Short Fiction

Short Fiction from issues of Apex Magazine

Undone

by on Mar 4, 2014 in Short Fiction | 1 comment

They have done everything they can to hide the arm. One of the finest needlewomen in the court created an elaborate sling, decorated with jewels and feathers, with the pattern of a swan fleeing a rainbow to chase a radiant moon. The jewels make the sling heavier than his arm, and the feathers — peacock for the rainbow, an egret feather trailing from the moon — make him sneeze. Everyone laughs incredulously as he says this between sneezes, although the needlewoman stitched him a fine handkerchief, embroidered with little swans, that he can place against his nose at need. When she is not watching, he uses a small brown piece of fabric instead. Another woman — a duchess of...

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Waking

by on Mar 4, 2014 in Short Fiction | 2 comments

The Museum of Angelic Artefacts was a road–side attraction; a blip on the map where families stopped to stretch their legs and maybe take in an old film of the visitations. They would round out their break with a trip to the shops to buy coffee and ice cream, a postcard to put in a drawer and forget. It wasn’t a big museum, as these things go. Most of the display was of small mechanical pieces; cogs and electrodes and bits of broken chips. A few whole metal skeletons were in the main display at the back of the house, and they were the pieces that drew the biggest crowds. The bio–parts of the angels were harder to find, although we did possess a small glass–topped trunk...

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Congratulations to the 2013 Nebula Award Nominees

by on Feb 25, 2014 in Short Fiction | 1 comment

SFWA has announced the 2013 Nebula and Andre Norton Award Nominees.   Apex Magazine is particularly pleased to note that “If You Were a Dinosaur, My Love,” by Rachel Swirsky, has been nominated in the Best Short Story category. Congratulations, Rachel.   We at Apex are also pleased to note the diversity, the representation, of the nominees in every category. This is the future of genre fiction. It’s the present and past as well, however much one might on occasion forget that. We are pleased to have played a small part in this diversity.   Congratulations, again....

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Home by the Sea

by on Feb 4, 2014 in Short Fiction | 1 comment

Translated by Jane Brierley   Images of sorrow, pictures of delight Things that go to make up a life (…) Let us relive our lives in what we tell you (Home by the Sea, Genesis)   «Is it a lady, Mommy?» The small girl looks at me with the innocent insolence of children who say out loud what adults are thinking to themselves. A skinny, pale, fair–haired child of five or six, she already looks so like her mother that I feel sorry for her. The mother gives an embarrassed laugh and lifts the child onto her lap. «Of course it’s a lady, Rita.» She smiles excuse–her–please, I smile back oh–it’s–nothing. Will she take advantage of it to launch into one of those meaningless,...

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Maria and the Pilgrim

by on Feb 4, 2014 in Short Fiction | 1 comment

Word webbed over the altiplano, carried one village to the next by the wandering gene merchants: a pilgrim was coming. A pilgrim was coming! Maria felt she might burst her membrane from excitement. She wove through and around the women, who bent scouring the chapel steps with sand, until her mother slapped her away. Then she darted circles around the men, who were pulling Jesucristo out from his dusty ledge and repainting his gasmask with red ochre. “Go watch for him,” her father said, motioning her back as the cross creaked upright in its stand. “Go watch with Pedro. Watch from the hill.” “Pedro eats his dirt before it cooks,” Maria said, sticking her small pink tongue...

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Antumbra

by on Feb 4, 2014 in Short Fiction | 1 comment

I woke in the afternoon gloom to the sound of my 20–year–old stepsister Lily dragging something heavy and wet up the back patio steps through the kitchen door. The smell of blood and brine smothered me the moment I sat up. I swore to myself and called down to her, “What did you do?” “You’ll see,” she sing–songed. “Pleasant mother pheasant plucker.” I lay back on the sweat–stained sheets for a moment to gather my focus. Four hours of sleep wasn’t enough to keep my head from spinning, but it was all I could seem to get these days. The cells in my body kept waiting for the moon to move, despite all my meditating to try to tell them that the big rock blotting the sun wasn’t...

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