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We publish experimental literature in print and online. We post stories and art here every day. Go to theNewerYork.com to find more weirdness.

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New Fiction: Landlord by Kelly Stark 

Voices lilt down dirt roads through heavy heat jolting the old man sober. He rests his eyes to fake sleep. Sweat beads in the creases. He holds tight a damp rag, fights the urge to wipe off. Drops drip down split lips and a salty taste lingers. The sisters take their time, tiptoe past. Words fall to whispers just loud enough to trace. They close the door quietly behind them. Through window cracks they catch flashes of a smile spreading folds in the old man’s face. Silence fills the thick air.
The old man stretches upright, shakes harsh light from his lids. Last few drops of a warm can coats his throat. He kicks the empty at passing furred flesh. The sweet smell of wheat fields in the distance. A train’s droned hum. He looks at the house, tilting toward dirt, rotting years dead. His reflection blinks back, blurred and oblique. He struts toward the door, slow, unsteady, readying himself for what waits behind it.
The sisters hide in a clogged closet. Shit-soiled layers of crystal clay litter. Spring school dresses clinging clumps. They wait for footsteps to stop, hot light to shoot through. Trade deep breaths on each other’s necks. Between the silenced steps and violent bright burst, fingernails scratch slow circles outside the closed closet door.



Read it: http://theneweryork.com/landlord-kelly-stark/ High-res

New Fiction: Landlord by Kelly Stark

Voices lilt down dirt roads through heavy heat jolting the old man sober. He rests his eyes to fake sleep. Sweat beads in the creases. He holds tight a damp rag, fights the urge to wipe off. Drops drip down split lips and a salty taste lingers. The sisters take their time, tiptoe past. Words fall to whispers just loud enough to trace. They close the door quietly behind them. Through window cracks they catch flashes of a smile spreading folds in the old man’s face. Silence fills the thick air.

The old man stretches upright, shakes harsh light from his lids. Last few drops of a warm can coats his throat. He kicks the empty at passing furred flesh. The sweet smell of wheat fields in the distance. A train’s droned hum. He looks at the house, tilting toward dirt, rotting years dead. His reflection blinks back, blurred and oblique. He struts toward the door, slow, unsteady, readying himself for what waits behind it.

The sisters hide in a clogged closet. Shit-soiled layers of crystal clay litter. Spring school dresses clinging clumps. They wait for footsteps to stop, hot light to shoot through. Trade deep breaths on each other’s necks. Between the silenced steps and violent bright burst, fingernails scratch slow circles outside the closed closet door.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/landlord-kelly-stark/

Purple Pig Lit

@PurplePigLit wants you to clean up your pig sty and submit today.

Description: 

Purple Pig Lit seeks submissions of previously unpublished fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and visual art. We accept submissions year round and publish daily.

To submit, please send your work to purplepigsubmissions@gmail.com. A cover letter is nice but not needed. Do tell us who you are and attach a bio with your submission. We do read simultaneous submissions, but please withdraw…

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New Fiction: Template For a Memo Regarding Missing Me-n-Ed’s Pizza and Hmong Pepper Sauce,  Written in Fresno, California by Michael Gray 

TO: Fresnan(s)
FROM: Another Fresnan
DATE: A 100°F+ Day
SUBJECT: Missing Pizza and Pepper
Fellow Fresnan:
Opening Paragraph
This opening paragraph includes this memo’s purpose, the context and/or the event/problem, such as the absence of my Me-n-Ed’s and pepper from the fridge. (Rotisserie chicken from WinCo and rice from Asia Supermarket remain untouched.) Then, before providing details about toppings or seasonings, or context, I’ll provide a brief overview of this memo’s content. Introducing the purpose will clarify the reason you are reading this document. This intro should be brief, like the speed at which my pizza and pepper disappeared into gaping maw(s), and should be approximately the length of a short paragraph or a small-sized crust.
Context
I’ll establish the brick overlay of the oven, the City or State students playing Candy Crush behind the cash register, the slice-poke gouge-scrape-slice-snip-flip, and how the plastic booth stuck to my thighs. I’ll use a few sentences or a paragraph to establish the off-color paint job of the background and state the problem/issue.
Task Segment
Then, I can describe what I am doing to solve the problem, to write my name on the box or carve something into the styrofoam with a plastic fork or next time add an excessive amount of salt from a shaker somewhat resembling a kawm. I will include as much information as is needed, focusing on the most important topics, such as the count of pepperoni picked off with bare hands.
Summary Segment
A summary. Not necessary for short memos. A list of ingredients.
Discussion Segment
Key findings and recommendations. How to solve the problem of pizza and possible zaub txhwb disappearance, with general measures to specifics, such as installing security cameras and electric shock or employing the use of tasers. I’ll use strong points and arguments to defend these drastic measures and the last bottle of Three Crabs brand fish sauce.
Closing Segment
After you absorb all this information, your tongue(s) thoroughly numbed, and the grease soaks the empty boxes, I end this memo with a friendly yet courteous ending greeting, according to the nature of this memo’s intention, either deterring further secretive consumption or explaining changes made in the community kitchen.
Addendum
Let me know if you have any questions or would like some Parmesan cheese or crushed peppers or oily garlic dipping sauce or BBQ or Honey Mustard or Hoisin or Sriracha or some of that delicious Me-n-Ed’s ranch dressing.
Best,
Another Fresnan


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/template-for-a-memo-regarding-missing-me-n-eds-pizza-and-hmong-pepper-sauce-written-in-fresno-california-michael-gray/ High-res

New Fiction: Template For a Memo Regarding Missing Me-n-Ed’s Pizza and Hmong Pepper Sauce, Written in Fresno, California by Michael Gray

TO: Fresnan(s)
FROM: Another Fresnan
DATE: A 100°F+ Day
SUBJECT: Missing Pizza and Pepper

Fellow Fresnan:

Opening Paragraph

This opening paragraph includes this memo’s purpose, the context and/or the event/problem, such as the absence of my Me-n-Ed’s and pepper from the fridge. (Rotisserie chicken from WinCo and rice from Asia Supermarket remain untouched.) Then, before providing details about toppings or seasonings, or context, I’ll provide a brief overview of this memo’s content. Introducing the purpose will clarify the reason you are reading this document. This intro should be brief, like the speed at which my pizza and pepper disappeared into gaping maw(s), and should be approximately the length of a short paragraph or a small-sized crust.

Context

I’ll establish the brick overlay of the oven, the City or State students playing Candy Crush behind the cash register, the slice-poke gouge-scrape-slice-snip-flip, and how the plastic booth stuck to my thighs. I’ll use a few sentences or a paragraph to establish the off-color paint job of the background and state the problem/issue.

Task Segment

Then, I can describe what I am doing to solve the problem, to write my name on the box or carve something into the styrofoam with a plastic fork or next time add an excessive amount of salt from a shaker somewhat resembling a kawm. I will include as much information as is needed, focusing on the most important topics, such as the count of pepperoni picked off with bare hands.

Summary Segment

A summary. Not necessary for short memos. A list of ingredients.

Discussion Segment

Key findings and recommendations. How to solve the problem of pizza and possible zaub txhwb disappearance, with general measures to specifics, such as installing security cameras and electric shock or employing the use of tasers. I’ll use strong points and arguments to defend these drastic measures and the last bottle of Three Crabs brand fish sauce.

Closing Segment

After you absorb all this information, your tongue(s) thoroughly numbed, and the grease soaks the empty boxes, I end this memo with a friendly yet courteous ending greeting, according to the nature of this memo’s intention, either deterring further secretive consumption or explaining changes made in the community kitchen.

Addendum

Let me know if you have any questions or would like some Parmesan cheese or crushed peppers or oily garlic dipping sauce or BBQ or Honey Mustard or Hoisin or Sriracha or some of that delicious Me-n-Ed’s ranch dressing.
Best,
Another Fresnan

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/template-for-a-memo-regarding-missing-me-n-eds-pizza-and-hmong-pepper-sauce-written-in-fresno-california-michael-gray/
New Fiction: Addressing Pets on the Terms of their Hunger Strike  by Benjamin DeVos 

Sabrina, Siamese Cat, 12 years old
Pretentious little kitty, hanging from the ceiling fan by her nerve endings; there are simpler ways to prove a point.
Rudy, Basset Hound, <1 year old
Zippy little puppy, chasing its tail high on Ritalin; can nothing spoil your appetite?
Hermes, Mongolian Gerbil, 3 years old
Fat hamster licking lemonade from a leaky water bottle; you aren’t fooling anybody.
Rania, Dwarf Rabbit, Unknown Age
Chubby bunny sneaking carrots and grass behind the fence; you’re as bad as your friend the hamster.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/addressing-pets-on-the-terms-of-their-hunger-strike-benjamin-devos/ High-res

New Fiction: Addressing Pets on the Terms of their Hunger Strike by Benjamin DeVos

Sabrina, Siamese Cat, 12 years old

Pretentious little kitty, hanging from the ceiling fan by her nerve endings; there are simpler ways to prove a point.

Rudy, Basset Hound, <1 year old

Zippy little puppy, chasing its tail high on Ritalin; can nothing spoil your appetite?

Hermes, Mongolian Gerbil, 3 years old

Fat hamster licking lemonade from a leaky water bottle; you aren’t fooling anybody.

Rania, Dwarf Rabbit, Unknown Age

Chubby bunny sneaking carrots and grass behind the fence; you’re as bad as your friend the hamster.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/addressing-pets-on-the-terms-of-their-hunger-strike-benjamin-devos/
New Fiction: Hydras by Phillip Garcia 

Hydra at the Dentist
For each tooth pulled, two teeth emerge. Other dentists are brought in to pull the rapidly replenishing teeth; soon there are hundreds, then thousands, then millions of teeth, and an equal number of dentists, elbows in each other’s faces, toiling over bloody gums. More people are required: assistants, receptionists, insurance agents, friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, wives, paramours, priests, presidents, people to sweep the bone and to mop the blood, until the whole world thinks of nothing but the hydra and its teeth and the satisfying ache of release.
Hydra for President
The heads try to shout over one another: American Dream! American People! America! The nation is offered up like a child, and each head places a firm kiss on the population’s cheek. A thousand suits, a thousand ties, a thousand heads with a thousand teeth smiling a thousand smiles as a thousand necks crane over the country, casting a shadow under which we can all lie, huddled together, gnawing each others’ fingers to bloody stumps.
Hydra in the Big City
Heads as big as five boroughs and a tangle of necks with names like Brooklyn, Verrazano, Williamsburg. Faces lined with grids, pockmarked with landmarks, sweating people into the Hudson, into the Gowanus, into the gutters. A heart like Grand Central, a stomach like Times Square, and twin cocks like two towers scraping the sky, one named Freedom; the other: Empire.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/hydras-philip-garcia/ High-res

New Fiction: Hydras by Phillip Garcia

Hydra at the Dentist

For each tooth pulled, two teeth emerge. Other dentists are brought in to pull the rapidly replenishing teeth; soon there are hundreds, then thousands, then millions of teeth, and an equal number of dentists, elbows in each other’s faces, toiling over bloody gums. More people are required: assistants, receptionists, insurance agents, friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, wives, paramours, priests, presidents, people to sweep the bone and to mop the blood, until the whole world thinks of nothing but the hydra and its teeth and the satisfying ache of release.

Hydra for President

The heads try to shout over one another: American Dream! American People! America! The nation is offered up like a child, and each head places a firm kiss on the population’s cheek. A thousand suits, a thousand ties, a thousand heads with a thousand teeth smiling a thousand smiles as a thousand necks crane over the country, casting a shadow under which we can all lie, huddled together, gnawing each others’ fingers to bloody stumps.

Hydra in the Big City

Heads as big as five boroughs and a tangle of necks with names like Brooklyn, Verrazano, Williamsburg. Faces lined with grids, pockmarked with landmarks, sweating people into the Hudson, into the Gowanus, into the gutters. A heart like Grand Central, a stomach like Times Square, and twin cocks like two towers scraping the sky, one named Freedom; the other: Empire.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/hydras-philip-garcia/
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&#8217;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&#8217;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&#8217;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/

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