Hang on, folks. This is earth-shattering. My husband not only picked up Hobart’s Art and Stories issue, he *read* several stories from it. Gasp. I know. It’s not that my husband doesn’t read, but he’s ridiculously picky about what he does. The last novel he finished was a Clive Cussler adventure about four years back, and he hasn’t been able to stand another one since. Other than that, he reads science magazines like National Geographic and The Smithsonian. Literary fiction? Yeah, right. But there he was one night, perched on the edge of the couch, Hobart in hand, and yes, the journal was open, and yes, he was doing more than looking at the pictures. What’s even better is that he liked what he read. And that’s Hobart for you. You can be a history buff, a science junkie, and an “I prefer video games” guy, and still, you’ll like Hobart. Of course, you can be a writer with meticulous taste and find the stories of literary merit, too.

Other readers have called Hobart “humorous but engaging” and “literary but not stuffy.” Both of these descriptions sum up Hobart as well as any probably could. Better yet is the consistency Hobart has maintained over the years. I remember obsessing over the web portion several years ago, when I first started submitting to magazines. It was one of the first places I found that published quality writing that didn’t bore me. I’m glad to see that it still is.

But enough. Let’s get down to the stories, starting with issue 7, the Art and Stories issue. Here we go.

Hobart: the art + stories issue

This volume contains 14 stories, many of which are accompanied by original artwork crafted specifically for the story. It’s fantastic the way the art and stories enhance each other, leading to a richer experience. Great idea, Hobart!

My favorite pieces of the issue are:

“Works of Art” by Rebecca Beegle”
“Amelia Imagines Herself in Terms of a Circle” by Curtis Smith, with art by Ryan Molloy
“The Painter Paints an Egg” by Pasha Malla
“Mount Turkey” by J.D. Chapman and art by Brian Counihan
“Smurfette’s First Smoke; The Fairy Godmother by Cecilia Johnson
“Little Frozen Universes” by Christi Clancey, with a painting by Angie Renfro

“Works of Art” by Rebecca Beegle is basically what it sounds like. Except it’s not. There is not one visual element to this piece. Each of the ten works of art are described in small paragraphs, and each work is insanely obscure. By the time you finish reading, you wonder what it is you just read/saw. What did it all mean?! Of course then you must go back and read it again and look for connections and draw lines and make leaps, and still, still, you wonder. This is my favorite work of art:

4. There is a closed wooden crate on the floor in the corner of a light-filled room. The crate is the size of a small coffin, too narrow for any human—adult or child. Above the crate is a white dress shirt, cleaned and pressed and hanging from a wooden hanger. The shirt is missing an arm, cut neatly from one shoulder. You realize that the wooden crate on the floor is big enough exactly for that missing arm. You are aware of an ache.

“Amelia Imagines Herself in Terms of a Circle” by Curtis Smith is laced with fabulous drawings of geometrical shapes alongside symbols from the story. These drawings by Ryan Molloy are all done on lined paper, which gives them this doodle feel, but let me tell you, if I could doodle this well, I would fall over dead.

The story itself, which begins with the line, “Amelia wonders if this is the shape of her life, each of us standing at the center of an empty space entirely our own,” is seriously smart, and just, well, rad. The only problem I had is I felt like it ended too soon, mostly because I loved it so much I wanted it to go on, and on, and on. I wouldn’t have minded if it ended up as a novel. Hint, hint. The good news is this story will appear in his collection “The Species Crown,” which will be released by Press 53 sometime this year.

A lot of you have probably heard me go on and on about “The Painter Paints an Egg” by Pasha Malla. I can’t help it. The imagery in this story is stunning. And the ending. Whoa. It’s shocking. The whole thing is just beautifully terrible. Here’s an excerpt:

At any rate, the painter continued. She began to mess around with the black space that ran like a faultline down the center of the egg. It became a little piece of dawn: the darkness lifted and lightened, vague forms emerged from the shadows. Then, inside the egg, things began to take shape. A hand. The knotted curve of a spine. Two eyes with the lids folded closed in a way that suggested either sleep, or death.

“Mount Turkey” by J.D. Chapman, with art by Brian Counihan, is about a family—a mother, her son, and her boyfriend—trying to escape the ash of a volcanic eruption. Though I haven’t plowed through the muck in the dead of night like this family, the possibility is something I can at least vaguely relate to living so close to Mt. St. Helens. Told through the eyes of Quin, the young son, who is that very day celebrating a birthday, the story has a lovely, charming tone. That Quin and his turtle. Sheesh. They kill me. Like this:

Quin thought of Moss, alone in his box. He pulled him out and held him in his hand, like a sandwich. Moss poked his head out. The orange light made him look grumpy, like an owl. Quin thought, “I wonder if the ash could get in his shell? I wonder if it filled in the cracks, if it would be like Moss was back in an egg and couldn’t get out?”

Cecilia Johnson’s two short-shorts, “Smurfette’s First Smoke,” and “The Fairy Godmother,” put a dark spin on these otherwise gentle characters. Imagine, if you will, Smurfette wearing the devil’s horns, and your very own fairy godmother watching you through an old TV set, watching you get in the wrong car, with a man who says, “Trust me.”

“Little Frozen Universes” by Christi Clancy is heartbreaking, but very well written. Bill and Meredith. A couple. Bill a maker of shadowboxes. Meredith a home nurse. They had great sex, “the kind that’s somewhere between a soap opera love scene and a dirty video with lots of sweet talk and sweat,” until Bill started throwing up and losing his hair. Until Bill got cancer. What do they do then? How do they maintain intimacy? That’s what this piece is about. And the title is perfect.

I also have to mention “Rico’s Journey Through Hell” by Sanaz and Stefan Kiesbye, (I’m going to assume that Stefan wrote the story, as he has published a novel.) because this is the story my husband first read. I’m sure it was the artwork that grabbed his attention, but he finished the story and declared it weird but kinda cool. Or something like that. Which it is.

One more note: At least one piece in this issue, and several from issue 6, which I’m about to get into, read like non-fiction. But I’m confused, because Hobart only accepts fiction, don’t they?

Hobart: Issue 6

There are a lot of fun stories in here. In fact, this entire issue is pretty damn great. Pardon me, however, because I’m going to limit myself on the pieces I talk about. I have to, otherwise I will get nothing else that needs to be done, done. I fully encourage you to buy issue six and see for yourself. I seriously doubt you will be disappointed. Here’s a bit to get you warmed up:

“Lane 12” by Shellie Zacharia. I’m a huge Zacharia fan. She has such an enormously fun voice. This story in particular is full of rhythm and sound. It snaps. It pops. It sparkles. Everything about it is extraordinarily cool. Check out the first paragraph:

Dare to Dream, tattooed bowling queen, with your lemon-yellow fleecy flounced t-shirt, sleeves cut to show your muscled arms, your lime-green satin pants tight like whiskey down a throat, your red ringlet curls pulled high in a ponytail fountain. Take off your sunglasses, pop another piece of gum, it’s time, sweet Juney Teresa Hart, to take the kingpin, take the hooks and wicked wrist twists, it’s time to bring it on home for the Marion Four.

“Lost in the Bush” by Nick Johnson is written in a format that’s reminiscent of David Foster Wallace—footnotes galore. As a reader, footnotes can be intimidating, but I’ve usually found them fun once I get into them, and this was no exception. The story is mystery-ish, about a man who is looking into the disappearance of his brother. And boy, that’s brother’s life was a riot. Working at Outback Steakhouse and body-building. Like those two naturally go together.

“Three Lessons in Firesurfing” by Anne Elliott has a really fun plot and great characters. They are all art students, making crazy things like wood and bark sculptures coated in metal, copper in particular, which the artist patinas with urine, and aquariums where used tampons swim like fish. Yes. You read that right. In the end, the students want what every human being ultimately wants—love and acceptance. But it’s not all cutesy like that.

Lauren Groff’s “The Ballad of Sad Ophine” is like reading a modern day Carson McCullers. I’m guessing this is intentional, considering the title. Also, Ophine reminds me of McCullers character Mick. Love her. Love Ophine, too. Here’s an excerpt. Or two:

And always that scent of hers, that medley of pine needles and geraniums and muskrat, dirty feet and feathers and ocean.

C’mere, Ophine, the fathers would say, and show her how to use the riding mower or change an oil filter or, in the case of Mr. Kanamatsu, how to transcendentally meditate in his garden filled with bells. Who do you think let Mr. Nacker read aloud his 600-page manuscript after it was rejected by publishers, and gave thoughtful, albeit juvenile critique?

“Pregnant” by Catherine Zeidler could very well be the star of the issue. This is Zeidler’s first publication. Ever. And guess what? It’s being included in Best American Fantasy 2008! This is easily one of the strangest stories I’ve ever read. I still don’t completely understand it, and yet I love it anyway. Get a load of this:

I come home, and he is waiting on the stoop.

“I’m pregnant,” he says. “Can we keep it?” His eyes lift from his belly. He takes my hand and puts it under his shirt. “It’s not kicking but I think you can hear its heart beating, unless that’s my blood. Feel it anyway.”

The sky is purple and about to collapse. His skin pulses quickly and gently under my fingertips, and I look at his hopeful eyes.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word,” I sing. “Momma’s gonna buy you a kiwi bird.”

Which happens three pages after this:

I find him sweating under a burned out streetlight on the Brooklyn Bridge, one cigarette hanging from his lips and one shaking in his hand. “It’s whiskey,” he says. “I’m going to sweat out the whiskey. I sweat whiskey, shit beer. Wine gets cried out. Rum gets fucked out. But this is whiskey.

“I left her. So what? Do I know you? I think maybe I do but how could I?”

“I know your face,” I say. It’s starved and shivering and moist and young. His face is a thunderstorm.

How they get from point a to point b, is something I will probably never understand, but it’s fascinating. And now I’m singing “Momma’s gonna buy you a kiwi bird.” Dammit.

“100 Krones” by Doug Hoekstra is a love/baseball/place story with a really cool twist at the end. This is a story about connections, especially those ingrained in you.

We dated all year, and the summer after, and then she moved back to Denmark. Still carrying that unique blend of arrogance and insecurity found in most men just out of college, I was surprised—not only was I charming and sensitive, she could pick up a green card in the deal as extra credit, assuming we headed down the pathway to love and marriage. So, when she headed home, I poured over the possibilities and realized that the simplest reason was probably the most accurate, that her enthusiasm for her native land was great, and, after all, home is a powerful thing.

*

Hobart is an exceptional publication. You should swoon if you get accepted here.

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