apex magazine

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The Man in the Crimson Coat

I swallow cheap blue whiskey. The burn slides down my throat, while I drink in Killer Hands’ owner. He’s good-looking in an off-kilter sort of way: black-curled and black-eyed, aquiline nose just a little too strong for his razor-boned face, the stubble at his jawline the barest suggestion of a shadow. The hands, though—the hands are what you really notice. The hands are the reason I’ve been sitting in this shitty-ass bar, drinking its shitty-ass whiskey.
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The Trip

According to time dilation, Corie was thirty-two years old. Her best friend in the universe, Amy? She was dying. The cancer resisted the chemo drugs and, despite stasis, spread like black oil in all the holoimages of Amy’s organs. Stage four. At least there was no pain. The images flashed across Corie’s mind like the Aurora Borealis.
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Skinny Charlie’s Orbiting Teepee

Sighs and groans traveled back through the line. Some folks had been waiting in the delivery chamber a full sunrise-sunset click. The room suffered from cold gusty drafts and a solid metal floor that made the legs ache. Sadly, it was the only way to obtain government-issued items: repaired CommBundles, approved travel vouchers, medicines that weren’t distributed via more onerous channels.
Read MoreSkinny Charlie’s Orbiting Teepee