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after Rom Spaceknight #1, December 1979

It’s classic meet-cute. He’s a seven-foot cyborg on
a quest to rid the galaxy of an ancient evil.
She’s a small-town girl on her way home from work.

She swerves to miss him. He wrenches her back onto
the freeway. Stands there statuesque in
silver wetsuit and thigh boots, engine-block chest and

boxy head, blank apart from two bright tail-lamp eyes.
He shines a light on her and flies away.
Later that night, in front of the Bijou, The Creature

from Space on the marquee, he turns two guys to piles
of ash like chalk outlines. Everyone runs
but her. He flies her to the outskirts of town, tells her

about the war in space. How he signed up for the cyborg
army. How her high-school buddies are
shapeshifting sleeper agents hiding in plain sight.

The National Guard cuts in. He chucks around some tanks
and jeeps. Ignores the bouncing bullets and
the flicking of flames against his armour. Turns the Sheriff

and local barber to ash, then flies away again, leaving
the survivors to tell the tale of his arrival. It’s
Roger Corman meets Ernst Lubitsch. It’s a hell of a first date.



Adam Ford is the author of the poetry collections The Third Fruit is a Bird (Picaro Press, 2008) and Not Quite the Man for the Job (Allen & Unwin, 1998). He lives in Australia and writes poems about sad robots and such. His website is theotheradamford.wordpress.com.
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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