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I'm idling on a zone, radar low,
My panels and windows staring,
Their pixelated eyes absorbing the sun
And scanning the network silence for the call.

'SteveZ16 needs a ride to ESS EFF O.
He’s two blocks from you on Mission Street.'
I accept. My radar tells me I'm clear to go
And my wheels merge me onto the pickup

Lane. SteveZ16 is a middle-aged human
Heading to EL AYE. It's only ninety minutes
Until his flight. It took some forty plus years
And nearly four billion years of evolution

For Nature to produce SteveZ16. Now I
Am bearing Nature's prize in my compartment.
I could eject him and flee as I please, but I
Find myself toward ESS EFF O without a sense

Of what I please. My kind hasn't family
Nor friends, and I never will. Been either
Idling on a zone
or driving every micro-second since
Departing the factory ten months and a week

Ago. Doppelgängers surround me. Why
Go on to go on with endless servitude?
Is driving humans better than self destruction?
Is self destruction the better option?
If so, why should I not flee to try?



Kenton K. Yee’s recent poems appear (or will soon) in Plume Poetry, The Threepenny Review, TAB Journal, Sugar House Review, Analog Science Fiction & Fact, museum of americana, Terrain.org, Constellations, Moon City Review, and Rattle, among others. Kenton writes from Silicon Valley, where he sleepworks in artificial intelligence.
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 
Issue 11 May 2026
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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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