Short Fiction
Short Fiction from issues of Apex Magazine
Reluctance
Walter McMullin puttered through the afternoon sky east of Oneida in his tiny dirigible. According to his calculations, he was somewhere toward the north end of Texas, nearing the Mexican territory west of the Republic; and any minute now he’d be soaring over the Goodnight–Loving trail. He looked forward to seeing that trail. Longest cattle drive on the continent, or that’s what he’d heard — and it’d make for a fine change of scenery. West, west, and farther west across the Native turf on the far side of the big river he’d come, and his eyes were bored from it. Oklahoma, Texas, North Mexico next door… it all looked pretty much the same from the air. Like...
Read MoreCall Girl
Translated by Ken Liu 1 Morning climbs in through the window as shadow recedes from Tang Xiaoyi’s body like a green tide imbued with the fragrance of trees. Where the tidewater used to be, now there is just Xiaoyi’s slender body, naked under the thin sunlight. She opens her eyes, gets up, dresses, brushes her teeth, wipes away the foam at the corner of her mouth with a towel. Staring at the mirror, all serious, her face eventually breaks into a fifteen–year–old’s smile. Above her, a section of the rose–colored wallpaper applied to the ceiling droops down. This is the fourth place where this has happened. My house is full of blooming flowers, Xiaoyi...
Read MoreTitanic!
10 April 1912 When I come on board the ship I pay little heed to her splendour; nor to the gaily–strewn lines of coloured electric lights, nor to the polished brass of the crew’s jacket uniforms, nor to the crowds at the dock in Southampton, waving handkerchiefs and pushing and shoving for a better look; nor to my fellow passengers. I keep my eyes open only for signs of pursuit; specifically, for signs of the Law. The ship is named the Titanic. I purchased a second–class ticket in London the day before and travelled down to Southampton by train. I had packed hurriedly. I do not know how far behind me the officers are. I know only that they will come. He made sure...
Read MoreKarina Who Kissed Spacetime
I always remember snow speckling the orange cone of streetlight that held my first kiss. It wasn’t snowing that night. This was before time fractured, left me slipping through its cracks like a bead of water. Perhaps it had been snowing in some other timeline during that first kiss. But not that one. It had barely been a first kiss, even. But it had been cold — cold enough to turn gutter water to slippery glass by our feet. The party over, we stood outside the Arts House, on the frozen curbside corner of West James and North Pine. On the wooden stage of the porch, a sparse audience of smoking spectators, glancing at us from behind conversations. I was heading...
Read MoreCome to My Arms, My Beamish Boy
By Douglas F. Warrick Most memories were gone. The name of the ship he had served on. The name of his commanding officer. His daughters’ names, which husband went with which daughter, which grandchildren came from which marriage, which fiancé held hands with which granddaughter. That had mostly melted away. His head felt like an icebox, and someone had opened the door for just a simple moment and let all the cold air out, filled it up with thick stagnant heat. Alzheimer’s was a muggy goddamned country, the airless stomach of a huge beast that took its time digesting old useless machinery. He could hold Audrey’s hand, like he was doing now, and he could remember...
Read MoreTight Little Stitches in a Dead Man’s Back
By Joe R. Lansdale For Ardath Mayhar From the Journal of Paul Marder (Boom!) That’s a little scientist joke, and the proper way to begin this. As for the purpose of my notebook, I’m uncertain. Perhaps to organize my thoughts and not to go insane. No. Probably so I can read it and feel as if I’m being spoken to. Maybe neither of those reasons. It doesn’t matter. I just want to do it, and that is enough. What’s new? Well, Mr. Journal, after all these years I’ve taken up martial arts again — or at least the forms and calisthenics of Tae Kwon Do. There is no one to spar with here in the lighthouse, so the forms have to do. There is Mary, of course, but she...
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