Hello Spider

Writings & Whatnot by Rob Hill

Commuter’s Folly

“Commuter’s Folly” is now up at Spadina Literary Review.


The Severed Man

“The Severed Man” is in the August issue of Dodging the Rain.

“A cedar canoe slipped through the steaming lakewaters, its bow noiselessly cleaving the roily surface. The figure aboard cringed as the fog wormed its sodden fingers through his hair, down the collar of his garments, along his beveled spine. He gripped the oar tightly, though the current urged the canoe without his guidance towards the bleak coastline which lay outstretched like a sleeping giant. The oily waters swirled in hypnotic circles. A hazy moon spied on him through a peephole in the swaddling mist. A tiny point of light was visible beyond the coastline, the ochre flame of a bonfire wavering in mad dance.”

The Pocketbook

“The Pocketbook” is now up at Flash Fiction Magazine.

Baby Grand, Hell Frozen Over

Two stories of mine, “Baby Grand” and “Hell Frozen Over,” appear in issue #10 of Newtown Literary magazine. Order it from their online shop or, if you’re in Queens, snag a copy at the Astoria Bookshop.


Victory, Dead Matches

My stories “Victory” and “Dead Matches” are in the latest issue of The Citron Review.

The Balloonseller

How dapper my (very) short story “The Balloonseller” looks atop the Bottlecap Press blog.

Butterfly in a Box

My story “Butterfly in a Box” appears in the November 2016 issue of Polychrome Ink. For sale on their website.

polychromeinkiv       butterfly


Four stories

A handful of my stories are appearing this month in various locations:

“The Vagrant” at Across the Margin.
“Breaking and Entering” at Scarlet Leaf Review.
“The Bird Sanctuary” at Entropy.
“The Bleeding House” at Visitant.

Lost Glove

My short story “Lost Glove” sullies the pages of the September issue of Sweater Weather.


Nearly all music that joins the ranks among my favorites typically does not make sense to me on first hearing. At first it sounds like a sky of indistinct clouds. Ambiguous, with little to latch onto. But on repeated listens my ear starts picking shapes out of the shapeless. That’s not a cloud, that’s a centaur. That’s a castle crumbling to dust. That’s an unsent love letter wedged behind the wainscoting. That’s a determined boy building the mother of all blanketforts. That’s an injured collie limping 200 miles to find its way home. That’s a man slitting his wife’s throat in the dead of night to collect the insurance. That’s a little girl gaining her sight after an operation and setting eyes on her mother for the very first time. And then it’s impossible to remember a time when I couldn’t see these images.