When I met the young Mr Turing, I had not yet ascended as Autumn’s King. Nowadays it has become fashionable for the sons and daughters of the lesser fey gentry to improve their position in the shifting hierarchy of the Courts by virtue of intrigue, scandal, and the naked blade; but in those times, it was the custom to advance one’s position through the collection of human bagatelles.
“Well,” replied Nikki and bit down on a roasted cherry tomato. “I’m working on this one project. But it’s not for the faint of heart.”
“Ominous,” Oliver said. “About what?”
“It’s a series of interviews. About people who cohabit with their ghosts.”
No one wants to see dead animals. They’re a reminder of the things that matter but not enough. The silent beaks, the red-stained feathers, are accusation—You chose this—and they are right.
You saw her for the first time at your front door, like she wanted to sell you something or convert you. She had light hair and dark eyes, and she was wearing fatigues, which was the only way you knew that your panicked prayers of the last few minutes had not come true. “Don’t freak out,” she said. “I’m you. From—uh, let’s just say from the future. Can I come inside?”
This story is about fridge drawings and photo albums and vinyl records and video game consoles and sewing machines and reading nooks and koi ponds and board games and polished rocks
In this episode of the Strange Horizons Fiction podcast, Kat Kourbeti reads Premee Mohamed's Hugo Finalist Novelette 'By Salt, By Sea, By Light of Stars'.
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The formula for how to end the world got published the same day I married the girl who used to bully me in middle school. We found out about it the morning after, on the first day of our honeymoon in Cozumel. I got out of the shower in our small bungalow and Minju was sitting in bed, staring at her laptop.
