Table of Contents | FUND DRIVE SPECIAL 2017
By: Aliya Whiteley
Podcast read by: Anaea Lay
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Aliya Whiteley's "The Tears of a Building Surveyor, and Other Stories."
By: Helena Bell
Podcast read by: Anaea Lay
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Helena Bell's “Rescuing Napoleon.”
深圳湾之夏长达十个月,红树林淤血般浅浅环绕着湾区,年复一年地萎缩、发臭,并非浪漫如其名,锈色的夜晚罪案频发。
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Chen Qiufan's "沙嘴之花 | The Flower of Shazui."
By: Chen Qiufan 陈楸帆
Podcast read by: Anaea Lay
Translated by: Ken Liu
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Anaea Lay presents Chen Qiufan's "The Flower of Shazui | 沙嘴之花."  
The bikes whir and flap, playing cards clipped to their spokes with clothespins, / and as the youngest passes, she sees the seven of clubs fastened to one wheel
Nisi Shawl's letter comes from Australian publisher and champion of under-represented voices in fiction, Twelfth Planet Press, and is published in their upcoming collection of essays and letters dedicated to SFF pioneer Octavia Butler, Luminescent Threads: Connections to Octavia E. Butler.
By: Chen Qiufan 陈楸帆
Translated by: Ken Liu
Summers in Shenzhen Bay last ten months.  Mangrove swamps surround the bay like congealed blood. Year after year, they shrink and rot, like the rust-colored night that hides many crimes.
By: Nin Harris
By: Valya Dudycz Lupescu
By: Dimas Ilaw
By: Ryu Ando
Podcast read by: Romie Stott
Podcast read by: Valya Dudycz Lupescu
Podcast read by: Ryu Ando
In this episode of the Strange Horizons podcast, editor Ciro Faienza presents poetry from the 2017 Fund Drive Special issue of Strange Horizons.
yes, blood blossoms bright. dadanak muli ang dugo, aking mahal. out of its petals we'll raise the sun our ancestors lost hahawiin ng sinag ang mapanlinlang na himpapawid
All women dream of rescuing Napoleon. For less ambitious girls, it is only a passing fancy. They imagine sailing across the Atlantic on a stolen ship, their hair flowing behind them like a flag. Napoleon will watch from a window in his tower as they stride upon the beach, swords drawn, thrusting and parrying their way through dozens of red-coated British soldiers and evading the horses’ hooves, the dogs’ teeth. There will be traps too, they think: quick sand and spring guns which only the cleverest of girls could survive.
My name is Violet. I’m married to Tom and I’m old and I’d like to say that’s how I introduce myself to people, but it would be a lie. I don’t introduce myself to anyone. I’m of no interest, not even to Tom, who has heard all my anecdotes so many times that he corrects me when I get the details wrong. Which I, quite deliberately, do.
Our stories bind us / To the stars,
These spectral tendrils twine and snake / into confines of my most closely guarded secrets
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