The elderly man finally pulled out a knife and, throbbing with numb muscle cramps, you told him “No okay I’m good I’m silent I’m silent I’m silent.”

Did not die.

2. Goldilocks.

There is a hole.

A hole in my face.

A hole between my legs.

A cancer monster hole in the vague world. Everyone senses and no one will say there’s a hole, but oh, but God, we know.

Unspoken, invisible gaping god sized void, a god sized hungry spider, scritchy scratchy like a hairball, scribble.

A hole in my bed that once sucked me up.

Sucked me.

At that moment in time I was so solipsistic-restless the world revolved around my throbbing mouth and pussy.

Such awareness of my physical holes because I’ll never be solid in theory either, I’ll never be total inside.

I’ll never, be what I could.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/immunity-test-julia-long/
New fiction: Selfie Glamour Appendix A by TIna Hyland 


In Hellenistic Greece, initiates to the temples of Aphrodite practiced glamour spells for hours each day. This is how they became adept in the magicks of sex and desire. Their first and simplest glamour was altering their own reflections in pools of water. The effects were subtle; brighter eyes, fuller lips, smoother skin. In those days, it lasted only as long as the initiate stared into her gaze. Today, we can use our phones not only to fall in love with our reflections, as Narcissus once did, but to capture our idealized form in a selfie.


Fig. 1 Unglamoured and glamoured selfie
To perform this spell, you will need incense and a smartphone.
The incense should carry the magical properties you wish to alter in your reflection. For example, I often look tired in pictures, so I choose a fragrance with the power to rejuvenate, like grapefruit or green apple. If you want more sensuality, you might try jasmine or gardenia. Trust your instinct or Appendix A.
Sit comfortably in a room with soft or dim light. Place the incense near you. Its smoke should reach your nose, but it should not overwhelm you. Open the camera of your phone and settle into your reflection. Gaze into your eyes. Breathe. Slowly. Take the incense into your body. Let its magic reach into your nostrils and under your skin. Let it smooth you from the inside. It is lifting your eyebrows, gently. It is rubbing away your blemishes and smoothing your wrinkles. Gaze into your eyes. They are brighter now, brighter than they have ever been.
Once you have entered a meditative state of self­love and beauty, take the picture. This may require practice. You must take the picture while maintaining absolute concentration on your gaze.
the smells of sex are
pulpy fruit, chewed and seed gathered
rose hips, boiled
campfire, coruscated
sea foam, pooling over boulder, under cliff
groin sweat, glistened
bad lettuce, limp and black edged
red wine, poured
cinnamon, tossed in corners
cut wood, slicked in sap
jasmine, bouqueted
cookie dough, spoonfuls
goat weed, grated by tooth
fondue, dipped
licorice root, rubbed in palm
cucumber, floating on water
new dollar, crisp
sandalwood, splashed across armpit and groin
fig, leaning
cigarette smoke, exhaled
vanilla, dabbed in a joint of elbow


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/selfie-glamour-appendix-a-tina-hyland/
New fiction: Selfie Glamour Appendix A by TIna Hyland

selfie1

In Hellenistic Greece, initiates to the temples of Aphrodite practiced glamour spells for hours each day. This is how they became adept in the magicks of sex and desire. Their first and simplest glamour was altering their own reflections in pools of water. The effects were subtle; brighter eyes, fuller lips, smoother skin. In those days, it lasted only as long as the initiate stared into her gaze. Today, we can use our phones not only to fall in love with our reflections, as Narcissus once did, but to capture our idealized form in a selfie.

selfie2

Fig. 1 Unglamoured and glamoured selfie

To perform this spell, you will need incense and a smartphone.

The incense should carry the magical properties you wish to alter in your reflection. For example, I often look tired in pictures, so I choose a fragrance with the power to rejuvenate, like grapefruit or green apple. If you want more sensuality, you might try jasmine or gardenia. Trust your instinct or Appendix A.

Sit comfortably in a room with soft or dim light. Place the incense near you. Its smoke should reach your nose, but it should not overwhelm you. Open the camera of your phone and settle into your reflection. Gaze into your eyes. Breathe. Slowly. Take the incense into your body. Let its magic reach into your nostrils and under your skin. Let it smooth you from the inside. It is lifting your eyebrows, gently. It is rubbing away your blemishes and smoothing your wrinkles. Gaze into your eyes. They are brighter now, brighter than they have ever been.

Once you have entered a meditative state of self­love and beauty, take the picture. This may require practice. You must take the picture while maintaining absolute concentration on your gaze.

selfie3the smells of sex are

pulpy fruit, chewed and seed gathered
rose hips, boiled
campfire, coruscated
sea foam, pooling over boulder, under cliff
groin sweat, glistened
bad lettuce, limp and black edged
red wine, poured
cinnamon, tossed in corners
cut wood, slicked in sap
jasmine, bouqueted
cookie dough, spoonfuls
goat weed, grated by tooth
fondue, dipped
licorice root, rubbed in palm
cucumber, floating on water
new dollar, crisp
sandalwood, splashed across armpit and groin
fig, leaning
cigarette smoke, exhaled
vanilla, dabbed in a joint of elbow

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/selfie-glamour-appendix-a-tina-hyland/
New Fiction: I Found Out How and When I’m Going to Die via Tinder by Doug Koziol 

Everyone remembers their first Tinder match. It’s a glowing evocation that someone out there in the vast universe (or at least in a &lt;100 mi. radius) has seen carefully curated photos of you and deemed you worthy of their attraction. Or maybe they just accidentally swiped right; who knows.
Well, my first was:
Hellen, 99, 22 miles away, active 25,000 years ago.
Her sole picture: She sits cross-legged in a flowing black dress with blue stripes running diagonally down it, and a white, spider-like broach stretches across her chest. Her hair is red, twirling, and falls about midway down her back. Her pupils are black with glints of yellow at the bottom, like crescent moons sinking in the night sky. Her nose is straight and slight, and her lips perfectly match the color of her hair. An intricate, white necklace (appearing to be of the same material as the broach) rests above her pronounced clavicle. She is in the process of weaving red yarn into a web-like pattern.
Her About: ‘master architect of metaphysical materials-enlightened navigator of the infinite hall of mirrors-scribe of the venus tablet of ammisaduqa’
Shared Interests (1): Texas hold ‘em
She messaged first:
Hellen: whats ur sign
Me: I thought people only asked that in movies ha. Mine’s Leo. What’s yours?
H: i witnessed the nemean lion wrestled to its death &amp; skinned with own claws
M: I’m afraid I’m not too well-versed in astrology, so I’m not entirely sure what that means ha.
H: ur ignorance betrays u in other realms 2
M: True, I don’t know much about hockey either.
H: the ruling planet jupiter clouds u this is grave matter
M: Oh, I’m sorry I’m not taking this more seriously. What’s the situation?
H: ive foreseen ur death
M: Oh, really? Care to share how I’m going to bite the dust?
H: u dont take me seriously st augustine lives in u ill obliterate ur skepticism ask me anything
M: Sure. What was the first R-rated movie I ever saw?
H: roland emmerichs the patriot
M: Holy shit. That’s a lucky guess. Let me actually try and stump you.
M: When I was seven, I buried something in my backyard to dig up later when I was grown up. What was it?
H: spiderman action figure &amp; a quarter
M: Do I know you? Is this Jake? Did you make a fake profile to mess with me?
H: u will die on jan 20 i cant say the year but u will die when ur airplane crashes in2 the ocean u will survive impact but drown
M: I didn’t ask you to tell me! What the hell?!
H: i had no choice
M: You’re full of shit. Even if it were true, I’d just never go on an airplane for the rest of my life, then you’d be wrong, so who cares.
H: u have no choice
M: You’re a lunatic. This is what you use Tinder for?!
M: Hey!
M: Hey!!
Now, I’ll have to live in fear of the third week in January and avoid air travel for the rest of my life. But the week after that mortifying conversation, I was matched with a woman who loved SCTV and leased a jet ski. So, overall, I’d give the app: 3.5/5 stars.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/i-found-out-how-and-when-im-going-to-die-via-tinder-doug-koziol/ High-res

New Fiction: I Found Out How and When I’m Going to Die via Tinder by Doug Koziol

Everyone remembers their first Tinder match. It’s a glowing evocation that someone out there in the vast universe (or at least in a <100 mi. radius) has seen carefully curated photos of you and deemed you worthy of their attraction. Or maybe they just accidentally swiped right; who knows.

Well, my first was:

Hellen, 99, 22 miles away, active 25,000 years ago.

Her sole picture: She sits cross-legged in a flowing black dress with blue stripes running diagonally down it, and a white, spider-like broach stretches across her chest. Her hair is red, twirling, and falls about midway down her back. Her pupils are black with glints of yellow at the bottom, like crescent moons sinking in the night sky. Her nose is straight and slight, and her lips perfectly match the color of her hair. An intricate, white necklace (appearing to be of the same material as the broach) rests above her pronounced clavicle. She is in the process of weaving red yarn into a web-like pattern.

Her About: ‘master architect of metaphysical materials-enlightened navigator of the infinite hall of mirrors-scribe of the venus tablet of ammisaduqa’

Shared Interests (1): Texas hold ‘em

She messaged first:

Hellen: whats ur sign

Me: I thought people only asked that in movies ha. Mine’s Leo. What’s yours?

H: i witnessed the nemean lion wrestled to its death & skinned with own claws

M: I’m afraid I’m not too well-versed in astrology, so I’m not entirely sure what that means ha.

H: ur ignorance betrays u in other realms 2

M: True, I don’t know much about hockey either.

H: the ruling planet jupiter clouds u this is grave matter

M: Oh, I’m sorry I’m not taking this more seriously. What’s the situation?

H: ive foreseen ur death

M: Oh, really? Care to share how I’m going to bite the dust?

H: u dont take me seriously st augustine lives in u ill obliterate ur skepticism ask me anything

M: Sure. What was the first R-rated movie I ever saw?

H: roland emmerichs the patriot

M: Holy shit. That’s a lucky guess. Let me actually try and stump you.

M: When I was seven, I buried something in my backyard to dig up later when I was grown up. What was it?

H: spiderman action figure & a quarter

M: Do I know you? Is this Jake? Did you make a fake profile to mess with me?

H: u will die on jan 20 i cant say the year but u will die when ur airplane crashes in2 the ocean u will survive impact but drown

M: I didn’t ask you to tell me! What the hell?!

H: i had no choice

M: You’re full of shit. Even if it were true, I’d just never go on an airplane for the rest of my life, then you’d be wrong, so who cares.

H: u have no choice

M: You’re a lunatic. This is what you use Tinder for?!

M: Hey!

M: Hey!!

Now, I’ll have to live in fear of the third week in January and avoid air travel for the rest of my life. But the week after that mortifying conversation, I was matched with a woman who loved SCTV and leased a jet ski. So, overall, I’d give the app: 3.5/5 stars.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/i-found-out-how-and-when-im-going-to-die-via-tinder-doug-koziol/

Loading next page

Hang on tight while we grab the next page