41.1 Winter 2018 $5.00

Galactic Poet by Akua Lezli Hope Table of Contents 05 Wyrms & Wormholes • Vince Gotera 07 SFPA Announcements 13 President’s Message • Bryan Thao Worra 19 From the Small Press • Herb Kauderer 25 Stealth SF: In Transparent Petropolis • Denise Dumars Poetry 03 How Assumption Defeated the Unisex Invaders • Ken Poyner • Tree of Swords • Deborah L. Davitt 04 [distinct clang] • Christina Sng • Failing Masterpiece • Bruce Boston 05 Trying NOT to Make a Sound • Lauren McBride • Filling Out Forms • Melanie Stormm 06 The Timeport Stops • David Barber • [the new models] • dan smith 07 [Murdering invisible man] • Matthew Wilson • [time travel lodging] • LeRoy Gorman 08 End of Fairy Tales • Matthew Wilson • If You Would Seek a Seeress • Rebecca Buchanan • [endless loop] • Greg Schwartz • [afraid] • Angelo B. Ancheta • [whiskey tasting] • LeRoy Gorman 09 Nightmare on Elm Street • Frank De Canio 10 The Seraph and the Six of Swords • Mindy Watson • White-Nose Syndrome • Robert Borski 11 Dar Lugal • Deborah L. Davitt 12 New Planet Landscape 7 • Ken Poyner • [writer by day] • LeRoy Gorman • Nightshade • Steven Wittenberg Gordon 14 Golden-Red Sunrise with Sea Monsters • Kendall Evans 15 My Pet Cthulhu • Josh Brown 16 memory • Brittany Hause • Interplanetary Poet • John Grey • [dark smoke] • Roxanne Barbour • Changeling • David C. Kopaska-Merkel 17 Hot on fhe Trail of Martians • Donald Raymond • Honoring the War God • Deborah L. Davitt 18 Ship Down • Vonnie Winslow Crist • [galaxy birth] • Roxanne Barbour • [Rustless metal shell] • Brian Garrison 20 Contest at Olympus Mons • Matthew Wilson • [communications satellites] • Roxanne Barbour • Notes of a Rebel Princess to Herself • Maya Chhabra 21 The Golden Cloak • Marge Simon 22 Song of Shadows • Casey Clabough • After Ash •Jan Steckel 23 The City Was Missing • Salik Shah • 24 Green Men Don’t Talk • Sara Backer • A Progressive Reader Sighs in a Barnes and Noble New Release Bay • Richaundra Thursday 28 Gilgamesh Tomb Found in Iraq • Michael Kriesel • Clock Flies • John Caulkins 29 His Seed • Akua Lezli Hope • New Stars • David C. Kopaska-Merkel 30 dogsledding • Brittany Hause • Track 60 • Benjamin Schmitt • [en route] • Angelo B. Ancheta • [outside the chicken joint] • Greg Schwartz 31 The Stars Sing • Beth Cato 32 Venusian Arachnoids • David F. Shultz • Keep On Till Morning • David C. Kopaska-Merkel 33 Universal Immigrants • Ann K. Schwader • Vipers • Efren L. Cruzada 34 On Hunting Werewolves • K. S. Patterson • Shovel • Sara Backer 35 Schrödinger Is Considered for Publication • David Barber 36 [at the center] • Tamara K. Walker • Animatronic Aliens • David C. Kopaska-Merkel • Haetae Moon • Jessica Jo Horowitz 37 Black Hole Haberdashery • Sandra J. Lindow • [microgravity peculiarities] • Roxanne Barbour • [out damned spot] • dan smith • [zombie apocalypse] • Greg Schwartz • [flickering flame] Christina• Sng 38 Thor at the Skateboard Park • Gary Every • The Nostalgic Time Traveler •John Richard Trtek 39 In the Folklore of Brain Worms • Richard Weaver • Everything started with the Big Bang, they say • Juanjo Bazán 40 safari • Brittany Hause • An Indigo Sheath • Nora Weston 41 Cinderella Continued • Kathleen A. Lawrence • Tupilak in Failed Séance • Joshua Gage 42 XenoPoetry: Japanese Tanka • Hiroyasu Amase (translated by Natsumi Ando) 43 Eloise • Robert Borski Back [lost stick insect] • Tamara K. Walker • [pancake-shaped disk] • Roxanne Barbour • How It Pleasured Me • Akua Lezli Hope Art 15 Superkitty vs. Octopus • Jack Foo Front Galactic Poet • Akua Lezli Hope 21 The Golden Cloak • Marge Simon 11 into the Light • Christina Sng 23 Stilt Runner • Denny E. Marshall

Star*Line 2 Winter 2018 How Assumption Defeated the Unisex Invaders

We had been pushed out of Asia. The armies of Somewhere Near Orion’s Belt Were lugubrious and tasteless, But essentially unbeatable, taking Our best and doing better. From their landings in China They had rolled unconcerned forward, Silent as a guilty nine-year-old child, As unaware of our proclivities as one Might expect any inter-galactic bully to be. Our stand at the Urals Was to be grand and as glorious As a Thanksgiving Day parade, And an unexpected success, though Only in the planners’ eyes. Every soldier and refugee civilian Knew the length of our lives would be Resistance, and we would resist As otherwise there would be extinction. But then, in some ways unknown, And still the subject of martial supposition, Stellar events aligned, struck a species Specific mathematics and informed Their biology it was time: and each Stopped and elegantly, slowly, began To divide.

I only imagine they thought that we would do the same. Our quickness in their interval kept us proud, and alive.

—Ken Poyner

Tree of Swords

The tree stood, gnarled and contorted, just below the barren snowline, perched precariously between boulders split by its ancient, knotted roots.

Wind howled down from the glacial peak, knife-keen and cruel; the sun

Star*Line 3 Winter 2018 reflected from the snow, pain-bright; clouds scudded the blue horizon, indifferent.

Pinned to the ancient tree, a man hung, naked, pierced by seven swords, run through at shoulders, arms, legs and groin; his blood had frozen in red icicles connecting him to the ground.

As black-winged crows landed on the branches above and beside him he somehow lifted his head to regard the ravens who’d arrived at the banquet of his life through dim and dying eyes.

“Take what you will,” he whispered, racked. “The table is set, the cutlery provided. You need only feast, and when my life is spent, winter will finally end.”

The crows moved to their feast as indifferent as the clouds and the sun, but when they’d torn out his eyes distinct clang and his entrails, a warm wind of the dinner bowl from the south drove them away. Pavlov’s cat

The blood-ice began to melt, —Christina Sng then the glacier above, filling empty creekbeds with snowmelt, and for the first time in millennia, the ancient tree bloomed in spite of the swords that had pierced even to its wizened heart. And in autumn, it yielded fruit.

—Deborah L. Davitt Failing Masterpiece

The author of the world has far too many plots going on.

—Bruce Boston

Star*Line 4 Winter 2018 Wyrms & Wormholes Greetings, all! To those of you in the northern half of Terra, I hope you are staying warm. And to those in the antipodes, in the southern hemisphere, stay cool! And to those of us on other planets or in other dimensions, I hope you stay well: cool or warm, as you wish. Speaking of cool, Bryan Thao Worra will tell you about something very cool in his president’s message later in this issue: the SFPA’s 40th anniversary. Here at Star*Line we are celebrating the 40th by featuring cover artists who are also poets. Our cover artist this time is Akua Lezli Hope, who also has poetry in this issue. I asked Akua in particular to celebrate as well Black History Month (February in the U.S.). We actually began this in the previous issue: we honored Native American Heritage Month (November in the U.S.) with cover art by Yaqui poet Anita Endrezze. About the poetry this time, you’ll see some formal poems: a pantoum and a cascade by Deborah L. Davitt, a rondeau redoublé by Mindy Watson, gwawdodyn by Stephen Wittenberg Gordon, sonnets by Frank De Canio and Ann K. Schwader, a limerick by Lauren McBride, a fib by David C. Kopaska-Merkel, a spiraling abecedarian by Kathleen A. Lawrence, and a double abecedarian by Michael Kriesel: the first letter and last letter of line 1 are A, then line 2 begins and ends with B, and so on, using sometimes sound rather than letter on both ends . . . very interesting how Mike makes both ends of the Q line work. But even cooler, dig this: Mike’s abecedarian is in decasyllabics—each line has ten syllables! To you poets, keep writing wonderful poems and send them to Star*Line. To everyone, I hope you enjoy the poems in this issue. And stay warm. Or

cool. But happy. Happy New Year, and happy 40th! Cheers! —Vince Gotera, Star*Line editor

Trying NOT to Make a Sound Filling Out Forms

’Twas blue, not brown; oval, not round— Race (check one): the massive dragon egg we found.  White Our mission flopped  Gryphon when it kerplopped,  Other (please explain): cracking not the egg but the ground. ______

—Lauren McBride Ethnicity:  Hispanic  Non-Hispanic

—Melanie Stormm

Star*Line 5 Winter 2018 The Timeport Stops

When some causal anomaly breaks the spell, logic snaps the Timeport shut, spilling wary travellers into the here and now, like this one, imperious in white thaub and sandals, with the face of an angel, returning to some far-off age after settling a debate—was theReanimator Jesus just a meddler from uptime?—by simply visiting the tomb.

The androgyne appears not to mind the circling TV crews, greedy for scraps from tomorrow. . . . I had rolled the stone aside when peasant women came and peeked into the tomb . . . but white noise brusquely stops us knowing what the future knows.

In years to come is this how our little tales are lost? Millions believed; isn’t that enough? must it also be true?

They envy your Age, confides our Clarke box afterwards. For its innocence. Tests have proved these boxes empty, that somehow we are being tricked.

Travellers are stirring, the Timeport rumoured to believe in itself again. Later, we find a souvenir left behind. The thorn plant

Euphorbia, found in the Middle East since Bible times, whose pliable stems can be twined into a circle or a crown.

—David Barber the new models already self aware play with their chargers

—dan smith

Star*Line 6 Winter 2018 SFPA Announcements

SFPA Grand Master Nominations

Nominations for SFPA Grand Master are currently being accepted. Please email nominations to SFPA president Bryan Thao Worra at [email protected].

SFPA Positions

A. J. Odasso has announced a need to step down as Treasurer in 2018. We are thankful for her service. The SFPA is now seeking candidates to assume this duty. The role requires some financial experience and participation in monthly officer’s meetings and weekly discussions. Per the SFPA Constitution: “The Treasurer will maintain all bank accounts and financial records of the Association, will issue payment for material to be published in the Newsletter (i.e., Star*Line) upon the direction of the Editor, will issue payment for other obligations of the Association at the direction of the President, and will report to the membership on the current financial status of the Association, via the Newsletter, at regular intervals to be established by the President. The treasurer is third in line of succession to the presidency after the secretary.” Interested parties should contact SFPA Secretary Renee Ya at [email protected]. Deborah Kolodji will be our 2018 Dwarf Stars Editor. Josh Brown is returning as our 2018 Elgin Awards Chair. Linda D. Addison will be our 2018 Rhysling Awards Chair. We are still in need of a 2018 Contest Chair. Please email Bryan Thao Worra at [email protected] if interested.

Murdering invisible man time travel lodging in the clear yesterday’s paper until the snow falls. is complimentary

—Matthew Wilson —LeRoy Gorman

Star*Line 7 Winter 2018 End of Fairy Tales If You Would Seek a Seeress

For sale: Glass slipper You will find my grave sale ends 11:59pm before the gates of Hel, speedy buyer preferred. across the bridge of blades, at the end of the iron road —Matthew Wilson that bends and twists through the nine worlds like a sharp-toothed snake.

Bring honey, a black lamb, a handful of seeds —any seeds will do— and an iron wand bound in brass. endless loop the robot dog When you find my grave chases its tail —it will not be marked— kill the lamb, skin the corpse, —Greg Schwartz wrap the wand and seeds in the soft black wool, dig a hole at my feet, and place the bundle inside.

Pour the honey, and call me. afraid of the sun If I am pleased, I wear or bored, a new pair or curious, of eyes I will come.

—Angelo B. Ancheta Do not run.

Ask your question with respect.

(It must be important to you, to have taken such a journey down the iron road. whiskey tasting the cannibal insists on It is not important to me.) three fingers up If I am pleased, —LeRoy Gorman or bored, or curious, I may answer.

Star*Line 8 Winter 2018 You may be satisfied with what I have to say, or disappointed, or angry.

That is no concern of mine.

I will take the iron wand bound in brass and the soft black wool and the seeds and the honey, and return to the feasting halls of Hel.

I will drink and sing with the dead as we wait for the wolves to eat the sun and the moon, for the nine worlds to succumb to fire and ice, for the tree to fall at last.

And in the ash and the mud and the bones your seeds will grow.

—Rebecca Buchanan

Nightmare on Elm Street

It seems that Freddie Krueger met his match when stalking Nancy Thompson for a fight. Averse to being snatched, she’s poised to catch this culprit of her adolescent plight. No gender trappings curb her agency as she sets booby-traps to bag him in her room from his post-mortem vagrancy. Nor do they thwart her aptitude to pin him down before he wrests himself away from this disgruntled reservoir of pluck. Indeed, she’s clearly equal to the fray. And even as her fury leaves the schmuck subdued, she basks with sun-drenched showmanship, and just a wisp of shadow on her lip.

—Frank De Canio

Star*Line 9 Winter 2018 The Seraph and the Six of Swords (a rondeau redoublé)

My seraph, enter. Here’s the deck you bade Me fly beyond the Gates to fetch. We’ll kneel Beneath this verdant tree’s unstinting shade, Unearthing all your heart desires. Let’s deal.

I’ve drawn your future card. Does this reveal Some truth to you: this Six of Swords I’ve played That paints a boatman on a blade-pierced keel? My seraph, enter. Here’s the deck you bade

Me burnish to a shine. You’ve always stayed Our cosmic course, but now you wish to steal Away by sea upon this ship you’ve made Me fly beyond the Gates to fetch? We’ll kneel

Beseechingly before His judgment’s steel For this infraction. Think before you trade Celestial wings for shawl. Return to heel Beneath this verdant tree’s unstinting shade.

What’s that? This passenger, the mortal maid Our card depicts, denotes your soul’s ideal? And tedium’s degraded our crusade, Unearthing all your heart desires? Let’s deal

Then with the Throne when need decrees. Conceal Your downcast head; pin back your wings arrayed In fear. I’ll steer this vessel’s rigid wheel And whisper, when we reach the port portrayed, “My seraph, enter.”

—Mindy Watson White-Nose Syndrome

Coked-up vampires, failing to heed smartwatch alarm,

dissolve like snow in the nosebleed colors of dawn.

—Robert Borski

Star*Line 10 Winter 2018 Into the Light by Christina Sng

Dar Lugal

When the freighter Dar Lugal went missing thirty souls were said to be aboard; then a frantic call on the subspace band, declaring all the crew was dead, save one.

Its sister ship, Ninti, responded first, crossed vacuum at superluminary speeds, but found the ship adrift, her crew dead, when the freighter Dar Lugal went missing.

They found them at tables in the mess, or drifting motionless in air, mummified by dry air—faces locked in rictus screams. Thirty souls were said to be aboard, but the Ninti’s crew counted thirty-one, before the first suit failed, gaskets leaking, unsealed by some unknown chemical brew. Then a frantic call on the subspace band, as all the sailors abandoned the ship. TheDar Lugal’s log claimed the crew had found an empty lifepod before the message declaring all the crew was dead save one.

TheNinti ’s crew dared not to board once more; leaving there, instead, a warning buoy— “An unknown hazardous contaminant has claimed the lives of all the crew . . . plus one.”

—Deborah L. Davitt

Star*Line 11 Winter 2018 New Planet Landscape 7

Collect too many fiberoles And you will not make it back. Somehow they know. Overburdened, The predators overtake you. They break Into your stash of fiberoles And consume every waxing and waning one of them. Leaving you the nothing you came with.

I have seen a fiberole after it has passed through their digestion: It makes a dreadfully discordant music, The loss that it is, the gain it could have been, Though its unstable mix of colors is not unpleasant.

—Ken Poyner writer by day werewolf by night my elemental shift from clause to claws

—Leroy Gorman Nightshade (gwawdodyn)

He flew on the back of a sparrow O’er mountain and cwm and brown barrow Brave son of Maeve he coursed over the grave Of she of fair face and waist narrow.

Her dragonfly wings were stained and torn When he found her corpse that cold fall morn Dimmed was the light of her eyes once so bright Gone were the blooms her head once had borne.

Down he flew to the tall grassy field Found the moonstone where her tomb was sealed Fresh blooms he set—beauty not faded yet— And drew his dirk with poison fast steeled.

Deep in his heart he sank the sharp blade Fulfilling the dark vow he had made Black poisoned blood filled the grave like a flood And up sprang the first deadly nightshade.

—Steven Wittenberg Gordon

Star*Line 12 Winter 2018 President’s Message

Happy New Year and welcome to the 40th anniversary of the SFPA! This is a year I have great expectations for, one marked by great creativity and inspiration. Last year was one marked by very unique changes in society, and many amazing discoveries, and I expect 2018 will also be filled with many such opportunities. We held our first official SFPA reading of the year on January 10th at the Mojo Coffee Gallery in Minneapolis with over a dozen poets, and we have readings and events scheduled already at several conventions including WisCon and Diversicon, where we will be announcing the 2018 Rhysling Award Winners. The Rhysling Award nominations are now open, and we thank acclaimed poet Linda D. Addison for agreeing to serve as this year’s chair. The wonderful Deborah P. Kolodji will be returning to us this year as the chair of the 2018 Dwarf Star Awards. We thank Sandra J. Lindow and Shannon Connor Winward for their service as SFPA Vice-President and Secretary respectively, and welcome our new officers, Vice-President F. J. Bergmann of Wisconsin and Secretary Renee Ya of California. I also thank all of our diverse members who put their names forward as candidates for these positions, and I look forward to everyone’s continued involvement as we grow and expand speculative poetry for everyone. Thanks to all of you, our first full year of the SpecPo blog went wonder- fully, with some amazing interviews, news and reports from our members around the world. We look forward to continuing this blog and we’re always looking for additional writers and artists. For 2018, our Eye to the Telescope themes will be Arthuriana; Time; Found Poetry; and Witches. I thank Adele Gardner, Holly Lyn Walrath, E. Kristin Anderson and Ashley Dioses for volunteering as the guest editor for these challenging themed topics. In 2017 we marked the first international Speculative Poetry Day in November, and we saw Tracy K. Smith appointed as the US Poet Laureate. We saw the release of some exceptional books of poetry that will no doubt be nominated for the Elgin Awards this year, and some tremendously ambitious poems in both mainstream and genre publications. My congrat- ulations to all of you on your successful publication, and best wishes for continued inspiration. We are also looking for nominees for the 2018 SFPA Grand Master. If you have any candidates in mind, please contact me at [email protected]. Friends, 40 years is a long time for any community, and it wouldn’t be possible without you. Your creativity, your energy, your endless ideas have helped to keep the SFPA a visionary and lively organization, and we are honored to have your support. Here’s to all that has been and everything that is yet ahead! Reach for the stars! —Bryan Thao Worra —SFPA President ([email protected])

Star*Line 13 Winter 2018 Golden-Red Sunrise with Sea Monsters

Bright rays spilled thru tattered horizon clouds: A cinnabar sunrise with sea monsters Frolicking off port of The Flying Dragon Mating violently with thunderous cries Spewing eggs, translucent blue, into the sea

Ching Shih, commander of the Red Flag Fleet Watched along with pirates at the rail; The sea monsters, thus occupied, no threat To any of her fleet ships sailing past— After mating, the monsters merely drowsed

Clear weather, yet her mind was lost in fog Exhaustion made her every thought unclear Long pony tail lashing, she shook her head Attempting to shake off this lethargy Perhaps some breakfast and rice wine would help

Trudging to the comfort of her cabin Shih forced herself to walk without a limp A late morning drowse might be in order Some rest would help with her recovery— There were sore bruises on her arms and legs

A shallow, stinging blade-cut on her thigh Her sword arm ached from heavy sabre’s weight Her left eye purple-swollen from a blow— Quite the fight, yesterday, in choppy weather When they attacked a Spanish cargo ship

Along the way, she stopped by the galley Zau Ming, the cook, scooped food into her bowl; Ching accepted his deferential bow— Shih was merely going thru these motions Incompletely connected to the world

Shih paused to give some orders to Shen Dho Who oft stood watch while Ching Shih was absent; Her eyes surveyed the sails, the ship itself The dragon figurehead; all was in order— Entering her cabin, Shih closed the door

Star*Line 14 Winter 2018 Yesterday’s sea battles had fatigued her She ate her morning’s fish and rice wearily— Although Ching Shih might be a sorceress Her task was a human task, shared by all: To bring this day to life within her mind

—Kendall Evans

Superkitty vs. Octopus by Jack Foo (11 years old)

My Pet Cthulhu

I took Suzie to the pet store. She walked past the fish, hamsters, and the birds. She didn’t even look at the kittens! But then she saw the little Cthulhu. “Dad, I love him,” she said. She batted her eyelashes at me. How could I say no to my princess who loved the little Cthulhu? We brought him home. Suzie cuddled with him, and broke out in pus-filled hives. My wife went completely insane, and is now catatonic. What could I do? I told Suzie, “Sorry honey, but Cthulhu make terrible pets.” Cthulhu went back to the store.

—Josh Brown

Star*Line 15 Winter 2018 memory Interplanetary Poet my little niece skips I was tortured on Perisypihilis, from puddle to puddle my skin pierced by fiery tong-needles. rubber boots And, on Zapheron, disrupting the reflections the evil Chinchpin of copper-plated airships nailed me to a wall for days.

—Brittany Hause My only crime was to describe a flower in terms antithetical to its scientific detail using the tools of my idyllic trade like metaphor and simile, rhythm and iambic pentameter. dark smoke But, on Ysplatta, smothering the rulers threatened me underground skin pods with acute finger stretching. And, on Michonderanta IV, —Roxanne Barbour I barely escaped being eaten alive in a snake pit.

You may wonder why I don’t return to Earth, where I can do my work unhindered and unnoticed.

On these other worlds, the populace read the stuff I write. I sell books. I attract crowds. And I make the political class uneasy.

Changeling On Earth, I’m persecuted by anonymity. you How excruciating is that. ain’t foolin’ —John Grey nobody with these pointy ears snaggle teeth and greenish-gray skin sash raised up and cradle still rockin’: bring back my child!

—David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Star*Line 16 Winter 2018 Hot on the Trail of Martians

They must have left some trace of themselves in some incunabulum, lost in libraries ten stacks deep, before the dream of rockets stained the stones blacker than coal smoke, even— some clue he must have found, among the clockwork stars so cold and close he could count the craters on the moon. When the Red Ones went, beyond Barsoom, its names and moons meaning more than lifeless vacuum, down history’s sidereal halls, where orreries of cosmic fantasy sweep past our unconsidered selves; stories of a sky gone empty.

—Donald Raymond

Honoring the War God

When the colonists came to this sere land, they found only red sand and barren stone; they wished to foster life and plant seeds but argued over desires and needs.

They found only red sand and barren stone, yet some found beauty in desolation; but argued over desires and needs— waking a god attuned to battle’s call.

Some found true beauty in desolation, and spilled others’ blood with their carmine hands; waking a god attuned to battle’s call; now Mars roved the world with his wolves.

They spilled others’ blood with their carmine hands, from those who wished to foster life and plant seeds; now Mars roved the world with his wolves, when the colonists came to his sere land.

—Deborah L. Davitt

Star*Line 17 Winter 2018 Ship Down galaxy birth radiation spiral Night roofs the jungles universe hub death of a planet further from earth than ten life-times of travel. —Roxanne Barbour

Light spills from seven stars and two craggy moons the sweet liquor of prophecy.

An arboreal hominid screams, eyes gleaming like a machete, as it studies the curved nails of the dark as death predators leaving cat-sign clawed into the trunks of the trees on which they perch.

Less than ten meters away, huts made of scrub branches and woven grasses offer little protection from hungry maws to the survivors of the inter- planetary transport ship's skyfall.

A child strokes a day-flier, feathered head as scarlet as the blood of the missing, while the bird lifts her beak seemingly to pluck the moons from the distant heavens.

Communication and defensive technology unrepairable, twelve parents clutch spears, while three grandmothers huddle, waiting for the inevitable.

—Vonnie Winslow Crist Rustless metal shell sandblasted beside the palm. Deserted robot. —Brian Garrison

Star*Line 18 Fall 2017 From the Small Press Secret Histories by Michael McInnis. White Knuckle Press, 2017. 20 Pages. Free online at: https://www.whiteknucklepress.com/michaelmcinnis

This is book number forty-four in White Knuckle Press’s online mini- chapbook series. Each book is ten to fourteen prose poems, often accompanied by a quirky “Author’s Statement,” bio, and cover. Most often the poems are titled, or at least numbered with Roman numerals, but in this collection the poems are unlabelled. I will use the Roman numeral convention even though they do not appear in the book. Secret Histories is an interesting mix of the concrete, the surreal, and the metaphoric in a place that “reject[s] the dictatorship of reality,” though portions seem solidly science fictional. For example, from poem I: We stood watching a new moon circling Jupiter. A screaming moon, full of gadgetry and gimcrackery. And then the metaphoric kicks in as this from poem II: An angry comet, mad that it was nothing more than a dirty ice ball and vowing to do real damage some day if only it wasn’t stuck in this orbit, scorched across the solar system. And the surreal from poem III: We no longer had a use for UFOs, magic bullets or string theory. Our focus remained on Thoreau’s pencils. Poem VI is a delightful non-sequitur about the door-to-door exorcist. Somehow it fit perfectly. Overall, the book held together better than most books that are so amazingly free of writing and narrative rules as this one. I loved some of the individual poems, especially IX. But for me, the overall flow was jarred when the book abruptly broke off after XIII, which for me had no alliance with the established strings of mood, theme, and rhythm. It was the sensation of thinking there is one more stair in the staircase and stumbling over a landing that arrived a step too soon. I will not fret over the dissonant ending. I enjoyed too much of the book too much to quibble. This a book of well under a thousand words so even going slowly to savor the language and imagery, it’s still only a five minute read. For me, there was a strong return on investment. I will be looking for more from Michael McInnis.

—Herb Kauderer

Star*Line 19 Winter 2018 Contest at Olympus Mons communications satellites ignoring Sandcastle contest encrypted alien messages Tallest wins Red sand only. —Roxanne Barbour

—Matthew Wilson

Notes of a Rebel Princess to Herself

First, examine your surroundings. Your fortress squats on high ground; Below has been beneath your notice. Consider the lowly—in their minds You give battle. A poor commander Ignores this terrain.

Second, think. I know you’re not used to it. Refine your mind, scorch and hammer Till it is something you can use.

Third, learn to go hungry. From now on, You’ll be kept short, like a falcon. Snatch at bloody scraps—of victory, Of hope—and know you only eat Where you kill.

Fourth, unbesiege yourself. Send away the guards Who narrow access to your soul. Stop showering arrows and oil On unwelcome allies. Or instead You’ll hear the same news from enemies.

Fifth, get out of my head. This world is new, smooth-skinned As a babe. You would crowd it with relics And dead words on animal skin. I know you by heart, my once-self, And I will mourn you— But only when the last of you is gone.

—Maya Chhabra

Star*Line 20 Winter 2018 The Golden Cloak

The guardian eye the spicy taste of a purple rose, spinning in the Mandala raven’s sighs and spider whispers, of Cosmic Sensations a cloud’s elegant passage, is her sole companion. the umber smell of decay,

In the cool chambers of the insufferable blare of deep space, Notes of a Rebel Princess to Herself her beyond-existence, or the susurration of antimatter, the immortal waits for an escape from the endless ennui, First, examine your surroundings. someone to remember her. a return to the continuum of life, Your fortress squats on high ground; Below has been beneath your notice. She dons her golden cloak an awareness of what it is like Consider the lowly—in their minds to remind her of what once was, to be a young woman again You give battle. A poor commander each thread entwined, every time she falls in love within Ignores this terrain. a tapestry of time passages, her own improbable dreams.

Second, think. I know you’re not used to it. —Marge Simon Refine your mind, scorch and hammer Till it is something you can use.

Third, learn to go hungry. From now on, You’ll be kept short, like a falcon. Snatch at bloody scraps—of victory, Of hope—and know you only eat Where you kill.

Fourth, unbesiege yourself. Send away the guards Who narrow access to your soul. Stop showering arrows and oil On unwelcome allies. Or instead You’ll hear the same news from enemies.

Fifth, get out of my head. This world is new, smooth-skinned As a babe. You would crowd it with relics And dead words on animal skin. I know you by heart, my once-self, And I will mourn you— But only when the last of you is gone.

—Maya Chhabra

The Golden Cloak by Marge Simon

Star*Line 21 Winter 2018 Song of Shadows

Beneath the waves the skeleton ships sing. Surfaceward glide their mysterious sounds, Surrounded, detached, by eddies of space. Here, there, and in all places at one hour The quiet evening yet together brings Mysterious shapes that slowly grow clear. True, they are not evil—all hidden powers— And all the day I search but cannot find The world I see from that which I might know. Page by page flutters a life in fragments: Oak leaves atremble in the woods afar. Last night itself is but a stone let fall, A subtle line in life's mysterious face. So Nature deals with us by taking away.

—Casey Clabough

After Ash

What glints in cinders: rutilated quartz, a Tibetan coin, chalcedony in a silver setting, a coral and marcasite ring?

Shall we dig ash, or arrange Rainier cherries in a monolayer, their translucent flesh a distillation of summer light?

Bats hang, wrapped in themselves. Other bats with incendiary devices strapped to their abdomens burst into flame.

Prickly pears prickle in the mist. Through the pain haze, make yourself an arrow, shoot like a Perseid across amaranthine sky.

—Jan Steckel

Star*Line 22 Winter 2018 The City Was Missing

When I arrived at its shore, the city was missing.

Many thousand swastikas swarmed about the earth and the sea fighting among themselves noisily, irritably.

The city had probably fled in disgust and defeat, like those it had lured, sheltered, abandoned and finally destroyed with luck, without mercy.

Before it left, like us and so many others, was it bearing a cross or a crescent?

Was it raped, bombed or betrayed? “If you want the truth,” Kabir said,

“listen to the secret sound which is inside you.”

(A ceiling fan weeps and screeches in the room— oh god, my ears are of no use.)

—Salik Shah

Stilt Runner by Denny E. Marshall

Star*Line 23 Winter 2018 Green Men Don’t Talk

After that dream in which I kill someone or someone kills me, I start to see the Green Man: his leafy face, his clothes of vegetables and vines, his foliate head carved in an old church door and in a bookplate, oak leaves sprouting from his ears.

I see him in the supermarket, thumping watermelons. He sports a mustache of asparagus.

At the beach, wearing seaweed boardies, he hangs ten off the nose of a shark. In the restaurant, he chomps celery stalks, his putrescent jacket covered with lichen and mushrooms. At the park, an arbor vitae breaks loose from its hedge and stumbles toward me, holding a bottle of ale in an outstretched branch.

“Green Man!” I shout. “What do you want with me?”

But green men never speak. And so, I drink with him on a splintered bench and fall asleep.

—Sara Backer

A Progressive Reader Sighs in a Barnes and Noble New Release Bay

Dragons as war machines, Unicorns as nonrenewable energy sources; We mine even our myths. Grind up, Refined, recycled. A world full of fairies, merfolk and satyrs Is somehow easier to conceive Than one without pollution And conflict.

—Richaundra Thursday

Star*Line 24 Winter 2018 FINDING SPECULATIVEStealth POETRY IN NON-GENRESF MAGAZINES

IN TRANSPARENT PETROPOLIS Denise Dumars

I was thinking of Russian poet Osip Mandelstam (1891–1938) as I went about composing this article. I’m not sure why he came to mind, except possibly because my last column was on pastoral poetry, and, although he wouldn’t have called it that, many of his poems fit nicely into the pastoral/nature category. But I suspect that’s not really why I was thinking of him. Mandelstam once said—not sure if it was before or after his first or second trip to the gulag—the following: “Only in Russia is poetry respected, it gets people killed. Is there anywhere else where poetry is so common a motive for murder?” Yeah, he went to the gulag twice, and ultimately died an old man though still in his forties. After his death he was “rehabilitated” by the Soviets and much of his poetry was preserved and translated into many languages. He broke from the Symbolist poets of his age and their mysticism, taking a humanist perspective. Why, then, are so many poets of the metaphysical and SFnal tropes drawn to him? He was a contemporary of many of the SF writers who flourished during the Soviet era, yet for a humanist he doesn’t go much for scientific realism, but goes right back to the Greco-Roman literary and mythological references. For example, he calls St. Petersburg “Petropolis” as though it were an ancient Greek city, in more than one of his untitled poems: From a fearful height, a wandering light, but does a star glitter like this, crying? Transparent star, wandering light, your brother, Petropolis, is dying. And in this one: In transparent Petropolis we will leave only bone, here where we are ruled by Proserpina. We drink the air of death, each breath of the wind’s moan, and every hour is our death-hour’s keeper. Proserpina is a Roman version of the Greek goddess Persephone, known as the queen of the underworld where she dwells with her husband, Hades, half the year. Athena is not only the Greek goddess of wisdom, but also of war. I get chills reading these stanzas, as Mandelstam seems to be predicting the Siege of Leningrad (the Soviet name for St. Petersburg) by Hitler in 1941–1943, which caused the largest loss of

Star*Line 25 Winter 2018 life—primarily by starvation—in any one city in modern history. What are we to make of this non-mystical man and his eerie prediction? Did he see the writing on the wall or is it coincidence, or something else? That’s for the metaphysicians to figure out. But we poets, especially SFnal poets, know that sometimes SF predicts the future, though not in any mystical way. Poets, more than other folks sometimes, extrapolate on what comes next. So Mandelstam, it seems, really comes to mind when I see the censorship that the current federal government has imposed on its employees. I know many federal workers who are told not to have social media presences (despite the overreliance of our President on social media) and who are afraid to publish or feel they must publish under a pseudonym. The EPA right now is especially paranoid and spies on its employees online, while its commandant Scott Pruitt walks around with a private bodyguard like some Mafia chieftain. People don’t go to prison in the U.S. (well, not often) for what they write, but they sure do lose their jobs over it! And Russia isn’t the only country where poets are killed; Latin America has its share of that mess, as does the Middle East and Russia’s neighbor, China. But as a service to my fellow Americans I have posted a link to an employment-law site that can explain your free speech rights in public-sector jobs (you have some) and in the private sector (where you ain’t got none!) This has been a public service announcement by a public servant, albeit we teachers/professors/ librarians are expected to have social-media presences and often (though not as often as you’d think) write and publish strange poems because, well, in America, poetry doesn’t matter! Mandelstam was right about the connection between the oppression of poets and places where poetry is seen as meaningful enough to impact society. Now let’s get to those markets, and here’s another public service announcement: I never intentionally post markets that charge writers to submit. If I do so by mistake, PLEASE email me and let me know. Ninth Letter is a fine literary journal that publishes poetry of many styles and on many topics and which pays. I liked a lot of the poems, but found that “Elegy with Rabbits,” a prose poem by Emily Skaja, fits well within our slipsteam poetry world: I need to remember how to be a body, more than a chalk outline filled in with cedar shavings, doubt. I am not buried with you in the winter ground. Observe the lifeline on my left palm, how it wings out, how it bifurcates. The cadence of my body walking forward could be To Prove To Prove To Prove. All the mold I remember in hindsight. Wowza! That’s some good stuff. Now, you wouldn’t think that a journal called The Puritan would have anything that fit our guidelines, but then you might be surprised. Again, I admired its literary sharpness and the diversity of its poetry. The example is from “Tonight, the Mayfly” by Canisia Lubrin:

Star*Line 26 Winter 2018 These networths sway through us brightest when telescopic Yarded and beating, like bars across the skull of the earth Count on us to stay anchored, pound for pound, A million small lives Using common words differently is something Ms. Lubrin understands, and something we genre poets certainly can play with. The Puritan pays well, too. I haven’t spoken about The Virginia Quarterly in awhile, but in a recent issue I found a poem that does what many mainstream poems do these days: namely, reference SFnal tropes. Here’s a bit of Matthew Olzmann’s “To Bruce Wayne”: To conceal a universe, place it in a multiverse—that hypothetical klatch of alternate realities. The dilemma of the word “alternate” is how it implies a norm, a progenitor stream from which the alternate diverges. Which is the alternate? Which is right here, right now? There is no such thing Which is the alternate, indeed, if we who feel we fit that spectrum are suddenly part of mainstream reality? Ok, my brain is tired now. TVQ, as it abbreviates itself, is a paying market. So there’s three for you—go make some money!

Note: If you’d like to read more about the Siege of Leningrad, I can recommend two novels: City of Thieves, by Game of Thrones showrunner David Benioff, who manages somehow to get some humor into his story; and Deathless, by our own Catherynne M. Valente, which is primarily about Koschei, the ancient Slavic god of death, who would seem to be more culturally appropriate than Proserpina in presiding over Mandelstam’s “Petropolis.”

References and Markets: Ninth Letter, http://www.ninthletter.com/journal/submit “Osip Mandelstam,” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/osip- mandelstam Osip Mandelstam—24 Poems, http://www.poetryintranslation.com/ PITBR/Russian/Mandelstam.php The Puritan, http://puritan-magazine.com/ “Siege of Leningrad,” https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Leningrad The Virginia Quarterly Review, http://www.vqronline.org/about-vqr/ masthead “Workplace Fairness—It’s Everyone’s Job—Retaliation” https://www. workplacefairness.org/retaliation-public-employees Star*Line 27 Winter 2018 Gilgamesh Tomb Found in Iraq

“O, it turns out the sonofabitch and narcissist is immortal after all . . .” —Karl Elder, Gilgamesh at the Bellagio

Abuzz with conspiracy theories, a blurb of truth escapes the internet’s web: cloned in secret, Gilgamesh’s epic drama resumes. He returns from the dead. Expedition led by Germans finds the fabled city, Uruk. The Persian Gulf gets invaded one month later, nothing heard again. Same way the UFO crash in Roswell spawned one headline. FYI Jesus is coming—He’s one pissed-off judge. Know O Prince, King Gilgamesh shall come back like Arthur, but this returning royal murders mankind's future with Nephilim, New World Order orchestrating return of this demigod to the throne, also priest, star of oldest known poem, hell’s imp, Qliphoth's knight. Doom’s clap sounding from Iraq resonates thy greatness, Son of Sumer, son who saw the abyss, crossed the abyss to defeat death. The U.S. Government unearthed your remains, found (no Enkidu) viable alien DNA. Grave warriors seed Armageddon’s shadow. X-Files becomes real. We fight a phoenix. Yea, though I be the only one to pray, Zeus save us from extinction’s losing buzz.

—Michael Kriesel Clock Flies

Handsome, shimmering replicants float and flicker algebraically. No more are the lightning bugs of my youth, for our street lamps compelled them to madness. Bioluminescence couldn’t compete. Just capitalism at work, my friend.

—John Caulkins

Star*Line 28 Winter 2018 His Seed

He gave me the gift of a seed to proclaim his love. I believed, not knowing what was encoded in the promise of return, how enfolded how bound they were and how discreet: that when he departed the seed sprouted moistened by my fondling and my tears

Our love lives lost to a faulty seal on an aging ship, a cascade of subtle fractures too few redundancies for safety But his kithkind, though more rigorous than we, forgave inadequacies, said never mind

For a time his seed became plant a browny thing of evolving limbs though too soon it began to look like him and whisper in my dreams that through love, we were never parted and nothing for them, is as final as it seems.

—Akua Lezli Hope

New Stars

Star seeds stirred that long, wet spring shot up tall, strong, and black cracked foundations, pavement grew tall and taller by midsummer they’d hardened, iridescent eager and ready only a spark and they were off balanced on flames winking out, then on again like Independence Day fireworks but they shine on how they shine

—David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Star*Line 29 Winter 2018 dogsledding Track 60 eagerly yapping I ache for disappointment these huskies race to capture emotion of a tiny race my cousin’s hovercar orbiting a medium star believing any random —Brittany Hause galactic stranger to be a god

I see your entire history in these vanquished hopes Alexander dead at thirty-two Nietzsche ill looking out at the world en route from quivering quilts of mumbles to a new planet a vegetable growing I see genders in disappointments with no women have round chlorophyll nectarine expectations men want angles —Angelo B. Ancheta flat triangles with them on top

Maybe I’m wrong it’s hard to understand your genders I change genders if I see a sun murmuring greetings from behind a planet if I see a single asteroid outside the chicken joint singing lullabies in deep space a zombie gnaws if I wade in the red waters of Zazhouk on a forearm submerging all four toes

—Greg Schwartz Seventeen genders seventeen smiles but I’ve never been disappointed

Not like you standing there with your gun drawn when you entered my ship you interrupted my snargloxx meal and said “I’m Lieutenant Ruiz what is your business . . .” now my green snargloxx has petrified to ice spinning like a galaxy across cold space

Star*Line 30 Winter 2018 You’re staring at my lipstick volcanic yellow flashes of Mendoob my three-fingered hands in my Teederbeemen shirt look like mustached snouts protruding from two steel pipes

For a few minutes now you’ve known I was not a god you saw the bottles projecting pornography lewd acts done to species you’ve never met with genitalia you probably wish you’d never seen you saw my laundry and dishes piled into altars where crusted remains wail with religiosity

You also know I’m not a monster but your face wanted so desperately to grow into horror though you say your destiny is always towards the light earth people are so fascinating it is the terrors of night you hope for and the light that disappoints you

—Benjamin Schmitt

The Stars Sing

the stars sing in the depth of night a susurrus that carries down to terrestrial winds to the breath of the sea to the potential long-dormant in your human bones

the stars sing an invitation to rise up and join their chorus

—Beth Cato

Star*Line 31 Winter 2018 Venusian Arachnoids

The arachnoids of Venus are spidery networks of fractures, radiating like highways of ancient cities. Blanketed by warm and yellow greenhouse gases, the surface is a balmy eight-hundred-and-sixty degrees, where lead melts like ice cream. In this alien paradise, it often rains sulfuric acid, between the peaks of super-volcanoes. We could sail that ocean of CO2, in balloons filled with fresh air, solar-powered.

And in a thousand years, the sky people could make the planet green. Those airborne settlers might one day look down at the arachnoids wondering where they went so wrong. Keep On Till Morning

—David F. Shultz water thick with salt within the deepest recesses of what once was sea life lingered here till just a few millennia before we came we missed them like ground sloths giant predatory flightless birds two-story rhinos tragic, yes but these six-fingered cliff-dwellers clay makers, brewers, weavers we could’ve spoken with them

—David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Star*Line 32 Winter 2018 Universal Immigrants

We are none of us from here, entirely. Stars far-flung & ancient lent their deaths to make at least the half of it: each twisted braid called DNA bears witness to some ark of particles galactic winds once carved, then set adrift. Though distance dulled the pain down anesthetic aeons, we still ache sometimes on cloudless nights. Is it so hard, this knowing? Though we drown our skies with light to find ourselves alone, strange fingerprints on every cell remain. And when that tug between stars comes—the stark & shining time of saucers science fiction promises— we must not fear. The alien is us.

—Ann K. Schwader

Vipers

Infected crater, an ulcer ravages my mouth Microbial anacondas congregate, moist Terraforming my gums into a bacterial nest Feast for dwarven snakes, pit of vipers

I can’t indulge in my gluttony anymore Spices I once loved are now painful flares Bacteria shocks my nerves, numbs my brain Gnawing into cavities, monstrous worms

Dental scans have driven me into deliriums As medical ministrations fail to mend The plight of a thousand taste receptors Plagued by thousands of pricking needles

And the teeth’s armor chinks; asps Suckle between the calcium, pink and swollen Pain—horrific alchemist, concocts the vials That aid in festering this venomous scourge

—Efren L. Cruzada

Star*Line 33 Winter 2018 On Hunting Werewolves

The gloaming is ideal for hunting werewolves. These creatures tire from nighttime hours of wild roaming, when bestial urges shade their minds and they run, sure-footed, the scent of their musk blending with the mire, stalking unwary prey amongst decaying leaves and tall grasses.

In the gloaming, when fog and gentle light tickle morning into slow wakefulness, they lie satiated in the woods, wrung from and of the twilight’s revelries. Yes, this is the hour of my hunting! When fangs and fur are subjugated by skin, and human reason returns in a sluggish ebb, I creep upon them, my knees crushing soft peat pallets. My dagger cuts through the air, thirsty for their bright essence, and ends their slumber.

Eyes pop open and glow under the electric kiss of my honed companion. I am impatient, and do not wait for the feral light to fade before gathering my prize. Across neck, and down the belly, my elegant friend glides— the aftermath of his task stains my fingers a rusty cherry before I begin to peel.

—K. S. Patterson Shovel

The shovel stalks me rocking forward left-right on its blade.

I wear disguises, dodge into doorways. Sometimes shovel passes, sometimes waits.

Star*Line 34 Winter 2018 I hire clippers, rake, and fork to spy on shovel. They report nothing.

I suspect shovel wants to whack me— one hard blow to my occiput. I’m jealous of those who plant daffodils.

My shovel is sinister, rusty, persistent.

On rainy nights, I dream shovel deepens my grave. My dream fork says dig.

—Sara Backer

Schrödinger Is Considered For Publication

You will hear from us within thirty days. Meanwhile, you are neither here nor there, someone either hates or loves it, you do not know. Be content with the mystery.

The Copenhagen Interpretation states until you hear from us you are both published and in the bin. The Many Worlds version sees one of you in print and the other

spiked. Guess which world you find yourself in. Wigner, the Editor’s friend, thinks he saw Schrödinger borrow some lines from Einstein. Will it make a difference if he tells?

While the coin spins, it is hard to know if it is heads or tails, or just the price someone pays for a self-addressed envelope an observer has slit open, and reads.

—David Barber

Star*Line 35 Winter 2018 at the center Animatronic Aliens of galaxies— a mother spider Better than the real thing reaches into my dust-speck heart No wise gods bearing gifts with seven ethereal limbs But no slavers either Just side-show fun —Tamara K. Walker Till, that is, some smart-aleck In New Jersey Hacks their neural nets Rewrites their OSs No slavers or killers Haetae Moon But what they do now You don’t want your kids to see While gods gather, Plus, one faux-femme wrapped in loose robes Bit off the head of her mate and sashes pulled tight Now we’re finding iridescent spheres around celestial bodies, Stuck to the walls she curls in the corner, waiting, Something moving inside them on a bed of ash and smoke. And growing

And when they need reminding, —David C. Kopaska-Merkel out of place like upstart children, when their bickering pierces her ears like the shriek of monkeys, she rises, shakes out her mane and charges through them, horn first. Her great paws heedless of the chaos in her wake, she bounds up mountains, climbing roads of bamboo and river mist into the sky.

In the cold expanse of heaven, in blessed silence, she claims her birthright. A tessellation of teeth and eyes and stars and jaws that seize between them a sliver of moon, bit by bit until it gazes back at her cheshire-like to match her own wolf grin.

—Jessica Jo Horowitz

Star*Line 36 Winter 2018 Black Hole Haberdashery

“The equations of general relativity also suggest that black holes have no ‘hair,’ or distinguishing characteristics aside from mass, electric charge and angular momentum”

Emily Conover, “Gravitational waves offer new view of dynamic cosmos” Science News, Vol. 190, No. 13, 2016.

Black holes are bald, and are uncomfortable about it; preferring to dress with timeless charm, they’d wear bowlers like Steed, if they could get them mail order but they’ve got no hands and their voices are ultrasonic, so they swing space-time continuum like lightless jack-o-lanterns, their black umbrella event horizons swallowing everything in touch in search of that vintage haberdasher at the end of the universe, the promise of quality and best Big Bang for their bucks.

—Sandra J. Lindow

microgravity peculiarities out damned spot! overwhelming our android rubs her hands regenerative spores she’s leaking again

—Roxanne Barbour —dan smith

zombie apocalypse flickering flame the married couple next door from a matchstick still at each other’s throats our dying sun

—Greg Schwartz —Christina Sng

Star*Line 37 Winter 2018 Thor at the Skateboard Park

He was an ecstasy adrenaline junkie, his head filled with the furious joy of skateboards and power chords. Thor slaps his board against concrete Crack! before dropping down the steep curve of the halfpipe wheels rolling clackety click, clickety clack as he drops into a crouch like a stalking panther. Wheels rolling rhythmically, clicketyclacketyclickety clack, step on a crack break your mother’s back Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jumped over the candlestick and Thor jumped . . . he sailed into the sky grabbing his board with one hand and raising it above his head like a hammer, defying gravity with a roar as his blonde hair streams behind him, tangled in the breeze like lightning.

—Gary Every

The Nostalgic Time Traveler

The voices of the dead are much louder After the fact, a chorus drowning out Every expectation of memory And each one of its subtle presumptions.

Sharp, knowing winds may pluck at happenstance, But they will not find notes as bold as those That still resound in my vanished places— That put all anticipation to shame.

And rather than any torn document, It is the smell of extinguished tallow That resurrects—closer than tomorrow And wider than these pinched handfuls of now.

—John Richard Trtek

Star*Line 38 Winter 2018 In the Folklore of Brain Worms you consume them, becoming the perfect host. Fond of eyes, they will settle in tissues or the preferred brain where they can encyst and shift from side to side lobe to lobe as if they know what your brain knows before it knows. Symptoms also shift, disappear and reappear, here and then there, then gone again. A distracting seizure followed by a collapse of the legs as you head downstairs. The mysterious Moriarty worm remains unknown, tantalizingly out of sight from Mr. Holmes, but determined to be seen, to be found out. They insist on their mystery and complicated life cycle, according to an anonymous brain worm source. What is known: When the worm takes hold, when it invades, undercooked, after ingestion or during simple contact, especially the pork brain worm, your system should be nervous. Beware the larval worm with epilepsy on its mind. Such infectious travelers move without passport, respect no boundaries or sovereign states. They arrive duty-free and unannounced, bags fully packed.

—Richard Weaver

Everything started with the Big Bang, they say

I’ve wandered through thousands of galaxies, observed countless civilizations on innumerable planets. I’ve catalogued dark clusters, sentient gas clouds, iced lights and a couple of universes too.

And the truth I’ve learned is this: There is only three ways anything can start. A stab in the gut, a random quantum vacuum fluctuation or a kiss.

Don’t let them fool you with that Big Bang lie.

—Juanjo Bazán

Star*Line 39 Winter 2018 safari

the sizzle of lava against transparent shields glimpses of cavern walls— from fissures in the black rock silicate antennae

An Indigo Sheath —Brittany Hause

Eyes. Kind of gray-blue . . . maybe a smidge of another. Artificial lenses from within.

Legs. As long as I can remember they’ve never been long. Walking is doable, sometimes a mistake, since left wants to be right and right insists it is . . . well, right.

Hair. If you like lions, then trendy I am, but if cats with big hair are not your thing, skip an adventure to the Serengeti.

Hands. Like my great-grandmother’s, cloned. I love them. Except she never welded the body of a spacecraft.

Mouth. Full, overloaded with syllables. Enough said.

Hearts. They bleed. Ache. These pumps never give up on those in need.

Skin. Accounted for. It holds stuff in. Other than that, it is a common thing. Attempts made to pierce it, I’m afraid . . . brings to light, we all crave life.

—Nora Weston

Star*Line 40 Winter 2018 Cinderella Continued (spiraling abecedarian)

Attaining assertiveness and autonomy begets beauty and boldness. Cautious Cinderella, distancing from debutantes, eventually embraces feminism and futures. Gorgeously gigantic, humble, and heroically indecent imbeciles impose, infer, joust, and joke, keeling and kneeling, leering lasciviously. Monsters and men now notice nuanced offenses and obligations. Putting off princess pursuits, queens quit quarreling royally. Regretful stepmoms and sisters stand shoeless and strong together, triumphantly toasting, united. Under valor and villagers’ virtue, wine and whispers express no expectations except yielding yawns from youth zigzagging the woods to zzz. —Kathleen A. Lawrence

Tupilak in Failed Séance

The darkness peels in concave filigree. A hunger spreads its wings enough to let in shadows. The walls, sinewed and sutured, stretch their feathers around me. Candles flicker through the ghosts who linger out their limbs, barely clinging to the dust.

—Joshua Gage

Star*Line 41 Winter 2018 WORLDWIDE SPECULATIVEXenoPoetry POETRY IN TRANSLATION

Japanese Tanka: Five Selections by Hiroyasu Amase Edited by Alzo David-West; translated by Natsumi Ando science fiction esefu tofu envisionary technique, nozokikarakuri mirror of futurity, miraikyou bringing ages to come yagate kuru yo o before our eyes ganzen ni yosu

measuring hyakusanju gravitational waves hachinenmae no from 13.8 billion years past, juryokuha knowing the birth hakarite konoyo no of the world today tanjo o shiruya an android is andoroido wa a robot, but robotto naredo whether a cyborg saibougu, is a person, hito ka ina ka to the people wonder mayou hitobito

traffic convex mirror, kabumira the shadow of aisha no kage ga my favorite car, utsuru toki I suddenly enter ikinari hairu another point in time ijigenkuukan equation e = e = mc2 mc2 no auguring suushiki ga the end hito no jidai no of the anthropocene owari tsugu rashi

Hiroyasu Amase (penname of Susumu Watanabe, b. 1931) is a writer, critic, and physician from Hiroshima, Japan. His works in Japanese in- clude After Fifty Years of Anti-Nuclear War (1998), The Literary Space of Kajiyama Toshiyuki (2009), A Dream of the Past Is Still a Dream (2010), Robots (2013), and Science-Fiction/Science-Fantasy Haiku (2016). Star*Line 42 Winter 2018 Eloise

It's a big adjustment for her, of course, the capital city of her husband is so much larger and bustling than the pastoral countryside she grew up in, and while steam-power, the dominant technology of the Victorians, has some potency, it still doesn't compare to the gadgetry and wonders of her time, decrepit though some of them may have been.

Her scientist-husband insisting she be schooled in the basics, the lessons she receives are daunting, yet palatable, but she reacts in horror to the consumption of animal flesh, preferring greenhouse fruits and vegetables, while behind her back, the servants still make fun of her bumpkin ways. Nevertheless, here, in the citadel of the past, she is largely safe from predation (though make no mistake, there are brutes everywhere and for a while she wonders—unreasonably so, her mentor-savior argues—if this Hyde character the gazetteers are always ranting about isn't perhaps a recovery agent sent back to retrieve her) and her husband, when he's not away, more than compensates with his love and devotion, frequently bestowing upon her small trinkets and gifts picked up from his travels through the ages.

It's also true no one calls her Weena anymore, and children from their union never seem to materialize—in hushed tones she once hears the word miscegenatiom applied to her barrenness— but at least in the first four letters of her adopted name, she is still able to conjure up a relic of who she was or will be when tomorrow becomes yesterday a million times over, and then some.

—Robert Borski

Star*Line 43 Winter 2018 lost stick insect STAR*LINE

Journal of the somehow finding itself Science Fiction and Fantasy on a water lily Poetry Association (SFPA) © 2018 STAR*LINE in the names of I, individual contributors. Rights revert this pond’s perceptive mermaid to individual creators on publication. will drift you back to leafy land Opinions herein are not necessarily those of STAR*LINE staff or the SFPA —Tamara K. Walker membership or its representatives. SUBSCRIPTION RATES: 4 issues/year: $10 .pdf + Dwarf Stars anthology; $24 print U.S. incl. postage 1 issue: $2.50.pdf; $5 print + $2 sh pancake-shaped disk Overseas: sfpoetry.com/starline.html tiptoeing Martian pyramids SFPA MEMBERSHIP includes Star*Line subscription and more! See sfpoetry.com/join.html —Roxanne Barbour Make all funds payable to SFPA. PayPal to [email protected]

or mail to: SFPA P.O. Box 666 How It Pleasured Me San Mateo CA 94568 USA Not with pushing PAYMENT: or with thrusting Poetry: 3¢/word, min $3, max $25. Reviews & articles: $3. Not with pressing though B+W interior art $5; color cover $10. there was a caressing One copy to all contributors. and nodes were involved Editorial Office: attached hither and yon Vince Gotera, Star*Line editor in places both ordinary Languages and Literatures and unexplained University of Northern Iowa Cedar Falls, IA 50614-0502 USA and yet not jolted [email protected] but urged toward a somewhere submerged and emerging Editorial Assistant: Mary Chipman warmed and lit More about SFPA at sfpoetry.com [email protected] to an incandescence facebook.com/sfpoetry bursting left me humming and thirsting to be Ad rates: $75 full-page, $40 half-page, $25 quarter-page, quenched again and $15 eighth-page or business card. again so lovely to be drenched Only speculative-literature-related ads. dampened wet and toweled dry and satisfied Front cover: robot stud, a gift of gigolo Galactic Poet © Akua Lezli Hope —Akua Lezli Hope akualezlihope.com