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She could almost taste

those sweet little feet, caked

with residue of a barefoot summer.


Tempted now by the deep green

emerald stickiness of freshly mown grass,

the gravelly spice of too hot asphalt, and perfume

of arches sweating pre-adolescent funk.


It had been awhile since Bridget had feasted,

and the radiant chill of the soil was leeching

through the mahogany box into her crepe-soft flesh.


But the red glowing heat

of their footsteps summoned her up. Like flashing

Christmas lights, strobing into her bed with every step

on the ground overhead.


The other 5 senses heightened now,

super charged the moment Henry Thompson

replaced her blood with embalming fluid.


It seemed contradictory, but

there were different rules for what she was now.


Her ears perked, the Mother trying

to herd the group (four children, she thought).

“Do not walk on those graves.

The witches will follow you home and eat you up tonight.”


The remnants of Bridget’s lips turned up on the ends.

It was nice to be remembered.

Amy H. Robinson writes poetry and flash fiction. She has been published in Pearl, Flash Fiction Press, and The Great American Poetry Show, and edits Apparition Literary Mag. Amy is surrounded by cats and ghosts, and lives in a small house by the sea with her husband. She rambles on Twitter at @AmyQotwf.
Current Issue
25 Sep 2023

People who live in glass houses are surrounded by dirt birds
After a century, the first colony / of bluebirds flew out of my mouth.
Over and over the virulent water / beat my flame down to ash
In this episode of  Critical Friends , the Strange Horizons SFF criticism podcast, Aisha and Dan talk to critic and poet Catherine Rockwood about how reviewing and criticism feed into creative practice. Also, pirates.
Writing authentic stories may require you to make the same sacrifice. This is not a question of whether or not you are ready to write indigenous literature, but whether you are willing to do so. Whatever your decision, continue to be kind to indigenous writers. Do not ask us why we are not famous or complain about why we are not getting support for our work. There can only be one answer to that: people are too busy to care. At least you care, and that should be enough to keep my culture alive.
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