And so Meraminé became enthralled with her own explosion. The things thatshe had slaved so long over finally manifested and began to creep softlyfrom the colder parts of her brain. “No more for conscience or folly or grief,” she told her excited friends. “This is the time for great orchestration, of schemes and plans and other great dances of light.” Meraminé now floated butterfly through the gilded hallways, stepping lightly but leaving her signature everywhere. It was a time for apprehension some said, but still, they all could not deny that the once so cautious pretty girl had begun to flow and fill the vessels she had put out; and that she deserved it too. Meraminé did not sigh anymore, in concentration she held her mouth slightly open and flowered her thoughts into words and verbs. She gazed down at the showers her clouds had opened for the skies and thought, “Yes, yes it is good; and must spread forth!” And so she did, let loose her collar and turn her brain to smoke. Her gaze became ever more vacuous, and could see her life only through petaled lenses. Like vines threading through an empty room Meraminé filled her halls and was left only with that smell, the faint and fleeting smell of memory. Back to when she was a child, floating on her back in a shallow canoe with her father and closing her eyes to all the dream around her.

-Matt Prata

ANGEL FACE

I have the face of an angel, yet for many I’m a monster from the deep. When I say angel, I speak of a genetic disease that gives me the appearance of having stepped out of a Renaissance painting. Instead of bone in my jaw, I have overgrown fibrous tissue. My eyes have an upwards cast. I’m thirty-two years old but I’m the pudgy baby in ancient Italian art.

My sails were whipped by something incredible one night. Something was going to happen. That morning I tied back my hair, dismissed the scarves that I often draped across my chin. I would face the stares, defiant amongst the hot arrogance of the London commuter crowd.

On the platform at Holborn, a woman wearing tan tights gawked. On the train she sat opposite and I ignored her open mouth by focusing on the doors. When they sighed open at the next stop, another creature from far waters appeared, her face exactly like mine. I grabbed the edge of my seat; a chance encounter with a fellow victim of Cherubism is rare.

Our eyes locked and I blurted. ‘Crikey, what happened to your face?’

She laughed. We took each other in.

‘You’re staring,’ she said.

‘So is she.’ I nodded at Tan Tights, who blushed.

It was like arriving home after a long journey. I was never alone, but had always felt lonely. Now there are two of us, bound tight by the fate of our genes. The Medusas are sailing strong.

by Jackie Bateman

I'll Fix It

I took that job in a big illusion show because my husband advised me. After four days of my employment the accident happened. I was supposed to revert into my body after being a woman octopus, but I did not.

Now they keep me or, rather, us in a research institution that studies congenital malformations. I think we’re doing OK together. When they bring food, the octopus puts pieces straight into my mouth. I don’t need a fork.

I often feel very sad. Yesterday I saw a dream that the magician’s mistake could be corrected. I need a man to fall in love with me. If he gives me a kiss I will be myself again. I am not sure if it is possible, but still there is some hope. Every morning scientists and students come to examine and question me. I don’t mind. Maybe one of my visitors would be able to like me not for my looks but for my inner world?

After the curse is gone I would put on my best dress and go to a pet store to buy a fancy terrarium for my octopus.

There is one more thing I am eager to do on the very first day of my return. I would go to my lawyer and make a plan how to snatch my assets back from my ex-to-be husband.

by Farida Samerkhanova