Size / / /

If cold is a war, it was forced upon us

By foreign powers or falling stars,

By climate crash or a terror weapon,

By ignorance of a mayfly's ending.

Our earth & seas & sky are one

Vast absence: vision dimmed to snow-blind,

Clocks & calendars featureless.

If cold is a war, it is always.

If cold is a war, it has mustered weapons

Past defense: no keep, no bunker

Warms itself without resources

Sacrificed to other crises.

We make our stands by hearths on which

Our oldest ally starves & sputters,

Leaving us little but bitter ashes.

If cold is a war, we are losing.

If cold is a war, there can be no quarter

Asked or given from forces older

Than any motive we understood,

Than any tactic we thought perfected.

Retreat is a dream of stardrives shattered,

Of cities crystalline & silent,

Of people dying in drifts like cattle.

If cold is a war, we are taken.




Ann K. Schwader lives, writes, and volunteers at her local branch library in Westminster, CO. Her most recent poetry collection is Twisted in Dream (Hippocampus Press 2011). Her dark SF poetry collection Wild Hunt of the Stars (Sam's Dot Publishing, 2010) was a Bram Stoker Award nominee. She is a member of SFWA, HWA, and SFPA. Her LiveJournal is Yaddith Times.
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 19 Feb 2024
Issue 12 Feb 2024
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