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An olive, perhaps, stuffed with something bitter.
A mortgage statement wrapped around an artichoke.
It must be something mature; no teenaged hot hot hot sauce.
No boasts or man-child char-broiled contest; no, something
your grandmother would consume.
But she has her secret scotch against the cold, and ate
many grim and tasteless things to stretch the stew
to the end of the month. Do not discount her.
You will be tempted to mix cigars and cloves and motor oil
To roll them in your taxes and the discarded page of colonoscopy instructions
But remember you will have to eat the final product, that the spell will only work
If you don't choke.
Coffee seemed perfect at first but now you have doubts
It's so easy to buy it in marshmallow form, or as a popsicle, or in a juice box
It won't start a pickup truck any more, you're pretty sure, if it ever did.

I will tell you a secret.
Once you've dressed in nylons and a tie, cast the square, and swallowed the item you chose
To mark the start of adulthood, or the end of childhood
You're not sure which, the paperwork never reached you
Once you've drunk it down, or eaten it entire:
There is no sign.
Did you succeed, or fail, or some wretched middle thing?
Are you accruing now valorous deeds, fathomless debt, or unwanted magazine subscriptions?
In this uncertainty you now dwell.
Welcome. We're here too.



Brooke Abbey is a disabled, transmasculine, queer single parent, putting him at the cutting edge of dad joke technology. He is a pharmacist specializing in compounding and immunization, and is grateful that mad science and stabbing people is a viable career path. He has a Pegasus Award-winning album of filk songs played on the banjo, and if that doesn't terrify you, you can investigate at: https://brookeabbey.com/album/steel-cage-match
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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In this episode of the Strange Horizons Fiction podcast, Michael Ireland presents Michelle Kulwicki's 'Bee Season' read by Emmie Christie.
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