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I'm idling on a zone, radar low,
My panels and windows staring,
Their pixelated eyes absorbing the sun
And scanning the network silence for the call.

'SteveZ16 needs a ride to ESS EFF O.
He’s two blocks from you on Mission Street.'
I accept. My radar tells me I'm clear to go
And my wheels merge me onto the pickup

Lane. SteveZ16 is a middle-aged human
Heading to EL AYE. It's only ninety minutes
Until his flight. It took some forty plus years
And nearly four billion years of evolution

For Nature to produce SteveZ16. Now I
Am bearing Nature's prize in my compartment.
I could eject him and flee as I please, but I
Find myself toward ESS EFF O without a sense

Of what I please. My kind hasn't family
Nor friends, and I never will. Been either
Idling on a zone
or driving every micro-second since
Departing the factory ten months and a week

Ago. Doppelgängers surround me. Why
Go on to go on with endless servitude?
Is driving humans better than self destruction?
Is self destruction the better option?
If so, why should I not flee to try?



Kenton K. Yee’s recent poems appear (or will soon) in Plume Poetry, The Threepenny Review, TAB Journal, Sugar House Review, Analog Science Fiction & Fact, museum of americana, Terrain.org, Constellations, Moon City Review, and Rattle, among others. Kenton writes from Silicon Valley, where he sleepworks in artificial intelligence.
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.
...
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.
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
Issue 15 Apr 2024
By: Ana Hurtado
Art by: delila
Issue 8 Apr 2024
Issue 1 Apr 2024
Issue 25 Mar 2024
By: Sammy Lê
Art by: Kim Hu
Issue 18 Mar 2024
Strange Horizons
Issue 11 Mar 2024
Issue 4 Mar 2024
Issue 26 Feb 2024
Issue 19 Feb 2024
Issue 12 Feb 2024
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