Size / / /

I open the refrigerator and instead of food
it is stocked with automatic weapons
and hand guns and ammunition.

I make love to my wife and find
that she has a third eye
where her navel should be.

I have a clock that makes a different noise every hour.
Sometimes it sings like a bird.
Sometimes it is a train pulling into a station.
At least once a day it is a bullfight or a shuttle launch.
I take it to a jeweler's to have it fixed.
He tells me not to fool with it or it will melt.

I have a giant flea for a pet.
It has little dogs running around on it.

When I turn on the TV the stereo comes on.
When I turn on the stereo the toaster heats up.
When I pop a slice of split-topped wheat into the toaster
the garbage disposal begins devouring itself.
I have all of this memorized.
It changes every day.

At the back of my walk-in bedroom closet
there is a giant zipper that runs
vertically from the floor to nearly the ceiling.
I have never touched it.
Believe me.


The author of twenty-six books, Bruce Boston has published in hundreds of magazines and anthologies, including Asimov's SF, Weird Tales, Pushcart Prize Anthology, Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, and the Nebula Awards anthology. In 1999 the Science Fiction Poetry Association honored him with the first Grand Master Award in its twenty-two year history. He would be delighted if you sent him mail.



Bruce Boston is the author of forty-seven books and chapbooks, including the novels The Guardener's Tale and Stained Glass Rain. His writing has received the Bram Stoker Award, a Pushcart Prize, the Asimov's Readers Award, and the Grand Master Award of the Science Fiction Poetry Association. You can read more about him at www.bruceboston.com and see some of his previous work in our archives.
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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