As I write this, nearly a month into the season, my beloved Phillies flounder in third place. Even that dubious standing owes much to their good fortune over the weekend, which saw Detroit sweep

later, an iguana slinked up the steps in a macho, prehistoric way...

HOBART: Maybe I'm seeing a connection where there isn't one and this doesn't apply more to writers than anyone else, but I feel like I've increasingly seen/met writers who run, bike, and are otherwise

You must imagine god as syrupy mist.

On April 9, my debut novel League of Somebodies was released by Seattle's Dark Coast Press. Two months earlier, my fellow Bay Area novelist Joshua Mohr released Fight Song, his fourth novel.

You imagine you’re a tipping point wrapped in a synthetic summer dress.

As a teenager, I had this superficial interest in handguns—I liked how the metal felt against my skin. I had never learned to shoot one, however, nor did I really intend to know at that young age.

None of us have those cats who go
viral meowing Springsteen songs...

The first and the simplest emotion which we discover in the human mind is curiosity, so it does not surprise me when you say you are leaving for the rest of the evening to climb Mount Grablehorn or

Night comes in a slow bloom of abandon.

Last week, my birthday passed without time to celebrate. No cake, no party. I’ve been working a lot.  My daughter refuses to believe I’m a year older because I didn’t blow out any candles.

“If

Have you ever seen a rich person?
It's not like that movie about rich people–

Walter White is looking in the mirror when he hears a key in the door of his condo. He is smoothing a deep maroon shirt, new, Hugo Boss, over his abdomen.  He is liking the shiny sheen of it and

Everyone watched him walk to the guy. Everyone saw. They were all watching with their big stupid eyes that wouldn't let anyone off the hook. And this guy, he was always on the hook. A guy who was

Then there’s the Schnabel:
Some colors and Adieu...

We know. We know. First we told you we didn’t publish poetry. And now look at us. Thanks to the fantastic Caleb Curtiss (and until recently, the amazing Andrea Kneeland) we are not only publishing

This poem is about death and, to some extent, life.

For the last couple of years, we've asked some of our favorite writers and contributors and known baseball fans to "predict the season," a kind of Hobart version to an expert's panel of predictions

For the last couple of years, we've asked some of our favorite writers and contributors and known baseball fans to "predict the season," a kind of Hobart version to an expert's panel of predictions

The night before we met Mark Grace, dad had too many Michelobs and was more generous than usual with his baseball assessments.

“He isn’t great like Stan the Man Musial was, but, sure, Grace is

September 13, 1998

Murphy's was packed beyond any regard to occupancy regulations, and this made Evan both grateful and concerned. With so many people around him, it was physically

Anyone who loves Tim loves him for the same reason.
He hit one home run. "Did you ever hit one?"
He'll ask, as the day begins to wash over his face
and he leans back to stare at the baseball

"Mickey Mantle?" he says. "That can't be real. Your name is Mickey Mantle?"

We made it. The 2013 Major League Baseball season is right there in front of us, a vast expanse of fastballs and line drives, diving stops and crisp throws, attaboys and errors, beers and hot dogs.

She can hear the crowd humming through the speakers. The announcer is the same announcer she's heard all these years out west. She can never remember his name. In the mirror in front of her is her

            after A.E. Stallings

That his fingernails are immaculate, shaped
into thin arches of moon. That he files them
in the locker room before games, between innings in the