Author: collabnovel

Zines Are Back!

PRINT-ZINE REVIVAL?

HAVE DIY and analog returned? Why not! Grass roots Do-It-Yourself art has always been the best answer to the monopolistic-conglomerate domination of our culture– among the worst offenders in that regard being publishing’s Big Five.

Authentic culture is organic. Always has been. We’ve had a glimpse of this recently via the Bob Dylan biopic “A Complete Unknown,” whose focus was the folk music revival of the 1960’s. One of the roots music pioneers depicted was Woody Guthrie.

Roots literature has had its own pioneers, among them the writer-chronicler known as Wred Fright, a key voice and thinker during the zine heyday of the 1990’s and 2000’s.

The latest news: Wred has produced his first zine in years! The start of a zine revival? We hope!

Information on easily obtaining the zine, Frighty #1, is available right here.

An Excerpt from “Fame and Fortune” by Alan Swyer

NEW FICTION

Despite the lingering sense that he’d been conned, duped, or sold a bill of goods – the exact term depended on his feelings at a given moment – Jeff found himself not merely adjusting to Southern California life, but actually enjoying it. Having lucked into an apartment a block and-a-half from the beach in a still somewhat funky part of Venice, he loved the climate, which allowed him to run or bike at dawn on Ocean Front walk without encountering sleet, hail, or  horrendous humidity. He got a kick out of being in a place that had more yoga teachers than Mumbai, as well as ubiquitous Pilates studios, gyms big and small, and even a place called  Stretchlab. And he marveled at the restaurants catering to diets unheard of on his home turf. Though he had encountered vegetarian before, he hadn’t been aware of Ethiopian vegetarian, or  multiple examples of paleo, keto, gluten-free, Atkins, plus something called Zone. 

As for the infamous LA traffic, it only became a bother when, in a used Camry that made his cousin cringe, he had to make an emergency run to Children’s Hospital on the eastern edge  of Hollywood. 

In the low-rise Santa Monica office he shared with his cousin, the division of labor was clear. Steve treated the offspring of the “high-ranking industry folk,” while Jeff tended to the sons and daughters of what were termed “the civilians.” 

That, Jeff quickly came to realize, meant that he was spared the fawning, pandering, and  indulging that Steve felt provided the pathway to the success. 

COMING SOON to New Pop Lit!

“nature” by Ken Kakareka

nEW pOETRY

the one
thing
you should
never fight
is
nature.
if it
isn’t
meant
to be
why
will it
into
existence?
if it
is
meant
to be
why
deny?
it is
a battle
you will
lose
9 times
out of
10
and the
one time
that it
tricked you
into
believing
you won,
it will
haunt you
like the
carcass
of
a rotting pig.

***

Ken Kakareka has appeared numerous times at Fast Pop Lit.

His publication, Bullshit, is available at Amazon.

“Faith By Any Means Necessary” by Brannon O’Brennan

NEW SHORT FICTION

Father surveyed the garage. It belonged to his neighbor, the hippie who never locked anything and was away on a “Vision-something or other.” He scanned slowly left to right, then right to left, as an expression of forlorn resolve settled slowly onto his face. He took off an unkissed crucifix and shelved it between an ancient can of paint and a small wine press.

He made sure that there were no gaps around the garage door and put towels at the base of it to ensure there would be no leakage. He held a pint of sweet liquor he found in his neighbor’s freezer. As it thawed, an ice-cold tear drop ran down from the neck to his hand. He got in and started his neighbor’s car, choked down the pint and a handful of Ambien.

When he woke he smelled his former internal acids mixed with the sweet liquor, now rorschached all over his frock. He was not in heaven or hell, but the purgatory of a dreamer’s garage. The first miracle of his seventy years and a sign that the connection had been restored.

He shut off the Tesla, collected the towels and went back to his house.

Brannon O’Brennan lives in Northern Virginia, USA. His work has been published in Isele Magazine, Cinnabar Moth Literary Collections, and in The George Washington University Press. His literary fiction short story “Symbiosis” was published in Secant Publishing’s anthology titled “Best Stories on the Human Impact of Climate Change” and that story was nominated for the Secant Publishing Prize. He’s also have published a short story collection through Alien Buddha Press.

Human Innovation

Our assistant editor and style consultant, Kathleen M. Crane, to me as we watched the original 1968 Steve McQueen-Faye Dunaway version of “The Thomas Crown Affair”:

“This reminds me of The Loud Boys.”

Near the beginning of the film, plot events happen simultaneously. The movie uses extreme split-screen techniques of the kind first shown at the 1967 Montreal Worlds Fair. No doubt it works best on giant movie screens. The film– influenced by the French New Wave and by neo-noir films like “Point Blank”– was trying to be the epitome of editing, design, and style. A worthy objective.

IS THAT our objective at New Pop Lit?

WHY INNOVATE?

In this mad accelerated world with everything in a state of flux, literature has no choice but to innovate, or become little more than a handful of arrogant monks in a remote monastery on the edge of civilization– a few last holdouts– while what remains of the publishing world is a trash mountain of generic, AI-generated bot books pushed out by the mirror-imaged “Big Five,” which based on how closely they resemble one another in structure, mentality, staffs and output is really a Big One.

(image c/o The New Yorker.)

Never have more choices been offered, with every choice exactly the same.

The only real choice in 2025?

To stand out!

Which we’ve begun doing using multidimensional writing combined with a hyper-pop vibe, as demonstrated in the novella, The Loud Boys. Available here.

-Karl Wenclas

An Excerpt from “The Front Yard War” by Wred Fright

Zarry was the head of a local nature group and hated anything that wasn’t natural. Jane wondered if he liked poison ivy since, you know, it was natural and all. 

Zarry was socially inept enough that he didn’t ask how she was in return, playing the social nicety game, so Jane said, “What can I do for you?” 

“Oh,” Zarry said, as if he had forgotten why he had stopped by himself, “It’s your grass. No Mow May is over. Those code enforcement inspectors will be all over us on Monday if we don’t cut  the grass, so I just wanted to remind you to cut it this weekend, so you don’t get a ticket. I mean  personally I don’t care if you grow a forest, but some of our neighbors are majorly uncool, man.”

“Scott’s supposed to cut it,” Jane said. 

“Scott’s back?” Zarry said, sounding heartbroken. 

Even though thinking Scott was back would lessen Zarry’s constant hitting on her, Jane still was bitter enough about the relationship’s demise that she corrected Zarry’s misconception, “No, he just agreed to cut the grass until we sold the house.” 

Zarry smiled, “Well, I can do it for you if he doesn’t.” 

A vision of Zarry having a heart attack trying to cut what now looked like a wheat field in the front yard in an effort to impress her and then not being found until Scott ran him over with the  lawnmower flashed before Jane’s eyes. “No,” Jane said, “Thank you, but he has to live up to his  responsibilities. I’m not letting him off that easily. In the meantime, if they hassle me, I can tell them  I’ve joined that Save The Soil religious movement from India and my religious beliefs prevent my grass from being cut.” 

“Huh? I’m not sure that would work, but that does sound interesting. Anyway, it’s his loss,” Zarry yelled, “Some people don’t know how good they have it.” 

Jane didn’t reply, and Zarry apparently didn’t know what to say after that, so he sneezed and  then said, “Well, if you need anything, then just let me know.” 

Jane nodded, “Thanks, Zarry.” 

She closed the window, glad not to have to yell some more about the death of her marriage for  the whole neighborhood to hear. She hadn’t even known it was No Mow May, whatever that exactly was, presumably something about not mowing in May, but she was getting increasingly irritated that Scott wasn’t cutting the grass, probably too busy doing the entire Kama Sutra with his new skank. She had thought about hiring a lawn service and sending Scott the bill, but she would have to pay for it first, and she already had enough bills to worry about. The latest was an annoying set of dental bills for a  root canal that was done badly a couple of years ago. She had thought about suing the endodontist but  being in one lawsuit, the divorce, at a time was enough. The endodontist probably hadn’t meant to screw up. Mistakes do happen. Unfortunately, this one had cost Jane a couple of grand to fix a few  years down the road when the root he missed kept getting infected and another endodontist had to go in and rework it. 

Rework. Sometimes Jane thought her whole life could use some rework. A divorce. Unemployment. Too much drinking (Jane wouldn’t yet admit she had a problem; it was just too much  of a good thing to her). Soon to be homeless when the house sold. Children who didn’t need her  anymore and didn’t understand that she needed them at the moment. It was as if a playful god had swept in and decided to destroy her old life so she could build a new one. Or maybe it was a malicious one who just liked destroying things. Well, Jane wasn’t destroyed yet. 

***

(The Front Yard War is available at Amazon, ebook or paperback; at Google; or directly from Wred Fright himself by contacting him at wredfrightATyahooDOTcom. Wred is a long-time underground writer– DIY all the way– who’s contributed several fiction features to New Pop Lit, most recently “Fast Guy Slows Down.”)

An Excerpt from “The Ghost of Camp Hero” by Shelby Raebeck

NEW FICTION

Basketball basketball basketball. We sit in class all day thinking about it, then practice for two hours or maybe have a game, and drive home talking shit about who busted who, and I drop ’em both, Higgins and Sonny, in a fucking trailer park. And though my father’s life insurance got us a house—split level ranch in the center of Freetown—the place was too big for us to heat, half the rooms sealed closed with plastic. Every day same as the one before, until Coach comes up to me after practice and asks if everything’s okay and I say Sure, why wouldn’t it be? And he says, You’re not playing like yourself, keep it up and you won’t get a scholarship, and I shrug my shoulders, thinking, Fuck a scholarship, and take Higgins and Sonny home to the trailer park and go driving.

It’s another of those cold gray East End days when I pull up to the first beach, Maidstone, only half mile or so from home, and see this figure standing out at the end of the jetty that sticks into the harbor, wearing this purple hat and scarf. On days like that everything blurs into gray – water, land, sky—except now there’s these two soft spots of color. Then the figure holds its hands out to the side and turns slowly in a circle, and I realize it’s Joany. She spins again and I can barely make out her mouth is moving. I roll down my window but the wind is whipping in off the water too loud to hear anything, yet I see the headphones poking out beneath her hat and her mouth opening and closing like she’s singing. Hasn’t said a word to anybody in almost a year and she’s standing out there on the jetty singing.

COMING SOON to New Pop Lit!

“Art Exhibition”

AN EXCERPT FROM THE LOUD BOYS

As Van made preparations, his new business partner, Fake Face, attended a charity event in a well-guarded suburban enclave, repository of most of the area’s remaining wealth, much of it held by the progeny of deceased industrialists. His smiling rubber mask fit well with the artificial smiles and insincere greetings of other donors. The fundraiser was at a local art gallery. The gallery’s current exhibition was titled “Connectivity”– partly financed by a grant from a Fake Face tax shelter. Fitting the theme, electrical cables spread across the floor like black snakes, connected to strange-looking purple steel machines and giant video monitors displaying the latest in certified NFT art.

“EMBRACE THE CHAOS”

flashed on and off in lime-green letters on a large electronic screen in the ceiling. “We’ve blown the building’s circuits three times already!” the gallery’s curator in a near corner bragged to a circle of wealthy patrons.

“Oh! So glad to meet you again!” a wealthy blonde matron of fifty gushed to Fake Face– they’d met previously at a fundraiser for an animal shelter.

The woman’s ninety year-old husband had recently died, leaving her his fortune. Money to spend and time on her hands. She’d had plastic surgery– her cheekbones were ridiculously pronounced, turning her unobservable eyes into narrow slits. Her lips were swollen balloons. Her skin had the consistency of wax. Both obscenely rich individuals who’d made their wealth in mercenary ways peered dutifully at slabs of AI-generated artworks adorning the walls: either meaningless black-and-white blips and blots, or colorful scenes from unproduced cartoons, with the exaggerated glowing plastic quality of all such AI concoctions. Images of inhuman red-purple-blue figures with distended forms and exaggerated eyes. Illustrations for a madhouse. Mirror reflections of the crowd.

The pricey gallery was an island of insanity in a sea of tragedy.

When Fake Face turned to speak to the woman, she saw his shifting eyes and sensed his real face behind the rubber facade, smelling his sweaty intensity.

!!!

(Based on real happenings? The Loud Boys is now available via Nook, Kobo, and Kindle. A paperback version is coming.)

Simultaneity

ABOUT 3-D THINKING

IS multidimensional fiction too far ahead of the crowd?

Possibly– as our brains have been wired from Day One into linear, two-dimensional thinking. The most lauded novelists– William Faulkner to Don Delillo– simply give us more of it: longer and longer sentences and paragraphs as the reader burrows ever further into the narrative. The text. Which has its appeal, no doubt, but shouldn’t be the only standard of value for literary products like the short story and novel.

One of the reasons perhaps why Aben Kandel and James Gould Cozzens are kept out of the canon is because their best novels– City For Conquest and Guard Of Honor respectively– are, at their core, multidimensional in design and effect. They throw entire worlds at once at the reader. Many of our best-trained literary experts and commentators can’t handle it.

NEW WIRING

The foundation of multidimensional fiction is 3-D Thinking. The ability to perceive and understand all sides of an issue, simultaneously.

Think of driving a car and seeing, directly and peripherally, everything happening around you. That person on a bike, on your right. Another person further ahead crossing the street. A speeding car passing you on your left, moving into your blind spot. Another coming up fast in your rear view mirror.

Unfortunately, most people driving on our streets have tunnel vision. Stand on a street corner and watch them. They stare straight ahead, oblivious to anything going on except that which is directly in front of them.

Or they’re staring at their smartphone.

3-D Thinking, by definition, also means increased compassion for other humans and their struggles, wherever they’re placed in society’s hierarchies. Not always easy to accomplish!

IS rewiring your brain worth the effort?

THAT’S the question. One I attempt to answer with my new novella, The Loud Boys, now available in ebook format at Amazon here, and at Kobo, here. (Print version coming soon.)

-Karl Wenclas