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For the duration of the month of March, the poetry department is temporarily closing to new submissions. The submission portal will reopen on April 1. If you’ve been sending us poetry for many years, you already know it’s ordinary for us to take a month off every year or two, often in December, so we can get caught up on a backlog or focus on another project or have a vacation. This is that.

It’s usually something we note on our poetry submissions guidelines page, and maybe in a tweet, but given the unexpected submissions closure at Clarkesworld this week (read more in this detailed post by Clarkesworld editor Neil Clarkeand since it falls on the same day our Wuxia/Xianxia special issue ends its limited submissions window and since we’re reopening on April Fools’ Day, it seemed prudent to say explicitly that it’s a coincidence and not a pattern.

So far, Strange Horizons has not seen any big spikes in chatbot-generated submissions. It’s also true that in the time period discussed in Neil’s post, we have not been open to general fiction submissions; we’ve been looking at poetry and at a limited-demographic submissions call. (We do sometimes publish poems that use automation or prediction or collage or statistical noise, which is a longstanding tradition in poetry going back at least as far as Dada. We are less interested in predictive-text essays or short stories.) We’re keeping an eye on it and will let you know if our experience changes.



Romie Stott is the administrative editor and a poetry editor of Strange Horizons. Her poems have appeared in inkscrawl, Dreams & Nightmares, Polu Texni, On Spec, The Deadlands, and Liminality, but she is better known for her essays in The Toast and Atlas Obscura, and a microfiction project called postorbital. As a filmmaker, she has been a guest artist of the National Gallery (London), the Institute of Contemporary Art (Boston), and the Dallas Museum of Art. You can find her fairly complete bibliography here.
Current Issue
20 Jan 2025

Strange Horizons
Surveillance technology looms large in our lives, sold to us as tools for safety, justice, and convenience. Yet the reality is far more sinister.
Vans and campers, sizeable mobile cabins and some that were barely more than tents. Each one a home, a storefront, and a statement of identity, from the colorful translucent windows and domes that harvested sunlight to the stickers and graffiti that attested to places travelled.
“Don’t ask me how, but I found out this big account on queer Threads is some kind of super Watcher.” Charlii spins her laptop around so the others can see. “They call them Keepers, and they watch the people that the state’s apparatus has tagged as terrorists. Not just the ones the FBI created. The big fish. And people like us, I guess.”
It's 9 a.m., she still hasn't eaten her portion of tofu eggs with seaweed, and Amaia wants the day to be over.
Nadjea always knew her last night in the Clave would get wild: they’re the only sector of the city where drink and drug and dance are unrestricted, and since one of the main Clavist tenets is the pursuit of corporeal joy in all its forms, they’ve more or less refined partying to an art.
surviving / while black / is our superpower / we lift broken down / cars / over our heads / and that’s just a tuesday
After a few deft movements, she tossed the cube back to James, perfectly solved. “We’re going to break into the Seattle Police Department’s database. And you’re going to help me do it.”
there are things that are toxic to a bo(d)y
By: Michelle Kulwicki
Podcast read by: Emmie Christie
In this episode of the Strange Horizons Fiction podcast, Michael Ireland presents Michelle Kulwicki's 'Bee Season' read by Emmie Christie.
Issue 13 Jan 2025
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By: Samantha Murray
Podcast read by: Jenna Hanchey
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Issue 9 Dec 2024
Issue 2 Dec 2024
By: E.M. Linden
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Issue 25 Nov 2024
Issue 18 Nov 2024
By: Susannah Rand
Podcast read by: Claire McNerney
Issue 11 Nov 2024
Issue 4 Nov 2024
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