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.
Read MoreCall GirlWhen 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.
Read MoreTitanic!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.
Read MoreKarina Who Kissed SpacetimeWith this issue, Apex Magazine is now 4+ years old in its current digital incarnation. That’s an issue a month, without missing a single issue (we were late once, by two days, due to some personal health issues). I consider this quite a nice accomplishment and winning streak.
Read MoreWords from the PublisherWelcome to issue 49.
We have a gorgeous tale about a young girl who sells stories that come to life from Ms. Tang Fei, as translated by Ken Liu, “Call Girl.” This is the first time that this story has appeared in English, after winning an online SF/F contest in China.
Read MoreBlood on Vellum: Notes from the Editor-in-ChiefHow do you summarize the forty–year career of a man who’s done everything? Joe R. Lansdale is not merely a writer; he’s one of the most preeminent storytellers of our time.
Read MoreInterview with Joe R. LansdaleI find strength, agency, endurance and anger in the most unlikely works of fiction. I would not dream of telling someone that they are wrong to value a story. A work of art is empowering when the audience finds power in it.
Read MoreKicking Ass, Taking Names, Bubblegum Optional
Most of what was left came to him second hand; imprints of stories he had told a thousand times about memories he used to have, memorized monologues about a life for which he had no context. Copies of copies. But he still had a few pure memories. These, the last original prints, played over and over again. The cold Professor Eisley and what he turned into. Maybe what he’d been from the beginning.
Read MoreCome to My Arms, My Beamish BoyThat’s a little scientist joke, and the proper way to begin this. As for the purpose of my notebook, I’m uncertain.
Read MoreTight Little Stitches in a Dead Man’s Back