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I am told: die twice,
first when I die
and again the last time my name is said,
as if I wouldn’t wish to get all my deaths
over with at once instead of waiting in dirt
for grandchildren to pass, and what
when some futuristic high schooler
looking for sources for his paper
on the colloquialisms of a bygone era
comes across my personal Twitter:
resurrection?
As if words are so powerful,
as if vibrations of my spoken name
can travel through earth to my buried body,
a defibrillator for my heart,
my second heart, my hidden heart,
whose BPM is calculated
by the number of times my name is said
to the power of those that hear it,
all the power is with those that hear it.
Would I be able to at least hear what they say,
or just lie in silence, having to trust
that the living built my tomb walls strong enough
to keep me safe from my past and its interpretations.
Really,
I fear being alive
and alone,
my name forgotten by man
years before it’s ready for headstone.
Would I begin to rot where I stood? Left to wander,
maybe through forests and empty lands but eventually
into crowds of the loved and hated, the known,
who would surely notice me, the living monster of melting flesh,
a monster, funnily enough, who’s not easy to forget.
The legends and fright and folk songs
would revive my second heart with new legacy,
but a legacy of nightmares and worm-eaten eyes,
the rotting girl who came surely to consume us.
Even the power of that legacy
would not restore my fallen body,
only tie me in this zombie form
to a world that will not let die.



Brianne Kerr is a writer of many things, but likes to keep at least one foot in the ponds of weird or funny at all times. You can find her on Twitter @typingwithstyle.
Current Issue
18 Mar 2024

Strange Horizons
We are very happy to welcome Dante Luiz as a new fiction editor on the team! Dante is a Ignyte Award winning author, and has been with Strange Horizons working as an Art Director for the past several years. We’re stoked to bring him on to the fiction side and have him bring his wonderful insight and skill to the fiction team.
Day in and day out, the rough waters of the Pacific slam themselves against the protrusion of sandstone the locals refer to as Morro Rock. White streaks of bird shit bleed down the rock, a testament to the rare birds of prey that nest in its pocked face overlooking the bay.
in my defence, juggling biological and artificial, i tripped over my shoelace, and spilled my lungs empty of the innocence that was, before guilt.
the birds, / who carry with them / the many names of the dead
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