Short Fiction

Short Fiction from issues of Apex Magazine

When a Crossroads is a Corner

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

Steal the Spotlight Winner (Hellhounds) 247 WORDS One bark from the black dog on the corner will bring the rest of the litter running. A howl will summon its masters, the men in red. The most it ever does is growl. § There were always stories about escapees. The men in red threw anyone caught telling one to the black dogs, their hunting hounds, to show the rest of us how we’d end up if we chanced it. But they never stepped in ’til the story was told, and never called the teller a liar. They’re cunning like that, the men in red. I should have guessed, but I didn’t, so now I’m a story too. To the damned I left behind I might be free or I might be dogmeat, and between...

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Whispering Waters

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

Steal the Spotlight Winner (Sea Monsters) 250 WORDS It’s not real. It took a whole week to convince yourself, a week to drown out the whispers from the dripping sink and the coffee machine. Your steaming mug isn’t talking to you, honest. By the time the work week is over you’re convinced you’re safe. As you leave the office and step into the parking lot, a quick glance at the lake behind the building proves your denial is correct. It was never there. That strange, shadowy figure that followed you home through every rain storm isn’t there, and it certainly had never been outside your window staring in. Still, you can’t help but clutch your keys between your fingers like...

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Stone Woman

by on Nov 4, 2014 in Short Fiction | 0 comments

Steal the Spotlight Winner (Banshee) 230 WORDS When you cut into a stone, do you know what it does to me? I’m part stone, you see, and part emotional memory, I am a banshee, a woman who was hung from a tree, because my husband was fucking another woman and I tried to kill him— I sit outside your house, with my toaster in my lap and antennae over my head, keeping track of transmissions, listening to the news, hoping for my big break, to come into your house, where I am uninvited, but where I shall invite myself, when the frequencies are right— I can see her face, the way she turned away that night, under the white moon, and I thought about killing her, the way she smiled...

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The Stagman’s Song

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

3040 WORDS Susan poured tea and focused on kitchen sounds: the splash of water in her mug, the clack of spoon against ceramic. They didn’t mute her mother’s restless pacing, or the rattle of her uncle sorting jars in the basement. Too many of the jars were empty. Uncle George would come up soon, and ask her to go hunting with him. Susan didn’t know how to refuse. There was no one else now to go up the mountain. Susan’s family made their money hunting stagmen on the mountain. After her Uncle George was rooted to the farm by the stagmen’s curse, Susan and her cousin Ronnie took deliveries down the dirt road to the interstate, pickup bed carefully packed with mason jars...

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The New Girl

by on Nov 4, 2014 in Short Fiction | 0 comments

3763 WORDS Badger had followed her dreams to the water’s edge, one day at a time spooling out in front of her as though it was meant to be when in fact it was only dreamed of. Then she was stuck, stymied, as her dreams only showed the water’s edge, nothing more, for days, and her food began to run out. On the fifth day, when she was trying to learn how to dig clams using her vision mods for extra information, she saw her first seaplane, and ambition bloomed. Seaplanes were a great deal easier to follow than dreams. Badger went north along the coast, catching a crab or two and eating seaweed, chewing it for miles and miles as she walked. There were freshwater streams...

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Candy Girl

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

3910 WORDS The trouble starts when I pick up my umbrella and it pricks my finger. “Ouch!” I examine the wound. It is not bleeding but when I squeeze it a thick, brown substance very like foundation starts to come out. “What’s that?” asks my cousin Ginika watching the liquid. “Dunno. Pricked my finger. This came out.” I squeeze some more. Suddenly the neat little prick rips along its length like a ladder in tights. “Hmmm. That doesn’t look right. We should see someone.” We get on her Vespa, me holding my index finger out, umbrella in the other hand. It’s slow going before we hit the main road; up and down, around potholes brimming with rainwater, beside gutters teeming...

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