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She said, i set my love out over an ocean of space
in a ship made of recycled parts, and
if i do and if i don’t miss his dear body
then is that a healthy love?

when you feel a face so close
that it starts to be one feature
in your hands that touch any body—
how do you know if it fits like a glove?

then, She said, you measure your pace,
keep time with quiet hands, not singing hearts.
You will know when: when no body
can shove you off balance—

then you’ve found the place,
thin as a blade with an edge that smarts,
where everybody can feel your face
like a crucial lever, like a restless dove.



Rasha is a queer Palestinian Southerner who grew up between Damascus, Syria and rural Georgia and cut their teeth organizing on the southsides of Atlanta and Chicago. They are a member of Alternate ROOTS, Southerners on New Ground, Justice for Muslims Healing Collective, and the Radius of Arab American Writers (RAWI). Rasha's work has appeared in Mizna, Room, Lambda Literary, and Strange Horizons, and is anthologized in Luminescent Threads: Connections to Octavia Butler and Halal if You Hear Me. As a community technologist, urban farmer, and once and future beekeeper, Rasha is a geek for science both fiction and fact. You can find them tweeting @rashaabdulhadi.
Current Issue
22 Apr 2024

We’d been on holiday at the Shoon Sea only three days when the incident occurred. Dr. Gar had been staying there a few months for medical research and had urged me and my friend Shooshooey to visit.
...
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
Tu enfiles longuement la chemise des murs,/ tout comme d’autres le font avec la chemise de la mort.
The little monster was not born like a human child, yelling with cold and terror as he left his mother’s womb. He had come to life little by little, on the high, three-legged bench. When his eyes had opened, they met the eyes of the broad-shouldered sculptor, watching them tenderly.
Le petit monstre n’était pas né comme un enfant des hommes, criant de froid et de terreur au sortir du ventre maternel. Il avait pris vie peu à peu, sur la haute selle à trois pieds, et quand ses yeux s’étaient ouverts, ils avaient rencontré ceux du sculpteur aux larges épaules, qui le regardaient tendrement.
We're delighted to welcome Nat Paterson to the blog, to tell us more about his translation of Léopold Chauveau's story 'The Little Monster'/ 'Le Petit Monstre', which appears in our April 2024 issue.
Issue 15 Apr 2024
By: Ana Hurtado
Art by: delila
Issue 8 Apr 2024
Issue 1 Apr 2024
Issue 25 Mar 2024
By: Sammy Lê
Art by: Kim Hu
Issue 18 Mar 2024
Strange Horizons
Issue 11 Mar 2024
Issue 4 Mar 2024
Issue 26 Feb 2024
Issue 19 Feb 2024
Issue 12 Feb 2024
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