New Pop Lit

“Blue in Green” by Ben Macnair

NEW POETRY

c/o coloredvinylrecordsdotcom

It is 3am in the morning,
in a student house.
Someone is playing an old Jazz LP,
but it means nothing to them.
They are just playing it,
because they think they have to.
The students are out reading poetry.
They talk about their journey,
and their voice,
and how 40 year old poetry is really, really,like cool,
but Shakespeare is nothing to them,
because they forgot about him when they left school.

Miles played Blue in Green,
in the 1950’s, but it still speaks to me.
More than the students whose voices are new,
digging away at the same old ground.
For all of their talk of breaking boundaries,
they are getting headaches from banging
their young heads against old walls,
and in a few years, when new students come,
and talk about their journey, and their voice,
Miles will still talk to me,
because there is something to be said
for keeping it simple.

Ben Macnair is an award winning poet and play-wright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom. Follow him on Twitter @benmacnair.

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!

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 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!

An Excerpt from “An Overcoat” by Tony Covatta

NEW FICTION ALERT

The dinner went well enough. The jokes were good. The wines delicious. Gino sprang for the check, to the gracious thanks of Bentley and Wayne. They had outstayed the rest of the clientele. Most of the waitstaff had disappeared. The party rose unsteadily from their table and searched for the alcove where their overcoats were hung hours earlier. Gino quickly counted five dark-grey and black coats but saw nothing butterscotch brown. Bentley’s coat was missing. The sole remaining waiter, young and inexperienced, offered only feeble excuses. Bentley’s satisfied air disappeared, his brow darkened. Gino, doing his best to lighten the mood and save the situation, told him he would look into the matter. “I’ll take care of it.”

Next morning, his car parked in the firm’s lot, seated at his shiny wood and steel firm desk, drinking firm coffee, munching a firm bagel, Gino’s calls to the Firehouse’s floor captain, manager and owner yielded no trace of camelhair or overcoat. Determined Gino was discouraged but not defeated, when Trey Headley stuck his bald pate in his office door: “Gino, we’ve got an angry architect on our hands. He says you and your friends encouraged him to leave his overcoat in an unlocked closet at that ginmill you went to, and it was stolen. He’s not happy.”

COMING SOON to New Pop Lit!

An Excerpt from “The Unhoused Gift” by Peter R. West

FICTION!

He had no compassion for homeless people—to him, they were an ugly boil on the face of the city, parasites that threatened the very fabric of the community. He reflected on his meteoric rise to the top of the legal world, clawing his way from a humble, working-class family, through a modest Cal State LA Law School, to building his own office by initially taking on less-than- prestigious cases that top lawyers had shunned, to finally developing a ferocious knack for scandalous murder trials that put him on the evening news. If he could make it, there was no reason for anyone else to sleep on the sidewalk or comb through trash cans.

As he approached the city, the drivers around him tried to maneuver their cars ahead of one another, as if a big prize was awaiting the one arriving first. Stanley could hear their incessant honking as they zigzagged in and out of lanes. But his silver Bentley was like a Roman galley warship rising through rough water, smashing all obstacles in its wake. His hand gripped the fine leather on the steering-wheel. His body pressed against the soft skin of the seats. His reflection in the mirror was of an attractive man with a kind face imprisoned by a tight ostentatious tie. He took a slight turn toward the homeless camp, which in the general direction of his office. The dismal sight of the people he maligned in court held a sordid appeal for him.

COMING SOON to New Pop Lit!

Scoping Out the Future

AN ANALYSIS

c/o snarkybites.com

NOBODY KNOWS for certain what the artistic future will look like, including in the literary realm, given the approaching flood of AI-generated “art”. But we can make an accurate guess.

A.) The most massive part of the book market will be imitative tomes generated by chatbots. They’ll come from all directions, as they’re already coming from all directions. From hapless writer-wannabes who want the accomplishment of creating a novel or collection of poems or stories without doing any of the work. From content mills in faraway places creating thousands upon thousands of ebooks, as well as the print version, to generate income based on sheer volume. From new tech publishing outfits eager to get in on the AI game, presenting at least the pretense of quality but for whom the goal remains the same: generating income based on volume. Increasingly, much volume will come from the Big Five established conglomerate publishers themselves, who’ve begun recruiting tech people to work in the AI field.

B.) A small number of actual writers with some talent will try to push the envelope of what an AI chatbot can produce– hoping to thereby create innovative new literature (it’s no more than a hope). They’ll find themselves also swamped by the AI deluge, and more, perhaps carrying the same AI brand of aesthetic inferiority and artistic theft.

C.) The current self-publishing/fan fic/genre crowd, whose massive numbers have already congested the book market. Many will turn to AI (many already have) to produce more books faster, which will be self-defeating.

D.) The small press litmag community. For most of them (like ourselves, in part) their steadfast efforts are a labor of love. Survival, though, will become more difficult– unless they find ways to stand out. Which means going beyond either the literary or subliterary templates which permeate their underground realms.

E.) Holding up the tottery fort of the literary present-morphing-swiftly-into-past– especially in New York– will be the literary status quo. While storms rage outside, they’ll cling to their canonical high modern postmodern writings, as if perpetuating an ancient dead language. Like Essenes, they’ll continue to write inscrutable papers about unreadable texts, and hold events– in halls of cloistered academia, or high-brow venues in upscale gentrified neighborhoods– going through the motions of an archaic cult. Shuffling monks in robes, reciting properly approved words, affirming in gesture and invocation their artistic belief system. If asked why, they’ll stare blankly. No one will know.

F.) THEN there will be an alternative. The rebellion. A counterculture positively fighting the inhuman deluge of botbooks and other fake AI-generated crap. Those embracing human creativity and making it new, by returning to our cultural roots– to our forebears; our ancestors– and there finding inspiration. Drawing upon our most human abilities. Not just our underused natural brains– ours, not a machine’s– but especially upon our hearts and our souls. Emotion. Compassion. PASSION. New writing which screams, vibrates, and lives. It won’t be easy: to rediscover ourselves and find artistic purpose and humanity while existing in a soulless artificial world. But we’ll do it.

-Karl Wenclas

The Importance of Contention

ONE OF the reasons the literary scene today excites no one is there’s no genuine debate, much less dissent, much less contentious no-holds-barred free-for-all argument. Instead: “We’re all good.” “I’m okay, you’re okay.”

THIS APPLIES at all levels, high and low– but is most notable among the prestigious literary crowd. They think: What’s prestigious about unloosening your metaphorical bow tie, jumping off your high-horse stage and engaging face-to-face nose-to-nose with the audience?

That was the strategy utilized by pro wrestling (egads! literati exclaim) to grow from a marginalized weirdo spectator “exhibition” non-sport to a central cultural phenomenon. Mad interviews. Good guys and bad guys. Storylines. Personalities.

Elements of a strategy which was borrowed successfully, to a far more modest extent, by what soon-enough surpassed sleepy baseball as America’s #1 sport: the National Football League, aided by an upstart cable network named ESPN. Analysts and panelists dissecting disagreeing comparing pro-and-con aspects who’s #1, who’s starting, what’s your team coaches players doing WRONG have to reform do better refine those tactics or you’ll be buried by better teams, better players.

The literary game? The lit game has sucked since the Beats. Today: nearly comatose literary poets reciting in delicate voices making zero eye contact staring rigidly at a sheet of paper, no interaction, negative energy, the audience listening politely, falling asleep– the same genteel world that raucous upstarts of the Underground Literary Alliance invaded before they were frozen out by mob boss mandarins while simultaneously the recession of 2008-09 knocked half their number into couch surfing, or sleeping in inoperable pickup trucks, or vagabonding on the streets.

Needed: Energy! Disagreement. Raised voices of outrage saying, “Our work, ourselves, our art, our voices MATTER!” Enough to fight for. Or over. THEN the general public will take notice.

-Karl Wenclas

(One forum for debate and disagreement will soon be the Maximum Literature popcast. See the first test episode here. We’re seeking guests; participants. If you have recommendations or suggestions, pass them on!)

Interview: Bud Sturguess

1.)  What sparked the idea for your story “Molasses”?

My conscience. I was L-ing OL at all those Spongebob/Titan submersible memes, like so many people were, and it just struck me – “people died. Why are we laughing? What if it had been someone I know and love in that submarine?” It was the kind of sudden, sobering thought that spoils all the fun.

2.)  Who are a few of your literary role models, past or present?

I was very fortunate to happen upon William Stafford in my junior high literature textbook. The way he crafted poetry to be, as he put it, “just like talk” helped me to see the beauty and abundant possibilities in plain speaking over avant-garde riddles. I also have to cite Miguel Cervantes’ masterpiece “Don Quixote” for blending comedy and heartache, and crime writer Joseph Wambaugh for his unique way of telling a straight story with subtle prose woven throughout. 

3.)  What’s your current or future writing project?

I’m working on a non-fiction book about the Falklands War. Truth be told, it’s not going so well. But that’s writing; I’d be suspicious of myself if I thought everything I write is flawless. I welcome the challenge, and if it beats me, that’s okay. I’ll move on to something else. The possibilities in the human brain are amazing.

NOW READ the story “Molasses” by Bud Sturguess!

An Excerpt from “And the Angels Sing” by Joe Del Castillo

A SNEAK PREVIEW OF NEW POP LIT’S NEXT FEATURE

“Do you remember?” I continued, “I was into the Beatles and all the British Invasion groups that were out then, but you never cared for them. It was difficult for me to understand that you could not see what I saw in those performers. You talked about Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, and the like. You insisted that I listen to their music and gain an appreciation for their artistry. I felt I knew them well enough since they were who mom and dad listened to. I now had my own stars and their songs dominated my head. Of course, I was sixteen, so I thought my opinions mattered more. I wanted you to understand what ‘my’ singers were talking about. If your favorites sang about love, mine sang about love, but also civil rights and injustice. Wasn’t that more important?”

Coming Soon!