Size / / /

Content warning:


Crimson blood. Midnight feathers. Small sacrifice.
Father tells me. Kill quickly. Before the air thickens.
Before the rotten arrives. Unable to find a landfowl,
a neighbor offered their supper: wild lizards.
When darkness dawned a black moon, talons
cavorted on their nipa roof. The youngest was taken.
Spirits came before us. Father reminds me. Pay
your dues. Bow your head.
Give way. Back down.
He says when you enter doors, declare, Tao po.
I am human. When you hear a knock, ask, Tao po?
Are you human? Be humble or lose yourself.
When we walk on rice puddles, we interchange
our left/right slippers & wear our clothes inside out.
This is the only way to safely pass. Under paddies,
eyes that flit in different directions. Bones
that contort into many forms. Skin eager to molt.
My father buried our youngest uncle after he turned
seven. He returned seventy. A woman took him
he said. Luminous skin. Kind eyes. Bright hair.
Invisible and in trance, he watched his siblings age,
his parents die. Small habit to remember. Father
teaches me. Same path to & from home. Won’t lose
your way with repetition. Decades later, the chained
dogs on every house corner are gone. Vines clasping
on barbed wire fences replaced by pillars & stones.
But spirits are never hindered by man-made walls.
Everywhere, I still leave pots of water. Each room
has salt. When scared, I wear a garlic necklace.
When alone, I bathe in coconut oil. The odor repels
the unwanted. The grease lets me slip away.



Mark Dimaisip is a Filipino writer from Manila. His works have appeared in The Brasilia Review, Cha, Human Parts, QLRS, Radon Journal, Strange Horizons and elsewhere. He was recognized by Oxford Brookes International Poetry Competition and has performed for poetry slams and literary festivals in Southeast Asia and Australia.
Current Issue
10 Feb 2025

The editors for the AfroSurrealism Special invite you to submit fiction, poetry, and nonfiction.
he curls his bicep into ever more and more and more bicep
Hush. He sees through / the static. Softly. It sees him back.
“Please also be reminded of the following prohibited items,” the clerk explains kindly. “No chemicals or toxic substances. No fluids over 1,000 milliliters. No lithium batteries, laptop chargers and power banks, no love, no light, no family, no safety.”
By: Alexandra Munck
Podcast read by: Claire McNerney
In this episode of the Strange Horizons Fiction podcast, Michael Ireland presents Sandrine by Alexandra Munck, read by Claire McNerney. Subscribe to the Strange Horizons podcast: Spotify
Issue 27 Jan 2025
By: River
Issue 20 Jan 2025
Strange Horizons
By: Michelle Kulwicki
Podcast read by: Emmie Christie
Issue 13 Jan 2025
Issue 6 Jan 2025
By: Samantha Murray
Podcast read by: Jenna Hanchey
Issue 23 Dec 2024
Issue 16 Dec 2024
Issue 9 Dec 2024
Issue 2 Dec 2024
By: E.M. Linden
Podcast read by: Jenna Hanchey
Issue 25 Nov 2024
Issue 18 Nov 2024
By: Susannah Rand
Podcast read by: Claire McNerney
Load More