Friday Rex | May 10, 2013

Hobart’s doing poetry. You should go read all their poetry. You should start with Mike Young’s 2 poems on Hobart. Do it.

Nonfiction editor Richard Hackler has a wonderful Writers on Writing post this week at Passages North: ON WRITING THINGS THAT NOT VERY MANY PEOPLE WILL READ:

“I struggle with finding the motivation to write. For a while, I thought of writing only as a stay against loneliness. I wrote for people—I wrote essays to grow closer to friends or family. I wrote essays to women I was dating or wished that I were dating. I wrote essays and thought, maybe this will published, and a stranger will read it, and it will mean something to that stranger, and in that way the world will grow smaller and in that way we will both feel less alone.”

Matt Sailor’s MATCH GAME SEVENTY BLANK will knock the ol’ proverbial socks off – as SmokeLong.

The amazing Claire Vaye Watkins has a story in the new Kenyon Review – WASTELAND, WASTELAND, WASTELAND.

Issue Two contributor Kara Vernor has a new story – WEREWOLVES – up at Spork:

“In the empty house next door, she and her brother shoot soda cans off the fireplace mantle. “We’re practicing our aim,” she says. She loads the gun for him and he points and clicks, his face pure glee when the first can topples off. “Again,” he calls, and she sets up a new configuration, one that will crumble and clatter more fantastically when hit. It is an accident when her brother shoots himself in the neck, the BB ricocheting off the bricks.”

New fiction from the wonderful Sophie Rosenblum at The Fourth River – PEBBLE EYES.

Over at Conjunctions, there’s new, short fiction from Brian Evenson – TORPOR.

Need some flash nonfiction? Of course you do. You should always be reading Brevity, but check out Barbara Hurd’s FRACKING: A FABLE from the March issue:

More tens of thousands of centuries passed while the water sloshed and the undersea mud thickened, and in all that time, no human ever stood on its shores, no blue crab ever scurried in the ooze.   There were no witnesses. And even if there had been, who could have stood the boredom of watching that slow, barely breathing world? The only testimony ever made to that languid time was locked in the mud.

There you are. Good Friday reads. Check ’em out.