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    Apex Magazine Issue 21
    Apex Magazine Issue 21
    Apex Magazine Issue 21
    Ebook81 pages1 hour

    Apex Magazine Issue 21

    By Apex Book Company

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    About this ebook

    Apex Magazine is an online zine of dark genre short fiction.

    Table of Contents

    --Fiction--
    “Close Your Eyes” by Cat Rambo
    “Langknech and Tzi-Tzi in the Land of the Mad” by Forrest Aguirre
    “A Raggy Dog, a Shaggy Dog” by Nalo Hopkinson

    --Poetry--
    “House of Shadows” by F.J. Bergmann
    “The Witch’s Heart” by Nicole Korhner-Stace

    --Submission Guidelines--

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherApex Book Company
    Release dateFeb 21, 2011
    ISBN9781458034113
    Apex Magazine Issue 21

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      Book preview

      Apex Magazine Issue 21 - Apex Book Company

      APEX MAGAZINE

      Issue 21

      February, 2011

      Apex Publications

      Published at Smashwords

      http://www.apexbookcompany.com/apex-online

      COPYRIGHTS & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      Close Your Eyes Copyright 2011 by Cat Rambo

      Langknech and Tzi-Tzi in the Land of the Mad Copyright 2011 by Forrest Aguirre

      A Raggy Dog, a Shaggy Dog Copyright 2006 by Nalo Hopkinson

      House of Shadows Copyright 2011 by F.J. Bergmann

      The Witch’s Heart Copyright 2011 by Nicole Kornher-Stace

      Publisher—Jason Sizemore

      Fiction Editor—Catherynne M. Valente

      Senior Editor—Gill Ainsworth

      Submission Editors—Zakarya Anwar, Ferrett Steinmetz, Martel Sardina, Chris Einhaus, Mari Adkins, George Galuschak, Deanna Knippling, Laura Long, Sarah Olson, Tommy Delk, Lillian Cohen-Moore, Patrick Tomlinson, Katherine Khorey

      Cover designed by Justin Stewart

      ISSN: 2157-1406

      Copyright 2011 Apex Publications

      Apex Publications

      PO Box 24323

      Lexington, KY 40524

      Please visit us at http://www.apexbookcompany.com

      To subscribe visit http://www.apexbookcompany.com/apex-store/subscriptions/

      Submission Guidelines are listed at the end of the issue.

      Table of Contents

      --Fiction--

      "Close Your Eyes" by Cat Rambo

      "Langknech and Tzi-Tzi in the Land of the Mad" by Forrest Aguirre

      A Raggy Dog, a Shaggy Dog by Nalo Hopkinson

      --Poetry--

      "House of Shadows" by F.J. Bergmann

      The Witch’s Heart by Nicole Kornher-Stace

      --Submission Guidelines--

      Close Your Eyes

      By Cat Rambo

      The story might begin like this:

      Thank you for bringing me some water, Lewis said as Amber neared the kitchen table. Thank you for working to pay the rent on our house, because otherwise we wouldn’t have access to the water that comes free with it.

      Fuck you, Amber said. She was tired of this tune, tired of its tension clamping down on her neck muscles, gripping like lightning-laden wire along her inner arms.

      This morning Lewis wore an unexpected, Dr. Seuss-bright tie, along with the usual plain white shirt and stiff new jeans. The cat strode across the fabric, peppermint-striped hat tilted, infinitely more carefree than her younger brother. Lewis folded his fingers, thumbs pressed together, pointed toward himself.

      No, I mean it, Lewis said. Thank you.

      She thumped the glass down near his elbow, sat to sprinkle salt substitute over her own microwaved sausage-in-an-egg-in-a-biscuit. Lewis had the same, plus a paper cup holding a dozen horse-sized pills, and two glasses of oily liquid.

      After three bites of sausage, he methodically downed the pills, first using the vitamin-ade, then the water. He did it with a frown, looking into the distance as though examining himself in the bathroom mirror while shaving.

      Was she supposed to ask why he was wearing a tie? What sort of scheme was he involved with now? How much of her money or energy or patience or love would it consume?

      She was never sure how much of his hostility was humor, but the majority was genuine rancor at being unemployed, dependent on her.

      I’m staying late at the hospital after my treatment this afternoon, Lewis said. Using the spare time you so generously support me with to read to children. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a valuable use of my time, a contribution to society that you’re sponsoring.

      She wavered between opting to swat back the hostility or ignore his tone. She didn’t want to fight. What are you reading to them?

      He gestured at the tie. This sort of thing.

      What time should I take you?

      More shining generosity on your part. Don’t worry, I’m keeping track. I’ll figure out how to pay you back. Eventually. A little before two.

      What kids are you reading to?

      The fatalities, he said. Who better? The ones that aren’t going to make it.

      Like him, Plague-touched. The rare genetically gifted ones that could survive its ravages, though not neurologically intact, knowing that they had a few years left.

      That, too, is another way the story might begin, Lewis and Amber listening to the doctor explain how long Lewis might live, given the right care and treatment: one to five years. And how long he would live without it: less than a year.

      Amber watching a cloudy sky outside the window, ashy as Lewis’s face. He kept looking at her as though to judge her reaction. Dependency shaded by years of sibling rivalry and affection. Amber seeing Lewis as though through a window. Seeing too little time left with her brother.

      And also too much time, too much to dedicate herself to him, putting aside everything but her work, in order to support him, like some nun in a solitary abbey. One to five years of watching over him. One to five years of driving him to his hospital appointments, one to five years of seeing the hospital, becoming familiar with its corridors, knowing where every bathroom, every drinking fountain, every vending machine, every waiting lounge was.

      Enjoy reading to the kids, Amber said as she pulled up to the curb. I think it’s a nice gesture.

      Lewis had been silent during the car ride, even when she had tried to bait conversation with conservative talk radio.

      What time should I pick you up? she said.

      Seven.

      That late?

      Can you do it or not? I can take a taxi if I need to.

      And be stiff and terrified all through the ride that one of his fits would come, without her to coax him back, away from unbending panic, with a driver who wouldn’t know what to do with a hyperventilating, shaking passenger.

      She could let him do it, but she’d sit there waiting, anxious, unable to work, until he came home.

      I can do it, she said.

      He stepped out, thin and frail with recent body

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