Fiction

I have complained that Australians are “small, something we insist on for ourselves and for each other.” But some of us want something bigger.  Who are the New Oz Cunts, heralds of the Ausnaissance? Brothers Sini, Smith, Niccolai, Cuthbertson, Norman and Walter have each given some comments. Some of us even got together and podded about it. Here are some further observations of my own: Lewis Woolston – The Last Free Man and Other Stories (Truth Serum Press, 2019) ‘I legit thought that having a steady job, a missus and kids, paying off your mortgage and saving for retirement was

I met a writer at a party who said she knew me. Her name was Prue or it was Roberta. I wasn’t familiar with her or her work, but a half-circle of humans half-encircled around us, assuring me of Prue/Roberta’s work’s quality. And what is it that you do? the half-circle demands of me now. I tell them I’m a personal assistant—no, an Executive Assistant! We mean, like, your artistic self, dude, says the half-circle. I tell them I run a magazine online. That some people enjoy it—‘Tomb Magazine, it’s called.’ ‘Oh. You rejected me,’ replies one of the humans

“Guess our ages,” the clearly slightly oldest one says. “Start with our widdle baby.” I’d chosen the remotest nook of a bar that I choose daily at whatever hour my house gets cold, to bear in mind the end of my most painful, lonely, robust bond, which I’d since smoothly prolonged only another year. I compare the tiny bald face of the massive one, the baby, to the faces on both sides of him. “How old am I?” asks the one by the wilted plastic palm tree. “Here’s a hint: It’s one of our birthdays tonight. You may be off

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,

the lanternflies arrived the year before, on a cord of imported wood to a jobsite in berks county. within a month they had spread 100 miles in all directions. they lay their dried up bubblegum egg masses onto almost any surface (tree trunks, teslas, trash cans) and hatch to nymph to adult changing colors from black with white dots to red with white dots to ugly grey with wings that when spread show a beautiful pattern of white black and red. their favorite thing to eat is trees. they swarm and suck the sap and leave behind their honeydew, inviting

All of my departures have introduced me to new versions of myself but I’m beginning to resent the idea that there is still so much left to become. I am hoping crossing borders will show me what love has yet to grant me: freedom.  I arrive in New Mexico hoping to better acquaint myself with service and solitude, to become more discerning and lighthearted. The farm is in a town checkerboarded between reservations and gas stations. Everything here is brown and low to the ground. The adobe houses look like they have been pushed gently down into the earth by