Pushcart Prize Announcement


Greetings New Pop Lit’ers! Instead of a story today, we’re announcing our nominees for the 2015 Pushcart Prizes!

This was somewhat of a bittersweet process for Karl and me, because we publish what we feel are exceptional stories and Pushcart only allows six nominations per publication. Because of this limitation, we’ve chosen six stories that represent a variety of writing styles. Our 2015 nominees are:

1) Jessie Lynn McMains; Insect Summer
2) Thomas Mundt; Placeholder
3) Kathleen Crane; Donnie Darko
4) Pablo D’Stair; Yellow is the Color of My True Love’s Hair, in the Morning
5) Ian Lahey; The Janitor
6) Andrea Gregovich; The Unshakable Kayfabe of Tommy Rage

Congratulations, nominees and congratulations to our other writers who helped us make NPL happen in 2014! More great things to come!!



Portrait of Santa Claus, by Thomas Nast, Published in Harper’s Weekly, 1881. Photo image obtained/rendered by Gwillhickers. Wikimedia Commons, public domain

An Interview with Andrea Gregovich


This Saturday’s treat is an interview with the author of The Unshakable Kayfabe of Tommy Rage, Andrea Gregovich!

Andrea gives the inside scoop on what inspired Tommy Rage; her latest translation projects; and where to find out what’s happening with Russian Literature.

An unmissable interview from our Pop Lit wrestling maven!

The Unshakable Kayfabe of Tommy Rage

Third-Way Fiction

Karl and I are pleased to give New Pop Lit readers a special story today: The Unshakable Kayfabe of Tommy Rage, by Alaska-based writer Andrea Gregovich.

Ms Gregovich’s sharp story about amateur-wrestling fandom will brighten your Post-Labor-Day week and inject a healthy dose of pop lit into your Wednesday. Enjoy!

That was the night the heat war between Danny and Sergeant Smackdown culminated in a knockout barb from Smackdown. As Danny stood at the base of the ring, barking wicked old school chants through his hands in the form of a megaphone, Smackdown issued his knockout barb: “I should buy you a saddle for Christmas so you can ride my dick.” The poetics of the thing rendered us all speechless, blinking and mouths agape for a moment on the white plastic patio chairs as Smackdown stood in the ring in his tattered camo pants, basking in the yellowish glow of the crappy spotlights they had rigged up in there and the brilliance of the thing he’d said against the background of his death metal entrance music.