The currents seemed to pull the empty ache out of her, as though her body were just a translucent husk. And then the sound of her heart beating inside her would remind her it was time to surface, and she would feel the slight throbbing of her body asking to live, and reluctantly, made aware again of her natural place above water, she would rise.
I slid open the capiz-paned windows
and howled as if I was answering
the far-off cry of a demented dog.
My frustrated father said
I would be conjuring the aswang.
I’m not an expert on the current state of SF publishing. Twenty-plus years ago, a distinguished New York editor told me, “Given the current state for publishing, Eleanor, your career as a novelist is dead.” I think now I shouldn’t have listened to him.
I think the disorienting effect, somehow, tells a more psychological truth than a perfect rendering in three-point perspective.
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Alexandra Manglis’s “The Wreck at Goat’s Head.”