Size / / /

The boy and his father

were deep sea fishing;

the small boy, cutting bait.

Suddenly, a monstrous shark

rose halfway out of the water next to the boat

and swallowed the boy whole.

Inside the shark,

knife still in hand,

even in the dark the boy knew what to do.

He cut the soul out of the shark.

Immediately, the sky opened with teeth

and the boy escaped the darkness

unscathed.

Still, something hard

escaped with the boy.

He was, as always, himself to the eye,

but the hearts of those who knew him

caught other glimpses.

At the beach, when he swam in the sea,

he moved swiftly

with a sort of deadly determination

that drove others to the shore.

While friends swam to the wooden platform

and rested there in the sun, laughing,

he drove on past

and further and further into the sea.

One day,

a friend, looking west from the platform,

saw a giant white form

rise in front of the distant swimmer,

come down like sea spray over the boy,

and then both the boy and vision were gone,

replaced by a dark fin

cutting out to sea.




Cathy Ackerson’s poetry has appeared in venues including Caprice, The Dragonfly, Out of Sight, and the anthologies But Is It Poetry? and Poets West. Her artwork has appeared in several publications from Dragonfly Press including Rocket Candy.
Duane Ackerson's poetry has appeared in Rolling Stone, Yankee, Prairie Schooner, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, Cloudbank, alba, Starline, Dreams & Nightmares, and several hundred other places. He has won two Rhysling awards and a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. He lives in Salem, Oregon. You can find more of his work in our archives.
Current Issue
16 Mar 2026

The garden is the resting place of your vulnerabilities; there’s a reason you’ve left them here instead of carrying them with you. Typically you enter hardened and hurried, beelining straight for the correct plot and quickly releasing whatever is clutched in your hand without a second thought—today, an attempted weaving of leather and lace, strength and suppleness that your body cannot figure out how to wear, nor your words to narrate.
If you say there are rats, I will believe you, though I don’t hear or see them.
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Spec Fic and the Politics of Identity 
As part of a collective of African writers who have created an Afrocentric Sauútiverse of five planets, two suns and a spirit moon, a world of science and fantasy, where there is no written language, we play with technology and sound magic to scrutinise the world as we know it, and use speculative fiction as a response to our world. 
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Strange Horizons invites non-fiction submissions for our March 30 special issue on “Fungi in SFF.”
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