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Ships of Hagoth is a digital-first literary magazine featuring creative nonfiction and theoretical essays by members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Where other LDS-centric publications often look inward at the LDS tradition, we seek literary works that look outward through the curious, charitable lens of faith.

His assigned "sleeping dictionary"—the local euphemism for a native woman who tutors a colonial officer in language and, unofficially, much more—was a woman named Bulan. Her name meant "moon." She was in her late twenties, with eyes that held the patience of an eclipse and hair she kept braided with threads of indigo. She was a widow, the village elder explained, her husband lost to a fever the previous year. She had no children. She was, therefore, expendable.

That night, Bulan packed his trunk. She did not cry. She folded his shirts the same way she always had. Then she handed him a single, folded leaf. Inside, written in the Roman script he had taught her, were five Penan words he had never recorded: "Aku pilih tinggal. Ikut hutan."

The answer is complicated. While "sleeping dictionary" was a known colonial term, its reality varied dramatically by region.

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A CALL FOR

SUB
MISS
IONS

We are hoping—for “one must needs hope”—for creative nonfiction, theoretical essays, and craft essays that seek radical new ways to explore and express theological ideas; that are, like Hagoth, “exceedingly curious.”

We favor creative nonfiction that can trace its lineage back to Michel de Montaigne. Whether narrative, analytical, or devotional, these essays lean ruminative, conversational, meandering, impressionistic, and are reluctant to wax didactic. 

As for theoretical essays: we welcome work that playfully and charitably explores the wide world of arts & letters—especially works created from differing religious, non-religious, and even irreligious perspectives—through the peculiar lens of a Latter-day Saint.

We read and publish submissions as quickly as possible, and accept simultaneous submissions. 

The Sleeping Dictionary Film Direct

His assigned "sleeping dictionary"—the local euphemism for a native woman who tutors a colonial officer in language and, unofficially, much more—was a woman named Bulan. Her name meant "moon." She was in her late twenties, with eyes that held the patience of an eclipse and hair she kept braided with threads of indigo. She was a widow, the village elder explained, her husband lost to a fever the previous year. She had no children. She was, therefore, expendable.

That night, Bulan packed his trunk. She did not cry. She folded his shirts the same way she always had. Then she handed him a single, folded leaf. Inside, written in the Roman script he had taught her, were five Penan words he had never recorded: "Aku pilih tinggal. Ikut hutan." the sleeping dictionary film

The answer is complicated. While "sleeping dictionary" was a known colonial term, its reality varied dramatically by region. She had no children