Size / / /

A burst of tachyons signals another wave of

Time-traveling starships,

You gotta marvel, I mean, how cool is that,

But, we're working on that ourselves,

I think the Chinese are too;

Our guys in New Mexico

Sent a ground squirrel back a week

And it survived,

It lived almost the whole week, anyway,

So we're almost there, which I suppose is why

Now of all times, in the history of time,

They come, because next year might be too late.

Next year,

We'd be all over time,

And kick their trans-temporal heinies

Back to the middle of next week.

But they caught us pants down;

We know just enough to know

That they're slipping thru time like

A knife thru butter;

Their temporal wake really takes me back..

They ignore everything we have in orbit,

And they're jamming communications anyway,

Nuclear missiles won't launch,

Our fighters can't catch them,

They seem to know exactly what we're going to do,

They know our strengths and weaknesses,

And now they emerge from the flagship,

(all Buck Rogersy and very cool),

And, duh, of course they know,

They are our own children after all.




David C. Kopaska-Merkel won the 2006 Rhysling Award for a collaboration with Kendall Evans, edits Dreams & Nightmares magazine, and has edited Star*Line and several Rhysling anthologies. His poems have appeared in Asimov’s, Strange Horizons, and elsewhere. A collection, Some Disassembly Required, winner of the 2023 Elgin Award, is available from him at jopnquog@gmail.com.
Current Issue
22 Apr 2024

We’d been on holiday at the Shoon Sea only three days when the incident occurred. Dr. Gar had been staying there a few months for medical research and had urged me and my friend Shooshooey to visit.
...
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
Tu enfiles longuement la chemise des murs,/ tout comme d’autres le font avec la chemise de la mort.
The little monster was not born like a human child, yelling with cold and terror as he left his mother’s womb. He had come to life little by little, on the high, three-legged bench. When his eyes had opened, they met the eyes of the broad-shouldered sculptor, watching them tenderly.
Le petit monstre n’était pas né comme un enfant des hommes, criant de froid et de terreur au sortir du ventre maternel. Il avait pris vie peu à peu, sur la haute selle à trois pieds, et quand ses yeux s’étaient ouverts, ils avaient rencontré ceux du sculpteur aux larges épaules, qui le regardaient tendrement.
We're delighted to welcome Nat Paterson to the blog, to tell us more about his translation of Léopold Chauveau's story 'The Little Monster'/ 'Le Petit Monstre', which appears in our April 2024 issue.
Issue 15 Apr 2024
By: Ana Hurtado
Art by: delila
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By: Sammy Lê
Art by: Kim Hu
Issue 18 Mar 2024
Strange Horizons
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Issue 26 Feb 2024
Issue 19 Feb 2024
Issue 12 Feb 2024
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