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I tell my friend I am writing a science fiction novel. Oh, like Star
Wars? I love that movie. No, I reply, I am writing a novel.
It has a double plot. A man’s world is ending, and so is his marriage.

I liked that in Interstellar, she says. Does your planet explode?
Are there blasters? You need guns for special effects.
My pages don’t boom, I admit. No flashing lights. Just words.

People like that? What about a soundtrack? That worked
for Guardians. Your book should have a soundtrack. Why not
put out a playlist, tell people which chapter gets which song?

I shake my head sorrowfully. No music either. Too much happens
in a vacuum. You need air for vibration. It’s not fair, she says.
No one has trouble breathing in the movies. What about

the science? Are drives warped? Can you beam anywhere?
I’m embarrassed. My science is fine. No one travels.
They can’t figure out why things don't work. Their best people

get blown up. That’s good, she says. Blown up is good.
The bigger the better, I agree. And the cat? How does it
get saved? Ahh. The cats. Yes, I have them. They eat people.

Her eyebrow lifts. I don’t think it works that way. What about
your hero? Who plays him on screen? You’ll need star power.
I think about that. The man is kind of average. Me, I guess.

You are not attractive, she says. That’s true, I say. That’s why
I’m writing a science fiction novel. A man’s world is ending.
It always is, she says. You need a better plot. I do, I say. I do.



Liam Corley has been writing a science fiction novel since 2012. He teaches American literature at California State Polytechnic University, Pomona, and his poems can be found in Badlands, Chautauqua, First Things, The Wrath-Bearing Tree, and War, Literature & the Arts. He can be found at www.liamcorley.com or http://www.cpp.edu/~wccorley/.
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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