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it seems like a mistake at first.
I guess this is a mistake she says. it probably doesn’t know where it is.
then the deer begins dragging in grasses and leaves from the woods.
it spreads them out into a nest under the kitchen table.
all day she and her grandfather watch the deer.
it gets tiring over the next few weeks, living with this creature.
the deer eats their food, nibbles on her sweaters.
it doesn’t help with the dishes or sweep the floor
or pay its share of the rent.

the deer has no understanding of the salient history of her town,
a place nicknamed The Village of Fatherless Children.
when she was young, the dads of
half the kids in town disappeared.
the other half did not have dads to begin with
either they had two moms or single moms.
she often wonders why it is called The Village of Fatherless Children
and not The Village of Many Mothers
or even The Village of Mostly Mothers
which would be a much more positive and progressive way of viewing things.

one day she finds that a framed photo of her father is missing.
the deer, when interrogated, discloses nothing.



Nikki Caffier Smith is a writer based in Brooklyn. Her writing has appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, Typishly, and Awakened Voices Magazine, and is forthcoming in 42 Stories Anthology and on the podcast Kaleidocast. She works as a fiction editor for Cleaver Magazine. She lives with her partner and their two ill-behaved cats.
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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