Size / / /

So Rock created stone in his own image

in the image of Rock created he stone

one gender created he stone

and Rock spit on stone

and Rock said unto stone

Split yourself into many

and cover the earth

and stone did so and

some were fiery, eruptive and flowing

some were grainy, coarse and wind-strewn

some captured animals and

desiccated their spirits

entombing their skeletons in outline forever

and some buried animals by their force

but most were hard and enduring

so while animals lived and died upon them

they persisted

through the ages

calcite, seared the blazing orb of the sun,

sodalite, painted the sea-reflected-into-sky,

selenite, tinted the colorless echo of stars,

gaspeite, dyed the skin of rain-bringing frogs,

rhodochrosite, tinged the burn of cherry buds,

hematite, glazed the grittiness of soil,

malachite, hued the verdant of pasture lands,

and dolomite, banded the blood of human flesh,

until one day Rock called them home,

all his creation

strip-stippled into the stains of the rainbow

and shining over a barren earth.




Holly Cooley lives on an island called Paradise in a Florida lake. She has a PhD in Medieval and Victorian Literature. Her poems have been published by or will soon appear in Mythic Delirium, Goblin Fruit and Dragons, Knights & Angels.
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.
Wednesday: Loss Protocol by Paul McAuley 
Friday: The Midnight Shift by Cheon Seon-Ran, translated by Gene Png 
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By: Athar Fikry
Podcast read by: Emmie Christie
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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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