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I want to smelt a cold 'or' into 'and,' to see your blades fall at the tilt of my wrist. I'll be as inscrutable as lizard eyes, yielding as molten gold, as dunes towards storms
And each drop of spilt green blood
Will plummet down roots.
Phobos and Deimos, alien mockeries -
Make our moons birds of prey. They will learn how to hunt.
Where I come from the nights are long. Sand tears at parasite pale flesh.
You cut down our soldiers and I forgot breathing. Bereft of oxygen in your glass-steel domes, will you shrivel into the child I was?
I'll deliver bloodless televised victory to the sterile tally of acceptable deaths, reclaimed emeralds pouring like stars down my neck.
You barred from me the mountain songs of womanhood. You civilize at swordpoint, preach caged propriety. I have learned your human kindness; I will lap up your language and sciences in an eager façade, swear ignorance of deserts waiting to expel your bones, count patient years in false Earth days.
Our planet had an Empress once.




Ennis Rook Bashe is a Jewish-American lesbian. Their work has appeared in Vitality Magazine, Solarpunk Press, The Future Fire, Liminality, and the Outliers of Speculative Fiction anthology. They tweet about queerness and speculative fiction at @RookTheBird.
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 26 Feb 2024
Issue 19 Feb 2024
Issue 12 Feb 2024
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