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Are you there?
Where are you now?

I’ve been searching for you since it began
It seems I lost you a lifetime ago, and this mine field is long.

I thought going through hell with you would mean something.
I gave you all I had,
Even that tiny corner of my soul I wasn’t using just then.

So where are you now? I thought we were supposed to fight the dragons together,
but I’ve been splattered too many times to trust
And too many friends are gone

So I wait and load, load and wait.
I’ve been broken, too, but it won’t matter much longer.
This leg I drag won’t hold me back from the firestorm.

They’re coming, now, and I don’t mind, I’m numb to terror.
And used to standing all alone.
I locked out the wasteland, but they’ll come.

Claws will scrape the metal, fangs will part for the howl.
They’ll charge, and rend, and batter down this flimsy shield.

Ready, ready and waiting
With more fire than they can imagine.
Monsters at the door,
but I will blaze a wall for them when they break it down.

And when the guns are spent, there’s more, far more in me.
It’s time to burn bright, one last time.
One last fight,

Break it down!
I’ve been waiting too long

Marlane Quade Cook is an emerging writer who dabbles in a variety of genres, including poetry, speculative fiction, literary fiction/fantasy, and a few less easily defined. A former visual artist and classical ballet teacher, she is adapting to a change of lifestyle after several progressions of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (hEDS) left her with decreased mobility and function. Marlane and her husband/caregiver Jonathan parent two children who also have EDS. She is volunteer director of a small, inclusive community ballet program in Northwest Montana.

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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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By: Sammy Lê
Art by: Kim Hu
Issue 18 Mar 2024
Strange Horizons
Issue 11 Mar 2024
Issue 4 Mar 2024
Issue 26 Feb 2024
Issue 19 Feb 2024
Issue 12 Feb 2024
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