Size / / /

So Rock created stone in his own image

in the image of Rock created he stone

one gender created he stone

and Rock spit on stone

and Rock said unto stone

Split yourself into many

and cover the earth

and stone did so and

some were fiery, eruptive and flowing

some were grainy, coarse and wind-strewn

some captured animals and

desiccated their spirits

entombing their skeletons in outline forever

and some buried animals by their force

but most were hard and enduring

so while animals lived and died upon them

they persisted

through the ages

calcite, seared the blazing orb of the sun,

sodalite, painted the sea-reflected-into-sky,

selenite, tinted the colorless echo of stars,

gaspeite, dyed the skin of rain-bringing frogs,

rhodochrosite, tinged the burn of cherry buds,

hematite, glazed the grittiness of soil,

malachite, hued the verdant of pasture lands,

and dolomite, banded the blood of human flesh,

until one day Rock called them home,

all his creation

strip-stippled into the stains of the rainbow

and shining over a barren earth.




Holly Cooley lives on an island called Paradise in a Florida lake. She has a PhD in Medieval and Victorian Literature. Her poems have been published by or will soon appear in Mythic Delirium, Goblin Fruit and Dragons, Knights & Angels.
Current Issue
22 Apr 2024

We’d been on holiday at the Shoon Sea only three days when the incident occurred. Dr. Gar had been staying there a few months for medical research and had urged me and my friend Shooshooey to visit.
...
Tu enfiles longuement la chemise des murs,/ tout comme d’autres le font avec la chemise de la mort.
The little monster was not born like a human child, yelling with cold and terror as he left his mother’s womb. He had come to life little by little, on the high, three-legged bench. When his eyes had opened, they met the eyes of the broad-shouldered sculptor, watching them tenderly.
Le petit monstre n’était pas né comme un enfant des hommes, criant de froid et de terreur au sortir du ventre maternel. Il avait pris vie peu à peu, sur la haute selle à trois pieds, et quand ses yeux s’étaient ouverts, ils avaient rencontré ceux du sculpteur aux larges épaules, qui le regardaient tendrement.
We're delighted to welcome Nat Paterson to the blog, to tell us more about his translation of Léopold Chauveau's story 'The Little Monster'/ 'Le Petit Monstre', which appears in our April 2024 issue.
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
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Issue 12 Feb 2024
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