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I stole the torturer's tongue.
it's the first side of me some see
the first line you hear
first line of defense when I say
"See this long tongue illicitly acquired—
doesn't it suit me well?
hear these long words assiduously applied—
don't I wield them well?
wouldn't you be foolish if you tried to tackle me
in anything so complex as a kiss or a conversation?"
I stole the torturer's tongue!
hear this long tongue!
feel this long tongue!
this tongue sometimes my only tool
(not mine entirely, but what is?)
I was raised protectively of/as/by other people's property—
I got over that.
this tongue is yours too if you can take it.
I stole the torturer's tongue!
man wouldn't recognize this dancing, twining, retrained flesh
if it slapped upside the empty space in him head—
it will, it has; he'll pay for the pleasure.
watch him try an' claim as his own this long, strong old tongue's
new-remembered rhythms . . .
hear this long tongue!
fear this long tongue!
know this tall tale to be mine too, and I'll live or die by it.
I stole the torturer's tongue!




David C. Findlay is a thingmaker in music, visual art, text & other media. He is also a recovering Canadian who now resides with his main squeeze in Southern California. David still says "I'm sorry!" when people bump into him & spells "humour" wrong but is otherwise acclimatizing to his new home. His essays and poetry can be found in First Person Queer: Who We Are (So Far), Dark Matter: Reading the Bones, and The Best of Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet. "Stolen Song" first appeared in Nalo Hopkinson's Midnight Robber.
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
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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