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They came in uniforms to protect themselves from damp days: raincoats hunched over their shoulders, flat-caps, curls hidden under patterned scarves. Every morning they turned up, hungry for a bunch of bananas, a pound of satsumas, or a bag of potatoes to roast, boil, or steam. She was suited in trousers—rose silk. She was sheltered by a cream mac, golf-umbrella, leather gloves. I had my red apron on. The rain popped beads on my forehead. Her look was completed with thick face-powder, red lipstick, and layered mascara. My regulars were made-up with crows-feet, pimples, and laughter lines. Those apples were fresh in that day. But she wouldn’t buy a pound, nor half a pound, not even a quarter. She picked up one. Single. Apple. She stroked it like you would a new lover’s cheek. It was the reddest of them all. It was the biggest, the roundest, and the juiciest. I felt robbed.



Claire Smith’s poetry has recently appeared in Ink, Sweat & Tears, Riddled with Arrows, and Spectral Realms. She is studying for a PhD at the University of Gloucestershire. Find her on Instagram @clairesdivingfornightmares, Facebook @divingfornightmares, and at http://www.divingfornightmares.co.uk/. She lives in Gloucestershire with her husband and their spoilt Tonkinese cat.
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
Wednesday: Overlap: The Lives of a Former Time Jumper by N. Joseph Glass 
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