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The deaths began slowly. Or, rather, the dying itself was quick: bodies dropping onto polished marble, red soaking starched linen, the thudding noises summoning household staff.

One morning when she was young, a poppy sprouted from my grandmother’s shoulder, and it stayed as it was for years.

pakicetus, a kind of rutty wiener-dog from 50,000,000 years ago and yes, you speak the same language.

my chest is a sky-rack of immaculateness, a cheesecloth adjusted to keep birds from nesting

“America is a nation of liars, for that reason science fiction has a special claim to be our national literature, as the art form best adapted to telling the lies we like to hear and to pretend we believe,” Thomas M. Disch wrote in his Hugo-winning history of the genre, The Dreams Our Stuff Is Made Of. Among the lies that America has chosen to believe about itself over the past 70 years, few have had as lasting—or as pernicious—effects as those wrought by Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend. I would argue that perhaps unwittingly, this novel—and its later imitators—present

"I believe that there is no bound on how well we can know the laws of history, but that our knowledge will always fall short of taking every small contingency into account, and that small changes can have large consequences, so that our predictive power, while improving, will always fall short."

"If you are an agent, editor, reviewer, or even just a reader who isn't "in the industry," when you approach a work by someone whose experience is outside your own, be aware that you may not get everything."

In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Ciro Faienza presents the poetry earned in this year's Fund Drive.