This is the terror within that J cannot utter aloud but which, in Jacobson's superbly controlled unpacking of the costs of not uttering that which cannot be spoken, permeates every word.
A short but (hopefully) exciting announcement.
Thus I saw you tread before, more shade than man
The dead god descends on me as I sleep, the way it did my mother the night before my conception, and my grandmother before that. Even with my dream-eyes shut, I know it's there; the weight of folded limbs on my body threatens to crush my ribs, and I can smell the wreaths of sweet sampaguita hanging from its neck.
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Alyssa Wong's "Santos de Sampaguitas (Part 1 of 2)."
