Slug Life by Matthew Dexter

I blow blunt smoke of Unicorn Poop in the shape of brontosauruses through my tracheotomy hole. My son Connor is a gangsta rapper. Connor rocks relentlessly on our rickety porch swing, guzzling cans of Coors Light, spitting rhymes to the beat of the squeaky double-loop chain. His Mormon friends listen intently, bopping their skulls with the wizardry of worldly tweakers. Connor can catch a sunburn from the refrigerator lightbulb. His flow is smoother than a baby-oiled boob and colder than a clew of earthworms. Connor’s rap name is Cocaine Cul-De-$ac. His YouTube channel bankrolls cases of Coors Light, gaudy gold…

Continue Reading...

A Day In the Life by Kaylee Howard

I am watching men kill pedophiles in Walmart online while my mother cooks dinner. I guess they don’t kill them directly — a self-inflicted shotgun spray to the skull will do them in after two thousand comments about his texts with minors and allegedly small penis appear in the comments. It doesn’t make the local news because they aren’t allowed to put suicides on the news.  My mom got the recipe for the pasta she is making from a blog that insisted on inserting ten paragraphs  of the creator’s life story before mentioning a single ingredient. I’m not sure if…

Continue Reading...

Chatting with the Meat Puppeteer: Ben Gross interviews Hannah Smart

Hannah Smart’s debut novel Meat Puppets (Apocalypse Confidential, 2026) is a metafictional romp through the lives of people who know they want more without being entirely sure of what they want more of. Weaving her way through drug-use, acting seminars, and a celebrity-based stock exchange where people can put up real money in the hopes of cashing in on the soon-to-be-famous (or-not), Smart crafts characters whose lack of self-transparency makes them as relatable as they are complicated, as charming as they are repulsive, and as touching as they are fantastic—then she puts them through the wringer. Like all great works of experimental fiction, Meat Puppets’ formal fireworks…

Continue Reading...

Miracle on Route 45 by Owen Harrington

There was only one way things could end. I was trying to find something else to think about and he emerged, covered in red clay mud like the first or last man, right onto state route 45. The ride back to State College was just long enough to fixate on something, but not long enough to work up the nerve to turn around. It strung together Mifflinburg, Harleton, and Milheim like the dim lights of a dying civilization in the heart of darkest Amish country, and had few features to catch the wandering eye. But just past Mifflinburg, a man…

Continue Reading...

Author on Author: Cairo Smith and David Polonoff – Part Two

Part Two: Cairo’s Questions to David about Wannabeat (Trouser Press Books, 2024). Click here for Part One.   The Novel Within the Novel Cairo Smith: Your hero, Philip, spends much of WannaBeat working on (or avoiding working on) his book, which seems like a deliberate parallel to your own project. It features thinly veiled versions of the people around him (Sally Sassafras for Wendy, Heine for himself), an elaborate Gold Rush allegory, and eventually the arrival of El Nihilismo to destroy everything he’s built. Is the novel-within-the-novel a parody of WannaBeat itself, or a record of an earlier failed attempt,…

Continue Reading...

Author on Author: Cairo Smith and David Polonoff – Part One

Part One – David’s Questions to Cairo about Scenebux (New Ritual Press, 2025). Part Two will publish tomorrow. Is Scenebux a Kind of IRL Cyberpunk? David Polonoff: Many of your readers (myself included) have noted the parallels between Scenebux and the work of William Gibson in its fluid mixture of hard-boiled detective/thriller narrative and post-human technology. You’ve quoted ARX-Han on the difficulty of “writing cyberpunk now, because real-life just is cyberpunk.” To what degree is that true? Is it like reading Jules Verne in the 20th century and marveling at the inventions and gadgets he foresaw or more that the cyborgian…

Continue Reading...

Art, Oxy, & L.A.: An Interview With Luke Goebel By Kevin Maloney

Luke Goebel is a unicorn in the literary world: an outlaw writer with an underground classic in the indie lit community (Fourteen Stories, None of Them Are Yours, 2014) who has also collaborated on screenplays for two major Hollywood films, Causeway and Eileen, cowritten with Ottessa Moshfegh (the two married in 2018). His new novel, Kill Dick, seeks to bridge these worlds, bringing all of the fire, guts, and intelligence of an experimental indie to a page-turning sunshine noir thriller that feels ready for the big screen (and is in the works). The result is an imminently readable crime novel…

Continue Reading...

One Late Summer Morning by Louis Scantlebury

1 One late summer morning, we found two ladybugs humping doggy-style in Max’s garden. We held each other and watched them. “Look,” Max said, “the top one is pinning down the legs of the bottom one.” “The thrusting is so smooth,” I said. “Their bodies are so shiny,” Max said. “They remind me of us,” I said, and bent down to pick them up. “Amy, what the fuck!” Max said. “But I want them to come inside and be with us when we have sex,” I said. “That’s so sweet,” Max said. “OK, pick them up.” I placed my finger…

Continue Reading...

Richard Cabut Recommends: Constructed Situations and Torn Surfaces

We launched my current book Ripped Backsides: Postcards from Beneath the Pavement at Flux Lumina, an arts loft both luminous and dark, as well as fab, on the Bowery in NYC last summer. As is the custom, I made a short introduction to the book, treating the cross section of subway-annotated-novel types, tote-bag literati, bookstore-event lurkers, Downtown creatives – no ironic moustache wearers to be seen unfortunately, but you can’t have everything  – in other words a lovely crowd; my kind of people.  Ripped Backsides is a personal post-punk drift tracing ruined maps of the noir cities… A fragmentary situationist…

Continue Reading...

City Limits by Hannah Smart

“They’re saying it hurt a lot.” “Well, yeah. Dying tends to do that.” “But this wasn’t, like, a typical death.” Four people sit at the table next to mine—two men and two women. One woman is blonde; the other is brunette. The guy talking has black hair gelled straight backwards. The diner loudspeakers blare some decade-old Taylor Swift tune. “Dumb Teenager Dies in Car Crash,” the blonde says, making flashing motions with her hands to signify BREAKING NEWS. “More at eight.” “Are we sure it was a car crash?”—the other guy. His face is that of someone who takes steroids…

Continue Reading...