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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
10 Nov 2025

We deposit the hip shards in the tin can my mother reserves for these incidents. It is a recycled red bean paste can. If you lean in and sniff, you can still smell the red bean paste. There is a larger tomato sauce can for larger bones. That can has been around longer and the tomato sauce smell has washed out. I have considered buying my mother a special bone bag, a medical-grade one lined with regrowth powder to speed up the regeneration process, but I know it would likely sit, unused, in the bottom drawer of her nightstand where she keeps all the gifts she receives and promptly forgets.
A cat prancing across the solar system / re-arranging
I reach out and feel the matte plastic clasp. I unlatch it, push open the lid and sit up, looking around.
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Podcast read by: Arden Fitzroy
In this episode of the Strange Horizons Fiction podcast, Podcast Editor Michael Ireland presents B Pladek's 'The Spindle of Necessity' read by Arden Fitzroy.
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