theNewerYork Press

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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. 

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Name
[REDACTED]

State
IL

Mental State
Stable. Maybe. I don’t know. What?

Martial Arts Status
I watched The Karate Kid several dozen times as a child.

What is the first animal you remember killing?
it was probably an ant.

How long have you had this problem and why do you think it lingers? (You know which problem.)
Since adolescence, so, 20 years? Probably because of some weird psycho-masochism and an aversion to feeling vulnerable.

What color is a bluejay?
blue and white and black, silly.

What is the first feeling that babies feel?
Confusion

Which iteration of you was your favorite and why?
whichever one was a couple years ago. I’m thinking it was the 8th or so.

Absurdity or Death?
A

What if at the moment we die every photograph we were ever in the background of but never knew existed flashes before our eyes? Think about it. Are we
human?

Sigur Ros or Sugar Ray
Sigur Ros

What is your favorite flavor?
Meat

Explain your step-by-step process re: growing as a human being.
Form relationships.
Watch relationships explode or decay.
Repeat.

Where do you get your news?
•Twitter
•I still believe in newspapers

How much alcohol do you drink when you have the next day off?
A post-party-anxiety-inducing amount

What do you want to be when you grow up?
•Happy

Would you like to donate to the Red Panda Network
I’m too lazy to look into it.

You’re entertaining guests at your homestead. You serve:
Potluck and BYOB. What? Do I look rich?

What is your face?
•Tactile learner?

Dear diary,
Today I met a nice girl whom I will not ask out on a date because I’m afraid my financial situation and relative lack of ambition will be discovered upon deciding to take our relationship to the “next level.”

Deer dairy,
1. Ice cream
2. Cheese
3. Butter

Any parties?
I was pretty disappointed with the last one I attended, and I’m no good at organizing them myself.

Would you like to adopt a red panda?
I’m afraid it may not get along with my cat, whose presence I resent.

Drugs from strangers:
Just say no

How do you separate the artist from the art? Should you even?
With a scalpel on a case-by-case basis. Or with two pickup trucks and a predetermined length of chain.

Hugs from strangers:
Yes, please

You are a human being on planet Earth. Please rate your experience thus far. 10 being not very satisfied and 0 being extremely satisfied.
4

What kind of goth are you?
Dorito

To “party” a shirt means to:
Either of the above (wear it / rip its sleeves off)

What’s the first thing you say to strangers at parties?
Hi.

You’re trapped on a desert island and can only bring three books. You:
Die

Kierkegaard? More like, Ermahgerd!
amirite?

Do you plan to submit to the Department of Forms and Records contest?
•No

SUBMIT HERE
FILL OUT THIS FUN FORM HERE

Dont know who @BillMcStowe is but he sent us some camouflage koozies in the mail and said he loves what we are up to. LITERARY PUBLISHING COMES WITH PERKS, FOOLS. High-res

Dont know who @BillMcStowe is but he sent us some camouflage koozies in the mail and said he loves what we are up to. LITERARY PUBLISHING COMES WITH PERKS, FOOLS.

New Fiction: I Awoke the Bad Guy by Andy Holsteen 

Every day I intentionally spill my entire one-liter thermos of coffee onto the lap of the idiot who won’t stop sitting next to me. Every day I anticipate him getting angry or at least reacting somehow since there’s no way he can not know that this thing that has been going on for months now is no longer an accident. Every day I hope he roosts somewhere else and declares he will cease coming near me because haha he has learned his lesson or because the boiling burns along his thighs and crotch keep blistering and leaking pus so he doesn’t want to risk further injury but assures me this decision has absolutely nothing to do with me as a person just our haha streak of bad luck. Every day I despise his blank grin. Every day I wonder if he’s the idiot for letting me dump coffee on him or I am because I keep repeating myself puppy-expecting a novel outcome. Every day I call nine one one emergency and yell into the phone that there’s an invader aboard my ship then one one thousand two one thousand three one thousand four one thousand five one thousand six one thousand seven one thousand eight one thousand nine one thousand ten one thousand eleven one thousand seconds later forty crown vics drive full speed ne nu ne nu through the drawbridge front door I incorrectly installed and cops pissing sprinkles firing squad execute me. Every day I wake up and wish movies didn’t twist their plots so everything in the end’s an ongoing dream.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/i-awoke-the-bad-guy-andy-holsteen/ High-res

New Fiction: I Awoke the Bad Guy by Andy Holsteen

Every day I intentionally spill my entire one-liter thermos of coffee onto the lap of the idiot who won’t stop sitting next to me. Every day I anticipate him getting angry or at least reacting somehow since there’s no way he can not know that this thing that has been going on for months now is no longer an accident. Every day I hope he roosts somewhere else and declares he will cease coming near me because haha he has learned his lesson or because the boiling burns along his thighs and crotch keep blistering and leaking pus so he doesn’t want to risk further injury but assures me this decision has absolutely nothing to do with me as a person just our haha streak of bad luck. Every day I despise his blank grin. Every day I wonder if he’s the idiot for letting me dump coffee on him or I am because I keep repeating myself puppy-expecting a novel outcome. Every day I call nine one one emergency and yell into the phone that there’s an invader aboard my ship then one one thousand two one thousand three one thousand four one thousand five one thousand six one thousand seven one thousand eight one thousand nine one thousand ten one thousand eleven one thousand seconds later forty crown vics drive full speed ne nu ne nu through the drawbridge front door I incorrectly installed and cops pissing sprinkles firing squad execute me. Every day I wake up and wish movies didn’t twist their plots so everything in the end’s an ongoing dream.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/i-awoke-the-bad-guy-andy-holsteen/
New Fiction: Manifesto For the Beings Dwelling in This Place in Which Us Beings Find Ourselves Dwelling by L.M Alder 

WHEREAS we find ourselves here amongst the odd daffodils and sepia-colored automobiles in the mosque lot, and WHEREAS we have been gathered here without our prior and expressly written consent, and WHEREAS we are given the monthly rations of only two crates of bananas, three quilts, and forty-two cloud-shaped boxes of chocolates, and WHEREAS we scratch our faces from the fallen ashes daily, we HEREBY make the following demands, of which all must be met, lest we shall harass our fellow citizens of county X, standing near to them and emitting our noxious smells during their commutes, asking them questions about their thoughts and feelings regarding religion, politics, art, and culinary matters as frequently as we are able, and destroying all of the daffodils we have been charged with cultivating:
We shall not assume extra harvest duties at the Crispy Rat Farms any longer unless given access to some portion of the meats gathered during our shifts.
We demand that we be given access to freshly squeezed orange juice every Sunday.
We must be given the keys to at least one of the abandoned corporate warehouses on John F. Kennedy Boulevard, ideally the one with the green siding and the picture of the woman with the red, red lips.
We must be given one seat in the county senate, to be filled by anyone of our choosing, assuming that person is of course above the age of 18 and has completed her requisite papers and is a documented graduate of the Knowledge Nexus Institute, Inc., as well as of course meets the height, weight and blood pressure requirements as laid out by the governing offices of the counties X, Y, and Z of state number 487, as well as meets any subsequent requirements stipulated thereof, in accordance with any established common-sense law successfully upheld through trials in the Regional Court system.
We shall no longer be used as test subjects for experimental pre-packaged cuisines, unless we as individuals choose to devour said cuisines, and we must be given the right to smell and/or taste just a little bit of each cuisine before making our decision, as well as given the right to negotiate for compensation for our participation in any such trials.
We demand that the air-raid sirens be turned down just a little bit, at least in neighborhood numbers 198, 199, 200, and 201, where all of us reside, and that they not be tested after the hours of midnight or before the hours of 10 am during weekdays, and after the hours of 2 am or before the hours of noon on weekends.
We demand that we be given access to films other than the four available in our access files: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The (Official) Complete History of The Entire Universe, Eraserhead, and The Jungle Book.
We demand that every third Sunday of each month we be given county permits to hold Neighborhood Gatherings®, the cost of which will be assumed by the county itself.
We demand that the ozone screen be removed for three hours of weekly direct sunlight access, to be removed on Sundays and also on holidays, ideally during the above scheduled Neighborhood Gatherings®.
We demand that fornication hours be extended to include weekend mornings, post-work shift quickies, and for one hour longer after Friday Night Alcohol and Marijuana Consumption Time®, as is granted to those living in neighborhoods 001 through 132, which we know to be true because we have obtained a copy of the charter written for those neighborhoods, which we have attached a copy of our copy of to these list of demands as proof that we do indeed have a copy of their charter and now know fully the level of inequality we have been experiencing during these past generations since the establishment of the Final Government during which we lived in what we only now assume was a level of ignorance only made possible by purposeful deceit, which we, as you can see by our list of demands, shall no longer tolerate.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/manifesto-for-the-beings-dwelling-in-this-place-in-which-us-beings-find-ourselves-dwelling-l-m-alder/ High-res

New Fiction: Manifesto For the Beings Dwelling in This Place in Which Us Beings Find Ourselves Dwelling by L.M Alder

WHEREAS we find ourselves here amongst the odd daffodils and sepia-colored automobiles in the mosque lot, and WHEREAS we have been gathered here without our prior and expressly written consent, and WHEREAS we are given the monthly rations of only two crates of bananas, three quilts, and forty-two cloud-shaped boxes of chocolates, and WHEREAS we scratch our faces from the fallen ashes daily, we HEREBY make the following demands, of which all must be met, lest we shall harass our fellow citizens of county X, standing near to them and emitting our noxious smells during their commutes, asking them questions about their thoughts and feelings regarding religion, politics, art, and culinary matters as frequently as we are able, and destroying all of the daffodils we have been charged with cultivating:

  1. We shall not assume extra harvest duties at the Crispy Rat Farms any longer unless given access to some portion of the meats gathered during our shifts.
  2. We demand that we be given access to freshly squeezed orange juice every Sunday.
  3. We must be given the keys to at least one of the abandoned corporate warehouses on John F. Kennedy Boulevard, ideally the one with the green siding and the picture of the woman with the red, red lips.
  4. We must be given one seat in the county senate, to be filled by anyone of our choosing, assuming that person is of course above the age of 18 and has completed her requisite papers and is a documented graduate of the Knowledge Nexus Institute, Inc., as well as of course meets the height, weight and blood pressure requirements as laid out by the governing offices of the counties X, Y, and Z of state number 487, as well as meets any subsequent requirements stipulated thereof, in accordance with any established common-sense law successfully upheld through trials in the Regional Court system.
  5. We shall no longer be used as test subjects for experimental pre-packaged cuisines, unless we as individuals choose to devour said cuisines, and we must be given the right to smell and/or taste just a little bit of each cuisine before making our decision, as well as given the right to negotiate for compensation for our participation in any such trials.
  6. We demand that the air-raid sirens be turned down just a little bit, at least in neighborhood numbers 198, 199, 200, and 201, where all of us reside, and that they not be tested after the hours of midnight or before the hours of 10 am during weekdays, and after the hours of 2 am or before the hours of noon on weekends.
  7. We demand that we be given access to films other than the four available in our access files: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The (Official) Complete History of The Entire Universe, Eraserhead, and The Jungle Book.
  8. We demand that every third Sunday of each month we be given county permits to hold Neighborhood Gatherings®, the cost of which will be assumed by the county itself.
  9. We demand that the ozone screen be removed for three hours of weekly direct sunlight access, to be removed on Sundays and also on holidays, ideally during the above scheduled Neighborhood Gatherings®.
  10. We demand that fornication hours be extended to include weekend mornings, post-work shift quickies, and for one hour longer after Friday Night Alcohol and Marijuana Consumption Time®, as is granted to those living in neighborhoods 001 through 132, which we know to be true because we have obtained a copy of the charter written for those neighborhoods, which we have attached a copy of our copy of to these list of demands as proof that we do indeed have a copy of their charter and now know fully the level of inequality we have been experiencing during these past generations since the establishment of the Final Government during which we lived in what we only now assume was a level of ignorance only made possible by purposeful deceit, which we, as you can see by our list of demands, shall no longer tolerate.
Read it: http://theneweryork.com/manifesto-for-the-beings-dwelling-in-this-place-in-which-us-beings-find-ourselves-dwelling-l-m-alder/
New Fiction: Noah’s Wives, Who had No Names by Kate Severance 

Asphalt love in a summer so hot that we boiled eggs in the shallow bowls of our skin. I cracked a free-range organic egg over your middle and you sucked it in. We paid extra for quality, or we stole. You talked up the produce boy and I put the carton in my backpack. I didn’t feel bad because there was always the possibility the chickens weren’t being compensated for their work. I understand this struggle because I am an artist. Like the chicken, I am always squatting and panting and pushing out an entire part of me only to see no payment for my efforts.
Sometimes you stole the neighbor’s mail. You answered their son’s letters. You told him that he was a beautiful boy, that your heart was overgrown with love and pride. He wrote that he was sorry for what had happened in Duluth, that he thought about it every day. He said that Patty had left him. You told him that Patty was no good for him anyway, and that you had always felt that way but wanted him to learn this for himself. You praised his fortitude and his bright eyes and his clean fingernails. I was not jealous of what you wrote because you had never met the neighbor’s son. At night, we slept on sweat-soaked towels and whispered the things that could have happened in Duluth. You kissed my hands and pressed them to your face. Water mains were breaking all over town. We could hear them bursting and screaming in the dark, like a symphony.
We befriended the bum at the corner. He was planning a trip to Amsterdam. At first he had planned for the Netherlands, but settled for Amsterdam, New York. You would pat his shoulder and give him encouraging words. We only saw him when we were drunk or tired, and for a while, I thought he might be a ghost or an oracle.
I read a book about birds and you fortified the back door with plastic wrap and painter’s tape. We listened to cassettes from the library while you worked. The cassettes were about ascending to a place beyond the ego and the self, and we picked those tapes in particular because we knew the plastic wrap wouldn’t hold. You said you wanted to be of an elevated mind when you drowned. I didn’t like to hear you talk about drowning, but I had been thinking about it, too.
The flood was slow to take the house. At first it was only leaking through the windows and under the door, and we took off our shoes and stomped in the puddles. We put our face in the water and blew bubbles. We gargled and splashed and sang. It felt sweet and easy, and I thought that it was not so bad.
When our feet couldn’t reach the bottom anymore, we swam outside. We swam to the bum’s corner. He wasn’t there, not even treading water, and I said that he must have drowned already. You said he was probably swimming to Amsterdam, and that he would do well when he got there because there were many canals in Amsterdam. You were thinking of the wrong Amsterdam, but I did not correct you.
Mothers were up on their roofs and chimneys, teaching their children to dive. Teenagers had made nests of trash and nudie mags in the treetops, and they spit in the water when we swam past. On the outskirts of town, you said that you could see the bum in the distance. He was waving from a boat. I could not see him or his boat, but I trusted you because I had given you everything. Hadn’t I spent night after night letting you touch me with your hands and your mouth? Hadn’t I left the book about birds behind when you told me to swim through the window? We kicked faster because we thought we could catch up with him. I was tired and sore when you told me to climb on your back. You said that the bum had blankets and sandwiches. You said you would swim underneath me and move my feet, paddle my arms with your hands.
Okay, I said, and it was the last time I saw your face above the water. When you descended, you gave me a thumbs up. You were smiling so big that I could see your one chipped tooth. Okay, I kept saying. Okay, okay, okay.
Now it has been many days since I saw you go under the water. I am paddling and kicking, even though you are not beneath me to push and pull my limbs for me. I have steered myself in the direction of Duluth. I have made plans to find the neighbor’s son, and to find Patty. I want to ask them about the last days of their relationship. I want them to tell me when they knew it was all lost. I want to know if love is quiet and slow when it dies, or if it breaks all at once like a dam.


Read it: http://theneweryork.com/noahs-wives-who-had-no-names-kate-severance/ High-res

New Fiction: Noah’s Wives, Who had No Names by Kate Severance

Asphalt love in a summer so hot that we boiled eggs in the shallow bowls of our skin. I cracked a free-range organic egg over your middle and you sucked it in. We paid extra for quality, or we stole. You talked up the produce boy and I put the carton in my backpack. I didn’t feel bad because there was always the possibility the chickens weren’t being compensated for their work. I understand this struggle because I am an artist. Like the chicken, I am always squatting and panting and pushing out an entire part of me only to see no payment for my efforts.

Sometimes you stole the neighbor’s mail. You answered their son’s letters. You told him that he was a beautiful boy, that your heart was overgrown with love and pride. He wrote that he was sorry for what had happened in Duluth, that he thought about it every day. He said that Patty had left him. You told him that Patty was no good for him anyway, and that you had always felt that way but wanted him to learn this for himself. You praised his fortitude and his bright eyes and his clean fingernails. I was not jealous of what you wrote because you had never met the neighbor’s son. At night, we slept on sweat-soaked towels and whispered the things that could have happened in Duluth. You kissed my hands and pressed them to your face. Water mains were breaking all over town. We could hear them bursting and screaming in the dark, like a symphony.

We befriended the bum at the corner. He was planning a trip to Amsterdam. At first he had planned for the Netherlands, but settled for Amsterdam, New York. You would pat his shoulder and give him encouraging words. We only saw him when we were drunk or tired, and for a while, I thought he might be a ghost or an oracle.

I read a book about birds and you fortified the back door with plastic wrap and painter’s tape. We listened to cassettes from the library while you worked. The cassettes were about ascending to a place beyond the ego and the self, and we picked those tapes in particular because we knew the plastic wrap wouldn’t hold. You said you wanted to be of an elevated mind when you drowned. I didn’t like to hear you talk about drowning, but I had been thinking about it, too.

The flood was slow to take the house. At first it was only leaking through the windows and under the door, and we took off our shoes and stomped in the puddles. We put our face in the water and blew bubbles. We gargled and splashed and sang. It felt sweet and easy, and I thought that it was not so bad.

When our feet couldn’t reach the bottom anymore, we swam outside. We swam to the bum’s corner. He wasn’t there, not even treading water, and I said that he must have drowned already. You said he was probably swimming to Amsterdam, and that he would do well when he got there because there were many canals in Amsterdam. You were thinking of the wrong Amsterdam, but I did not correct you.

Mothers were up on their roofs and chimneys, teaching their children to dive. Teenagers had made nests of trash and nudie mags in the treetops, and they spit in the water when we swam past. On the outskirts of town, you said that you could see the bum in the distance. He was waving from a boat. I could not see him or his boat, but I trusted you because I had given you everything. Hadn’t I spent night after night letting you touch me with your hands and your mouth? Hadn’t I left the book about birds behind when you told me to swim through the window? We kicked faster because we thought we could catch up with him. I was tired and sore when you told me to climb on your back. You said that the bum had blankets and sandwiches. You said you would swim underneath me and move my feet, paddle my arms with your hands.

Okay, I said, and it was the last time I saw your face above the water. When you descended, you gave me a thumbs up. You were smiling so big that I could see your one chipped tooth. Okay, I kept saying. Okay, okay, okay.

Now it has been many days since I saw you go under the water. I am paddling and kicking, even though you are not beneath me to push and pull my limbs for me. I have steered myself in the direction of Duluth. I have made plans to find the neighbor’s son, and to find Patty. I want to ask them about the last days of their relationship. I want them to tell me when they knew it was all lost. I want to know if love is quiet and slow when it dies, or if it breaks all at once like a dam.

Read it: http://theneweryork.com/noahs-wives-who-had-no-names-kate-severance/

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