Size / / /

A bouquet of honeyed skin,

you are as I'd imagined.

Our eyes the same, the way we smile.

long legged wild child, little sister.

Too long I've been in exile,

I've paid enough for my misdeeds.

I only wish to come home,

but none believe it. With my name,

a fleet at my command, I own the stars.

Why do you turn away?

The circle worlds are multiple.

It is life, not death, that has no limits.

You tell me you're my brother,

yet you don't know us.

Born a millennium before,

You cannot understand our ways.

When you were banished to the stars,

our sun was always rising.

Now it sits above the westmost mountain.

Ancestor or myth, you come too late

to save us from the end.

Our cherished histories endure

within the sea and frag,

our lives a part of the elemental clock—

why would we ever wish to leave?

Soon this last ring of time,

my small part of it, will disappear.

Yet it is mine, and all that's come and gone

in this infinitely small space

is just for me.

So I beg you take your ships away,

leave us be.




Marge Ballif Simon free lances as a writer-poet-illustrator for genre and mainstream publications such as Nebula Awards 32, Strange Horizons, Flashquake, Space & Time, Dreams & Nightmares, Aoife’s Kiss, Dark Regions, Fantasy Magazine, The Pedestal Magazine, EOTU, Tales of the Unanticipated. She has illustrated three Stoker award collections. Her illustrated poetry collection, “Artist of Antithesis” was a Stoker finalist in 2004.
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.
Issue 15 Apr 2024
By: Ana Hurtado
Art by: delila
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Issue 25 Mar 2024
By: Sammy Lê
Art by: Kim Hu
Issue 18 Mar 2024
Strange Horizons
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Issue 26 Feb 2024
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