Hobart
Magazine
Hobart was founded in 2001 by Aaron Burch. Initially, Hobart was a web journal, coedited by Mike McGowan. In 2002, Aaron expanded Hobart to include an annual print issue in addition to the website. In 2005, Elizabeth Ellen came on as a coeditor of the print journal. Web editors over the years have included Dorothy Chan, Doug Paul Case, Matt Bell, Jensen Beach, Elle Nash, Jac Jemc, Caleb Curtiss, Andrea Kneeland, Ben Gross, Brandi Wells, Matthew Simmons, and Elizabeth Ellen, among others.
Stories and essays from the website and print journal have frequently appeared in such compilations as O’Henry, Best American Nonrequired Reading, Best American Essays and Best American Short Stories, with Roxane Gay’s story “North Country” and Mike Meginnis’s story “Navigators” both from Hobart 12 featured in BASS in 2012. Source
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| Scope | Local |
|---|---|
| Language | English |
| Country | United States of America |
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Recent Articles
Search ArticlesHe Let Me Lie
Minus thirty, wind like knives. My glasses froze stepping off the bus. I couldn’t walk straight, but I kept walking. He met me behind the mall. No slow-motion, no music. But something in me stopped. Broken elevator. Stairs in silence. Opened the door. His apartment smelled like a new book. We sat without speaking. I stared at a pile of clothes instead of his face. Hid my glasses in a coat. Asked if I could smoke. He said I didn’t have to go outside. We talked. Laughed. Shared bread and pickles.
Dear men who have touched my ass without asking
I understand. Really, I do. I've heard enough compliments to recognize the attraction I carry behind me. I can see why you needed to reach out and grab hold, like a mirage that might disappear as I round the next corner. I just implore you to imagine what a surprise it is for me. I quite literally can’t see you coming. To my friend’s date who caught me by my ass in a trust fall outside Bogie’s Liquor– you do understand that falls in the category of “not to trust,” right?
Emma Burger on Gold Coast Editions
Emma Burger is the founder of the new press Gold Coast Editions, bicoastal in the sense that it's based in Chicago's Gold Coast, with roots in Tribeca. Gold Coast Editions is for fans of Prozac Nation, Kate Moss, and Mary Gaitskill, and people who maybe kind of believe the conspiracy theory that sunlight is different now than it was in the 90s.
Three poems by Tim Frank
Masterpiece I see the world askew. There’s a storm inside my window, inside my gemstone eyes. There’s an army in my fist, fighting all my friends. So, bring me splattered spoils of a never-ending war. With dead TVs and Gucci suits, I’m ready to inhale. Hang my words from tulips, as I paint my masterpiece underground, with fragrant blood and blasts of agent orange. The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth Look at them, the tech support scouring toxic waste.
Wordlessly into Oblivion by Nick van Osdol
He turns the shower on to run cover. A nightly ritual at this point. He chops up lines of ketamine, crushes a menagerie of prescription pills, and combines all the various colors and consistencies of powder into a single pile. He’s also got oodles of scratch off lottery tickets, including a healthy mix of the cheaper $1 and $2 tickets and the bigger tickets that range up to $30 per, as well as both ‘match the number’ and word search-based games.
The Hole in the Ice
I am not sure why I get sad when I see some people eating. And that’s how I first saw Chuck Haywood at Boe’s: alone in a booth, devouring a Philly cheesesteak, dabbing at his mouth with his pocket square. Even when I later met with him for a tense interview in his office, where my job was on the line, I kept feeling sad for him.
Long Weekend and it’s Hot Summer—Hang Out With Me, Sleepy
I. Stillness I never knew and your stare somewhere ancient defying my circadian rhythm first then your property lines. Aliens would laugh at the way I’m moved by your breath rather than what’s in me. Bring along your raven-esque narcoleptic older sister who takes you for the walks along the beach to waters of our own dream anchors. Wade into mine. I tried to see another way and you shimmered glitch-like like a god. II. Where do you go at night?
Three Poems by James Callan
Mojave Ghosts Songbirds impale lizards on the thorns of Acacia feathered breasts bejeweled by jasper The shrike unlocks the gecko’s chest tiny heart beating in the heat spilling its cache of precious gems nectar welling from agate eyes. The cacti are voyeurs getting off by watching Sentinels immune to the sun lending vision to those who wish to see. Mirage is no excuse for the things we’ve seen and the things we’ve done on horizons that flat-earthers claim end in a wall.
Keffer by David Gladfelter
From the looks you’d think different, but it wasn’t county land anymore. County claim terminated at the hill’s base. The asphalt would end in the middle of the neighbor's property, the road turning to tar and rubble, then a scatter of stone, then vanishing into leaf and soil altogether when he crossed over to his aunt’s parcel.
Two Poems by Eric Subpar
Salt Life I am a slut for the abyssing brine whose vastness never quite reaches infinity. My only image of god: a portrait of Ben that I stare at until the edges start to curl. Why, then, must the rolling earth remain? Ode on Not Dying in My Sleep the wind lashes, summons the blinds with its recoil. I am ratified by solitude, it buries me in its arms, carries the smell of pencil shavings and garlic. old copper. let's trade organs. I'll take your heart, you can have my kidney. I am the son of my father.