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little sisters belong beneath crowns,
by nature; the golden age of
gone traditions swept away at last
by an emerald sea. their birthright: to live
under an infinite eclipse, tiara of sunbeads,
scepter of starlight; as a stargazer,
i would trade anything to bathe forever
beneath such a glow but i think the princesses
are sick of constellations by now. it is easy
to take for granted everything
you have ever known. it is easy
to take for granted the taste of favor,
a remedy tucked under your tongue
for as long as you’ve ever fallen ill;
remember: when you were young
sometimes you craved the taste of
medicine because it was the closest thing
you came to candy. remember:
she used to be afraid
of the monster underneath her covers
so you held her all night to protect her.
remember: she is grown.
remember: she has forgotten
the night she fell asleep in your arms, but
remember: once she had a dream about it
and woke up wishing it was real.
remember: a shepherdess
doesn’t miss the stars until she’s
in the city, a princess doesn’t miss
law until she is left to roam free;
city girls, remember this:
the metropolis is a labyrinth of serpents
and ghouls. there are still monsters
out there. don’t become one.
remember: the most fearsome type of monster
is the type of monster who you used to love.



Caroline Dinh is a comp sci student who writes sometimes. She is the founder of Backslash Lit and has work published or forthcoming in Flash Point SF, Ample Remains, and Pollux Journal.
Current Issue
18 May 2026

Maybe we overestimated ourselves, I thought, watching the ferries hum against the wine-dark sea. Even if we floated above it, we were still bound to the ocean, engulfed in all its weight and inescapable history. To believe otherwise was a kind of hubris. But we had believed otherwise anyway, and so each of us had become something smaller, less human, suspended in a brittle net of want and memory. And then she appeared. At the wrong time, in the wrong place. My Scylla, my monstress, my deathless siren of anglerfish light. Longing, in that empty, unmoving ocean, for things that had not existed for centuries. How could anyone blame her? The only alternative was to grieve. 
My grandmother slit my father’s bones and let them fly with yeast.
the nightingale was caught in a net / and brought to a lab for further study.
Friday: The Midnight Shift by Cheon Seon-Ran, translated by Gene Png 
Issue 11 May 2026
Issue 4 May 2026
Issue 20 Apr 2026
By: Athar Fikry
Podcast read by: Emmie Christie
Issue 13 Apr 2026
Issue 6 Apr 2026
Issue 30 Mar 2026
Issue 23 Mar 2026
Issue 16 Mar 2026
Issue 9 Mar 2026
By: Lio Abendan
Podcast read by: Jenna Hanchey
Strange Horizons
2 Mar 2026
Strange Horizons invites non-fiction submissions for our March 30 special issue on “Fungi in SFF.”
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