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Imagine an alien invasion. I'm talking about the mother
of all motherships. Oozing dripping grey tentacles
maim & rip open everyone at the party while you & I keep
vaping out here by the garage. Mango-flavored puffs just
thick enough to mask screams, to see in the night, dark & thin.
I watch your ass sway its way to the house for two more beers,
hear you shout, & run up the sidewalk to be by your side.
Endless suffering in the living room. Slippery viscera hide
behind a red couch that shouldn't be. An extraterrestrial near-
by has you in its grip, crushes your sweet skull that had been
so happy an hour ago. How I feel now is the exact color of the rusty
blood, the limbs that can't dance anymore. It's not new to say, or deep,
but out here, laughing with you, I'd destroy every unearthly ventricle
for one more puff, another minute, another, another, another.



Weston Richey is a poet, writer, and hopeful academic originally from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Weston received a BA in philosophy and English from New York University, and is currently an MFA candidate in creative writing at Rutgers University–Newark. Their work has appeared in FreezeRay Poetry.
Current Issue
20 Jan 2025

Strange Horizons
Surveillance technology looms large in our lives, sold to us as tools for safety, justice, and convenience. Yet the reality is far more sinister.
Vans and campers, sizeable mobile cabins and some that were barely more than tents. Each one a home, a storefront, and a statement of identity, from the colorful translucent windows and domes that harvested sunlight to the stickers and graffiti that attested to places travelled.
“Don’t ask me how, but I found out this big account on queer Threads is some kind of super Watcher.” Charlii spins her laptop around so the others can see. “They call them Keepers, and they watch the people that the state’s apparatus has tagged as terrorists. Not just the ones the FBI created. The big fish. And people like us, I guess.”
It's 9 a.m., she still hasn't eaten her portion of tofu eggs with seaweed, and Amaia wants the day to be over.
Nadjea always knew her last night in the Clave would get wild: they’re the only sector of the city where drink and drug and dance are unrestricted, and since one of the main Clavist tenets is the pursuit of corporeal joy in all its forms, they’ve more or less refined partying to an art.
surviving / while black / is our superpower / we lift broken down / cars / over our heads / and that’s just a tuesday
After a few deft movements, she tossed the cube back to James, perfectly solved. “We’re going to break into the Seattle Police Department’s database. And you’re going to help me do it.”
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