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little sisters belong beneath crowns,
by nature; the golden age of
gone traditions swept away at last
by an emerald sea. their birthright: to live
under an infinite eclipse, tiara of sunbeads,
scepter of starlight; as a stargazer,
i would trade anything to bathe forever
beneath such a glow but i think the princesses
are sick of constellations by now. it is easy
to take for granted everything
you have ever known. it is easy
to take for granted the taste of favor,
a remedy tucked under your tongue
for as long as you’ve ever fallen ill;
remember: when you were young
sometimes you craved the taste of
medicine because it was the closest thing
you came to candy. remember:
she used to be afraid
of the monster underneath her covers
so you held her all night to protect her.
remember: she is grown.
remember: she has forgotten
the night she fell asleep in your arms, but
remember: once she had a dream about it
and woke up wishing it was real.
remember: a shepherdess
doesn’t miss the stars until she’s
in the city, a princess doesn’t miss
law until she is left to roam free;
city girls, remember this:
the metropolis is a labyrinth of serpents
and ghouls. there are still monsters
out there. don’t become one.
remember: the most fearsome type of monster
is the type of monster who you used to love.



Caroline Dinh is a comp sci student who writes sometimes. She is the founder of Backslash Lit and has work published or forthcoming in Flash Point SF, Ample Remains, and Pollux Journal.
Current Issue
18 Mar 2024

Strange Horizons
We are very happy to welcome Dante Luiz as a new fiction editor on the team! Dante is a Ignyte Award winning author, and has been with Strange Horizons working as an Art Director for the past several years. We’re stoked to bring him on to the fiction side and have him bring his wonderful insight and skill to the fiction team.
Day in and day out, the rough waters of the Pacific slam themselves against the protrusion of sandstone the locals refer to as Morro Rock. White streaks of bird shit bleed down the rock, a testament to the rare birds of prey that nest in its pocked face overlooking the bay.
in my defence, juggling biological and artificial, i tripped over my shoelace, and spilled my lungs empty of the innocence that was, before guilt.
the birds, / who carry with them / the many names of the dead
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