Size / / /

This is the house that Jack built

in the woods where no one can see.

These are the dim-lit halls he walks

barefoot in the murky night.

This is the red oak floor

sanded too smooth for slivers.

This is the board that creaks

in front of a small blue door.

This is the way Jack's eyes gleam

in a house where no one can see.

This is the way he shivers.

This is the room where Jill lives

alone at the top of the stairs.

These are the sunburst windows

that Jill can never get open.

This is the lacy frost that

Burns skin when ever she tries.

These are the spiders who spy

for Jack from a web over the door.

These are the mice who tell him

when she sleeps or if she cries.

This is the way Jill trembles when

she remembers he wants her to lie.

These are the things that happen if

he thinks she has something to hide.

These are the doors tight shut

in the house that Jack built.

This is the way they trap

the smallest noise inside.




Jaime writes books and stories as well as poetry, assisted by two warrior kittens who help her chase the Muse. In her spare time she's the Poetry Editor for Ideomancer Speculative Fiction. Her poetry has appeared too many places to list in a fifty word bio. You can email Jaime at jaimewrites@gmail.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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Issue 12 Feb 2024
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