I nestle the video camera on its makeshift tripod, carefully centering my daughter’s image. She tucks her hair behind her ear and gives a strained smile. She is sixteen, and that hair is long and golden–kissed light brown and straight; she has the gangly grace only teenagers have, that sleek gazelle form. She is wearing khaki shorts and a striped tank top, and the bite mark on her arm is already putrefying.
Read MoreBecca at the End of the World
Welcome to Issue 53 of Apex Magazine.
This month, I’m pleased to bring you three new stories. Shira Lipkin’s “Becca at the End of the World” is a heartfelt tale of the zombie apocalypse.
Read MoreBlood on Vellum: Notes from the Editor-in-ChiefThis interview is exhaustive and amazing, so I won’t mince words here: Hal Duncan is the author of The Book of All Hours duology, Vellum and Ink. Vellum won the Gaylactic Spectrum Award in 2010, and was also nominated for the Locus Award and the World Fantasy Award.
Read MoreInterview with Hal DuncanIt’s not easy being a modern fan. We’re battling decades of institutionalized sexism, racism, and imperialism. We’re working on it. We may still be struggling with all of the —isms but we’re clawing our way toward second wave fandom, particularly when it comes to female fans sharing the dais.
Read MoreFangirl Isn’t a Dirty Word
Elia stepped in between the two men and swept the back of Mac’s feet with her staff. He landed flush on his back, and by the time he realized his position, the butt of her staff pressed against his throat. The rest of the Carmillon gathered around, a wall of steel-eyed gazes whose body language hinted that they were well trained and not afraid to get in a fight. The detectives were clearly outnumbered.
Read MoreI Can Transform You: The CarmillonSaskia leaned into the darkness above the stage, only vaguely aware of the wood rail against her hips as she retied the left headstring on her marionette. On the stage below, the Snow Queen’s head eased into balance.
Read MoreBody LanguageOnce far ago and long away, in a sleepy little village on the edge of nowhere, a small town turned commuter-zone city-suburb, miners’ houses swallowed into Seventies schemes of pebbledash matchboxes, Lego blocks of buildings nestled soulless on winding roads all lined with parking bays and patches of grass trimmed lobotomy neat…
Read MoreThe Boy Who Loved DeathMike was there when Pavi’s kidneys failed. He was there when her liver, swollen and scarred, shut down. And her heart. He floated in her thickening, clotting blood, pressing all the conscious focus he could fit into the nanites permeating her body, killing her.
Read MoreTurning the Whisper
Athéne — the Athéne who was never mine — used to say that I was always slow to catch on. Even if it wasn’t true to begin with, it’s become true, and so I guess it makes sense that I didn’t understand how serious the tether break was until the consequence ran smack into me. I doubt she’d appreciate the irony.
Read MoreSomeone Like You