Once, I dreamed that I had a son named Sheldon, and my grief tore a hole in the fabric of the world.
These essays are personal reflections on what it is like to not find oneself in fiction or to find oneself represented badly and dishonestly, and how uncomfortable—even painful—it is to not find oneself in art.
Didn't our mother tell us not to talk to strangers? / but we enter anyway / into the smell of iron.
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Susan Jane Bigelow's "Sarah's Child."
