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Slippery skin of a slippery fish
Rubs against me as I swim
Through the apple green water
Of my mother's youthful memory

She would tell me stories
Of this pond, her sweet escape
And all the spirits that called it home
The entities she made friends with

Ah! How stupid!
But I never told her that
It would have broken her heart
She grew up with these spirits of the dead
So I feigned faith in her magic instead

The slippery fish, while I think
Has begun to nibble at my toes
Reflexively, I pull out my feet
And stuck to it are giant teeth

In shock, flabbergasted, I try to see
The creature that took a liking to me
It sucks my blood
And numbs my limbs

Even a toddler would know
It is not a fish
Perhaps some species
Science had yet to discover

Vigorously I shake my leg,
And pull the unknown slimy thing
Off my feet
It comes off, so easily
Unexpectedly, it begins to disintegrate,
Within my hand, into literal pieces
Above me is a golden mist,
And gently it flows with the wind

I come home without even a scar
Perhaps the bleeding wound had healed
My clothes are drenched
“Mom,” I say
“today I made a spirit friend.”

I feel her smile
From afterlife



Jasmeet has had a potent love for writing since age eleven and is currently pursuing sciences in the twelfth grade, thanks to a vague fascination with biology. For higher studies, Jasmeet will be pursuing a degree in creative writing.
Current Issue
25 Sep 2023

People who live in glass houses are surrounded by dirt birds
After a century, the first colony / of bluebirds flew out of my mouth.
Over and over the virulent water / beat my flame down to ash
In this episode of  Critical Friends , the Strange Horizons SFF criticism podcast, Aisha and Dan talk to critic and poet Catherine Rockwood about how reviewing and criticism feed into creative practice. Also, pirates.
Writing authentic stories may require you to make the same sacrifice. This is not a question of whether or not you are ready to write indigenous literature, but whether you are willing to do so. Whatever your decision, continue to be kind to indigenous writers. Do not ask us why we are not famous or complain about why we are not getting support for our work. There can only be one answer to that: people are too busy to care. At least you care, and that should be enough to keep my culture alive.
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