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A questing knight inadvertently resurrects a giant
Who terrorizes the people and covers the land in despair.
The knight flees the kingdom in shame and lives the rest of his days in obscurity
As a humble tailor.

A prince kisses his wife goodnight.
In the morning, she doesn't waken.
He leaves her body in the care of seven discreet morticians
Who know the land's deep places, where secrets keep.
When the men are away gathering supplies, a crone steals to the princess's bedside,
Forces her gnarled fingers into the maiden's mouth,
And plucks the unswallowed kiss from her throat.
The crone weeps as the princess coughs herself alive.
The tears uncrease her face like a hand over a bedsheet,
And the princess knows the face of her mother.
"I never stopped looking for you," says the queen.

A girl steals her brothers' shirts and unravels them into a pile of nettles.
The boys turn into swans and fly away.

A sinister woodsman sews a young girl and her grandmother
Into the belly of a sleeping wolf.
The wolf wakes in a fever, retching until he expels the captives from his bruised innards.
Apologies are shared.
The grandmother leads them back to her cottage
Where the three heal up with a fine lunch and a rest by the fireside.
When the shadows grow long,
The wolf walks the girl back to her parents' house,
Mindful of the terrors that lurk in the forest.




Caitlin O'Brien mostly grew up on an island in Alaska; because of this, she trusts bears more than people. She's a self-taught lockpick and the champion of an un-aired Australian-American game show pilot. She lives in Boston (for now).
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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Art by: delila
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