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Behind coded invitations,

long night journeys,

country house gatherings

of like-minded men—

behind the fear of women,

banishment of servants,

locked doors, shuttered windows,

guards to ward off spies—

behind cloaks, hoods,

symbols scrawled on vellum,

books of lore and learning,

circles of protection—

behind scrying-glass,

crystal, speculum,

the lighting of a candle

and the speaking of a name—

you never know.

That is the truth of every incantation.

You never know

what will come to the flame.




Tim Jones lives in Wellington, New Zealand. His first collection of fiction, Extreme Weather Events, was published in 2001, and poetry collection Boat People followed in 2002. With Mark Pirie, he is currently editing an anthology of New Zealand science fiction poetry. For more about him and his work, see his website.
Current Issue
3 Aug 2026

I had a daughter and then I didn’t. I woke in the cradle of midnight, shivering from a supernatural cold. I thought at first that she was crying, that she had woken me, like so many midnights before. But there was silence all around me. I sat up on one arm and peered into her crib. She was gone. In her place was wrapped a sallow, horned little boy. His eyes blinked open. I look at him. He looked at me. Changeling, I thought. Then he started to scream. “Why weren’t the windows
The deads are punctual. They arrive exactly when there is nothing left to distract us.
survival is a fungus
In this episode of Critical Friends, the Strange Horizons SFF criticism podcast, Amritesh Mukherjee and Abigail Nussbaum join Dan Hartland to talk about literary awards.
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