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I am alone. I have brought my phone to the forest
Where the cells serve none but each other, draw
No power beyond the reach of leaves for sky. Calls
Drop here, constant, caws and clicks and whoops
And warnings that my booted feet mar the mulch
With trails, with marks like fanned tails, like ferns.
I miss the message implied in howl and cry; although
I am similar in bone, in blood, I have enclosed my
Voice in lithium, I’ve bound my mind to counted bars
And I no longer comprehend the crunch of branches,
The scrape of brush, the rush of fur. Here I will open
A hole in the ground and place myself inside; bury all
Images and imaginings and lists and reminders and
All the songs I once called my own that were never, to
Begin with, mine. I will not sing but in the trickle of
Rain; I will no longer cry but to bring my loved ones
Close, to hold them safe. My only contacts shall be
Sunlight, treefall, decaying signals, shade.



Sarah Grey’s poetry has appeared in Fantasy Magazine, Liminality, Dreams & Nightmares, and elsewhere, and is forthcoming in Uncanny and Nightmare. She lives with her family in California, believes life is better on purple suede skates, and travels whenever the world’s not on fire. She can be found at www.sarahgrey.net.
Current Issue
26 Sep 2022

Would a Teixcalaanli aristocrat look up at the sky, think of Lsel Station, and wonder—with Auden—"what doubtful act allows/ Our freedom in this English house/ our picnics in the sun"?
I propose that The Expanse and its ilk present us with a similar sentiment, in reverse—a warning that for all the promise of futurism and technological advancement, plenty of new, and perhaps much worse futures are right before us. In the course of outrunning la vieux monde, we may find that we are awaited not simply by new worlds to win, but also many more which may yet be lost.
where oil slurped up out of the dirt, they drink the coffee
Science fiction is a genre that continues to struggle with its own colonialist history, of which many of its portrayals of extractivism are a part. Science fiction is also a genre that has a history of being socially progressive and conscious – these are both truths.
Bring my stones, my bones, back to me
If we are to accept that the extractive unconscious is latent, is everywhere, part of everything, but unseen and unspoken, and killing us in our waking lives, then science fiction constitutes its dreams.
they are quoting Darwish at the picket & i am finally breathing again
Waste is profoundly shaping and changing our society and our way of living. Our daily mundane world always treats waste as a hidden structure, together with its whole ecosystem, and places it beyond our sight, to maintain the glories of contemporary life. But unfortunately, some are advantaged by this, while others suffer.
Like this woman, I am carrying the world on my back.
So we’re talking about a violence that supplants the histories of people and things, scrubbing them clean so that they can fuel the oppressive and unequal status quo it sustains.
Issue 21 Sep 2022
Issue 12 Sep 2022
Issue 5 Sep 2022
Issue 29 Aug 2022
By: Cat T.
Issue 22 Aug 2022
Issue 15 Aug 2022
Issue 8 Aug 2022
Issue 1 Aug 2022
Issue 18 Jul 2022
Issue 11 Jul 2022
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