We demand the presence of Marge Simpson—no family, no security—this Friday, 10am, at the Mt. Splashmore front entrance, right when they open the gates. A day of thrill and adventure for Marge and whichever suitor she will choose, her one true Husband and her, culminating in a weekend at Rancho Relaxo—any Marge fan worth their salt remembers Marge’s spa getaway. But the irresponsibilities of Homer brought her back to the rags of the household. This server, once the Husband’s chosen, will self-destruct—no rubbing it in, no rushing to screenshot what’s different about this hotel breakfast from their morning before. Those

I was nursing a beer at Hoosier’s Bar in Cooke City, Montana, when he walked in. Little guy, about my age. Mid-twenties. He had blond dreadlocks and a scruffy goatee. There were a few people sitting at tables, but except for me, the bar was empty.  With a dozen-or-so stools to choose from, Dreadlocks sat two down from me.  I’d been working on my beer for most of a Chiefs/Colts game. The fourth quarter was about to start. Until then, the only words I’d heard the bartender say were, “We’re out of that,” to the waitress and, “Drink up, we

Bet you’re wondering, aren’t you, your eminence – how’d a broad like this even afford Tom Ford. Bespoke menswear. Real tailoring. You know, back in the glory days, when I still had my own body, it was this exact blend, this exact cut I had on when they swore me in. Hand to Gosh. I’ll be the first to admit, Mona’s a lot slimmer than I was, but you’re looking at a sixtyfive-year-old man in here. Have a heart, come on. I’m sorry she couldn’t be here to explain this herself. No respect for an exorcism. Not a Catholic, that

AUDIENCE settles in their seats as curtains rise. CECELIA enters from stage left and looks at the abomination of iron and rope fused to the catwalks the MANAGER jury-rigged from upstage to the mezzanine. Sunlight behind CECELIA fades through the tangle of pulleys, cranks, and gears above her. She lingers mid-stage for a beat too long. CECELIA: I swear, every day Father grows more cross. The shadow of a tower looms over CECELIA and AUDIENCE. The sunlight dies behind the horizon, but the shadow clings to CECELIA, as if trying to ease her transition into the dark. CECELIA: If he

The older I get, the more I appreciate writers who leave a personal stamp on their work, so unmistakeable it couldn’t be anyone else on the page. Claire Hopple is one such author. Hopple’s absurdist, punny, tongue-in-cheek fiction has been a mainstay in indie lit for years. Few are as prolific as she is, and I’d know the cadence and tone of a Hopple story even in a blind read (the highest compliment I can give an author!) I was lucky enough to catch up with Claire and fire off a few questions about her latest novel, Change the Subject,