Size / / /

I'm the pretty sister, Dad says,

so I get to go out and model my new suit

for the entire Aegean navy. For morale, Dad says.

Electra's the smart one,

Orry says she needs to up her Paxil

or else get out more, stop obsessing about Can This Marriage Be Saved?

Orry's just a guy, what would he understand?

He says I look hot in my Spandex thong.

Not what I need to hear

from my own brother, thanks anyway.

Daddy's annoyed the winds are down,

his yacht becalmed.

He's annoyed over Helen, too. Promised to defend

Uncle M.'s honor when she ran away.

Paris? Come on: he's no stud. He's a prettyboy in gilt armor.

And Mom? She's already got the wandering eye

for my own uncle, for heaven's sake.

If Dad goes away again —

Sometimes these business trips last for years.

Sometimes the fleet doesn't make it back.

Sometimes Dad brings home a woman he claims can forecast trends.

Don't think I'm so innocent.

Orry looks thunder when I mention Aegeus.

He counts the towels and the kitchen knives.

Daddy kisses me, hands me onto the skiff,

going home to explain it all to Mom, he says.

The sea is calm, nothing can happen to me out here

as they row toward Sea Serpent Rock.




Mary A. Turzillo's "Mars Is no Place for Children" won the 1999 Nebula. Her first novel An Old-Fashioned Martian Girl appeared in Analog. Both are recreational reading on the International Space Station. Published in Asimov's, F & SF, Interzone, SF Age, Weird Tales, Oceans of the Mind, and Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, she has over fifty poems in print, plus several collections, including Pushcart nominee Your Cat & Other Space Aliens. You can read more about her at her website www.maryturzillo.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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