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who’d have thought
your grandpa merle

would be the first to turn
into one of those

no-good pests, eating up
the neighborhood

like a june bug, sinking
his teeth into anything

with a pulse.
last night, i found

him in the garden,
tongue lolling

from his mouth,
flesh dangling

from his incisors,
blood dripping

on my begonias.

who’d have thought
a pair of gardening shears

would slice so smooth
through your grandpa’s

forehead.



Emory is a queer Cleveland-born writer currently living in Columbus, Ohio. With a few miscellaneous degrees under her belt, she now scoops gourmet ice cream for a living. When not writing, you can find her trying to keep her plants alive and daydreaming about giant alien robots.
Current Issue
10 Feb 2025

The editors for the AfroSurrealism Special invite you to submit fiction, poetry, and nonfiction.
he curls his bicep into ever more and more and more bicep
Hush. He sees through / the static. Softly. It sees him back.
“Please also be reminded of the following prohibited items,” the clerk explains kindly. “No chemicals or toxic substances. No fluids over 1,000 milliliters. No lithium batteries, laptop chargers and power banks, no love, no light, no family, no safety.”
By: Alexandra Munck
Podcast read by: Claire McNerney
In this episode of the Strange Horizons Fiction podcast, Michael Ireland presents Sandrine by Alexandra Munck, read by Claire McNerney. Subscribe to the Strange Horizons podcast: Spotify
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