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Slippery skin of a slippery fish
Rubs against me as I swim
Through the apple green water
Of my mother's youthful memory

She would tell me stories
Of this pond, her sweet escape
And all the spirits that called it home
The entities she made friends with

Ah! How stupid!
But I never told her that
It would have broken her heart
She grew up with these spirits of the dead
So I feigned faith in her magic instead

The slippery fish, while I think
Has begun to nibble at my toes
Reflexively, I pull out my feet
And stuck to it are giant teeth

In shock, flabbergasted, I try to see
The creature that took a liking to me
It sucks my blood
And numbs my limbs

Even a toddler would know
It is not a fish
Perhaps some species
Science had yet to discover

Vigorously I shake my leg,
And pull the unknown slimy thing
Off my feet
It comes off, so easily
Unexpectedly, it begins to disintegrate,
Within my hand, into literal pieces
Above me is a golden mist,
And gently it flows with the wind

I come home without even a scar
Perhaps the bleeding wound had healed
My clothes are drenched
“Mom,” I say
“today I made a spirit friend.”

I feel her smile
From afterlife



Jasmeet has had a potent love for writing since age eleven and is currently pursuing sciences in the twelfth grade, thanks to a vague fascination with biology. For higher studies, Jasmeet will be pursuing a degree in creative writing.
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.
...
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
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.
Issue 15 Apr 2024
By: Ana Hurtado
Art by: delila
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Issue 1 Apr 2024
Issue 25 Mar 2024
By: Sammy Lê
Art by: Kim Hu
Issue 18 Mar 2024
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Issue 11 Mar 2024
Issue 4 Mar 2024
Issue 26 Feb 2024
Issue 19 Feb 2024
Issue 12 Feb 2024
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