Short Fiction

Short Fiction from issues of Apex Magazine

What I Am

by on Oct 7, 2014 in Short Fiction | 0 comments

I know what I am. I am Big Apple. I bear witness to struggle, to tragedy small and enormous, to daily happiness, madness, and vengeance. I am gas leak, rent hike, and sewer blockage. I am five–alarm fire. I am subway strike, rat infestation, rabid raccoons in the Cloisters. I am ten foot stacks of garbage. I am old lady purse–snatch, I am drunkard and drug–addled, dead beneath river rock bridge in Central Park. I am the Mexican cartel cutting deals with the Russian mafia. I am cold wind and icy stone. I am rumbling subway and crazy serial killer pushers dropping strangers onto the tracks. I am long–forgotten statues and arches. I am museum, I am priceless art and...

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The House in Winter

by on Oct 7, 2014 in Short Fiction | 6 comments

There is a presence in completely dark rooms — even rooms in ordinary houses — a sense of certainty that someone else is there. It fills all the space where you are not. It wraps long arms around you and whispers in your ear. It lets you know without a doubt that this house in the dark is not yours. I know this house is not mine. This story is not mine. Winter has come, and three days ago all the mirrors in the house stopped reflecting my face. The snow is falling. Frost draws illusory cracks on the windows and reflects the glow of candles. I can feel the house’s hunger growing in my belly, sharp as the corners of the sickle moon. Winter is the hungry season. Nothing...

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Coins for Their Eyes

by on Oct 7, 2014 in Short Fiction | 1 comment

I opened a door and walked through. § Eyebrows are the hardest part. Lips are comparatively easy and forgiving of a bit of asymmetry. Cheek and body blushing, if it’s subtle, is similar. But eyebrows require me to start with the finest possible lines with the pastels. They don’t have to be exactly the same — how many have I sent out into the world with one brow lifted, as if they were sardonically puzzled? — but they do have to be somewhat similar in depth and thickness to be believable. Eyes, too, are difficult, even though I merely install those instead of paint and pastel them. It’s the gaze, you see. They have to be canted at similar but not identical angles, or...

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Primrose or Return to Il’maril

by on Oct 7, 2014 in Short Fiction | 0 comments

A chapter from the unfinished memoir of Virginia Booth, noted xenoanthropologist and novelist, London, Earth (b. 2345–d. 2474).   “I will not leave this cavern,” the voice said as soon as I stepped into the cave mouth. A baritone decaying into vibrato, an old man’s voice, full of dignity and pride. I tried to pinpoint its source, but the air was thick with fog. The haze seemed to originate from inside the chamber, where a mysterious current of cold wind blew from underground. All around me, where the vapour met the pink light, it glowed, the colour of the primrose buds in my terrarium back home. The thought of missing them in full bloom this year, pricked at me....

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Enemy State

by on Sep 2, 2014 in Short Fiction | 0 comments

Enjoy the following short story “Enemy State” by Karin Lowachee. Featured in the new Apex Publications anthology War Stories: New Military Science Fiction edited by Andrew Liptak and Jaym Gates. Available now from Apex Publications http://www.apexbookcompany.com/collections/preorders/products/war-stories WAR, WAR, WAR, WAR, WAR. I’m so sick of hearing about the war. It’s everywhere and you’re not. It’s everywhere that you’re not. Two years into this loss, and the garage, which used to be my zen place, is now just another place. Everyone thinks asking about you might make it better because it shows concern. As if I want to talk about it. Two years waiting and I no longer...

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Soft Feather Dance

by on Sep 2, 2014 in Short Fiction | 0 comments

The movie ended. The crowd left. The show was over. Popcorn and stale toast crunched underfoot. Laughter. Falling feathers from a purple and silver boa. Water pistols squirted to the last of their reservoirs; nipples tucked back under corsets; glittering hats removed, balance on one foot to pull off the tap shoes. A man’s soft voice calling after his friends. The ushers locked the doors, too tired to bother in this crumbling, half decayed theatre. Let the rats have the rubbish, they’d sweep in the morning and screw the boss if he won’t pay overtime. The theatre was empty, and in the cool deep dark stirred a small brown goose feather. It had been softly gathering dust...

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