apex magazine

the cover of apex magazine with an image of a spaceship.

As the Sun Dies

But our peace betrayed us, blinded us to the slow winding of the spindle, and when we saw it, it was too late. The end didn’t come quietly. When the earthquakes hit, three houses fell into a crack across the South River. For days, the ground heaved beneath us, and our dead moaned in their graves. 
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the cover of apex magazine with an image of a man on a motorcycle.

Simbiyu and the Nameless

The river is changing. You know this without knowing how, or why. Tatu doesn’t notice. She’s poking in the mud, digging for crabs. A black octopus climbs from the water’s surface. A mist that whispers a name. You understand it. You’re one with it, bopping your anticipation.
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the cover of apex magazine, featuring an image of a man on top of a.

Shevitsa

But only the worn carpets heard me, and they had no pity. When it wasn’t too cold, I took my pillow and wool blanket from the too-narrow bench and curled up on the carpet. I traced my fingers over the sun-bleached threads. Their patterns were familiar—the same triangles and rhombuses used in embroidery. The carpets held stories of engagements and weddings, children and grandchildren. Around the edges were the zigzags of protection. 
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the cover of apex magazine, featuring an image of a monster.

In the Monster’s Mouth

She was tired of performing, tired of competing, tired of the pressure, but most of all, she was tired of her father. She judged the distance, closed her eyes, and visualized what she wanted to accomplish, and then she opened her eyes and flung herself at the wall, angling her left shoulder to take the brunt of the impact. When she connected with the wall, she felt as much as heard a harsh crack, and she fell to the floor. She lay there, her shoulder burning like fire, but she had a smile on her face.
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the cover of apex magazine with an image of a man on a motorcycle.

Americana!

The man smooths over his mustache like it accentuates his Americanness, which it sort of does, and lifts the brim of his old Portland Sea Dogs cap to show his forehead, which I suppose he considers to be authentically American, like it has a mark of the treasury on it. He has the stim-marks behind the ears that tell me he’s a junkie, for splug, or wobble, or germ. Which is why he’s selling his rifle, I’m sure.
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