Christie Yant

Oct 24, 2023 | fantasy-magazine.com | Christie Yant |P.A. Cornell

On the island of Manhattan, there’s a building out of time. I can’t tell you where it is, exactly. It has an address, of course, as all buildings do, but that wouldn’t mean anything to you. What I can tell you is that the building is called The Oakmont. “What do you see when you look out there, Sarah?” Roger asks. I stand next to one of the windows in his apartment and take in the view. “The sun’s out and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. It’s a perfect summer day.

Oct 24, 2023 | fantasy-magazine.com | Christie Yant |P.H. Low

I have a confession to make: I think I’m burning out on writing “Asian American” literature. I know this is wrong of me. I know all writing is political. I know sharing our stories is an important way for us to work past media stereotypes, find each other, and reconstruct our collective histories. I have reread Babel and On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous and the Green Bone Saga over and over, as if by repeated consumption I could etch them beneath my skin.

Oct 23, 2023 | fantasy-magazine.com | Christie Yant |Phoebe Barton

Can you tell us what inspired this story and how it came about? Anyone familiar with my past publications will know “time” is something I often play with in my stories, whether it’s splitting a person into their various selves at different ages (“Splits”), making my main character age in reverse (“A Fall Backward Through the Hourglass”), or writing a protagonist addicted to nostalgia in pill form (“In the Grip of Yesterday”), to name a few.

Oct 17, 2023 | fantasy-magazine.com | Christie Yant |Adesiyan Oluwapelumi

the garden sings again brushstroke of falsetto petal drops of fiddled solfas leaves rattling like kettledrums thumbing piano of the evening breeze sonata of the sea mass contrapuntal with simulacrums music is garden is memory is music is garden is memory is tonic triad of semi intervals is flat in major cadence is solo in trinity in orchestra is a god floating in ether rhythms of pollen is perennial throb of ethereal respiration is pollinate of rhapsodies keats bowing the crescent byron...

Oct 16, 2023 | fantasy-magazine.com | Christie Yant

On a night where the moon silvers the falling snow and the air is the gaping mouth of a frozen corpse, the skeleton pig lowers its head to the river flowing upstream and drinks while dreaming of spring. Trees like pale fingers strain towards the skies and line both sides of the river—the skeleton pig has never strayed into the woods for fear of losing its way, but it is tempted to venture beyond this eternal walk along the frigid water. It remembers little other than this journey, this cold.