Size / / /

// Mark had told us without
any stress that it
was what he wanted
to do. We'd thought
he wanted government
work. “Not anymore.
It’s a postsalary world.
Posthuman, kind of.”
34 lines later,
the conversation was
over.

// Roger and I'd went into the
auxiliary backyard,
with the holographic panda,
Mark’s elementary school
playmate. We switched
it on, and it was
real. It had fur and large eyes.
Roger'd hoped Mark
was with the panda, somewhere else,
but I told him
that was ridiculous.

// My son became a
website effective
yesterday without our
consent since he was
18 and could decide
these things now.
A new search engine.
I supposed that was
fine, and his father supposed
too. It was no surprise: We
raised him through an EMP
conflict in the Southwest; he
loved wearing his audio suit
at five years old; he
took a semester in Piet
at seven, in the state directive.
I’m not even sure how many
languages he'd known before.
Now we have his ashes
in a silicon jar.

// There's a wall device
that lets you download
web apps for your
home. markmywords.com
had a sale today. I'd purchased
my son, which came up
on the living room projector.
Roger was in
the auxiliary backyard
with the panda.
I looked at my son,
which was a cartoon.
"What would you like to
know?" it asked me.




Alex Grover is a graduate assistant at Pace University. He writes odd little articles for Quirk Books and tweets constant insanity. Sometimes he even remembers to breathe. For  updates on his current projects, visit www.alexpgrover.com.
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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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