Apex Magazine Issue 136: Apex Magazine, #136

By Jason Sizemore and Lesley Conner

Strange. Surreal. Shocking. Beautiful.

 

APEX MAGAZINE is a digital dark science fiction and fantasy genre zine that features award-winning short fiction, essays, and interviews. Established in 2009, our fiction has won several Hugo and Nebula Awards.

We publish every other month.

Issue 136 contains the following short stories, essays, reviews, and interviews.

 

EDITORIAL
Musings from Maryland by Lesley Conner

 

ORIGINAL SHORT FICTION
Over Moonlit Clouds by Coda Audeguy-Pegon
Beautiful Poison in Pastel by Beth Dawkins
Unboxing by Lavie Tidhar
The State Street Robot Factory by Claire Humphrey
After the Twilight Fades by Sara Tantlinger
The Words That Make Us Fly by S.L. Harris

 

FLASH FICTION
Every Shade of Healing by Taryn Frazier
Reproduction on the Beach by Rich Larson

 

CLASSIC FICTION
Destiny Delayed by Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki
They Could Have Been Yours by Joy Baglio

 

NONFICTION
Traveling Beyond Europe's Walls by Paul Weimer
Write Me a Story Without Words by Emmy Jackson
Words for Thought: Short Fiction Review by AC Wise

 

INTERVIEWS
Interview with Author Coda Audeguy-Pegon by Marissa van Uden
Interview with Author S.L. Harris by Marissa van Uden
Interview with Cover Artist Lenka Šimečková by Bradley Powers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apex Book Company
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201718428

Jason Sizemore

Jason Sizemore is a writer and editor who lives in Lexington, KY. He owns Apex Publications, an SF, fantasy, and horror small press, and has twice been nominated for the Hugo Award for his editing work on Apex Magazine. Stay current with his latest news and ramblings via his Twitter feed handle @apexjason.

Book preview

ApexMagazine_136.jpg

APEX MAGAZINE

ISSUE

136

CODA AUDEGUY-PEGON     BETH DAWKINS

LAVIE TIDHAR     CLAIRE HUMPHREY

SARA TANTLINGER     S.L. HARRIS

TARYN FRAZIER     RICH LARSON

OGHENECHOVWE DONALD EKPEKI

JOY BAGLIO     PAUL WEIMER     EMMY JACKSON

Edited by

JASON SIZEMORE

Edited by

LESLEY CONNER

APEX MAGAZINE

CONTENTS

FROM THE EDITOR

Musings from Maryland

ORIGINAL FICTION

Over Moonlit Clouds

Coda Audeguy-Pegon

Beautiful Poison in Pastel

Beth Dawkins

Unboxing

Lavie Tidhar

The State Street Robot Factory

Claire Humphrey

After the Twilight Fades

Sara Tantlinger

The Words That Make Us Fly

S.L. Harris

FLASH FICTION

Every Shade of Healing

Taryn Frazier

Reproduction on the Beach

Rich Larson

CLASSIC FICTION

Destiny Delayed

Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki

They Could Have Been Yours

Joy Baglio

NONFICTION

Traveling Beyond Europe’s Walls

Paul Weimer

Write Me a Story Without Words

Emmy Jackson

REVIEWS

Words for Thought: Short Fiction Review

A.C. Wise

INTERVIEWS

Interview with Author Coda Audeguy-Pegon

Marissa van Uden

Interview with Author S.L. Harris

Marissa van Uden

Interview with Artist Lenka Šimečková

Bradley Powers

MISCELLANEOUS

Subscriptions

Patreon

The Apex Magazine Team

Copyright

Stay Connected

FROM THE EDITOR

Musings from

Maryland

800 WORDS

Welcome to Apex Magazine issue 136! While issue 135 delved into stories outside of the here and now with delightful dark fairy and folk tales, this issue focuses on the horrors brought about by modern technology and situations. I love a story that takes something we all use in our day-to-day lives and twists it so it becomes something threatening.

We’re opening the issue with Over Moonlit Clouds by Coda Audeguy-Pegon. This is a stunning story about societal bias, media spin, and how one person’s hostile reaction can turn a tense situation into a tragedy. It highlights how compassion can go so much further than force, and how that compassion can be shoved aside by someone misunderstanding and escalating the situation. This is also Coda’s first published story and I am blown away by the rich, textured world e was able to create.

Beth Dawkins returns to Apex Magazine with Beautiful Poison in Pastel. This is a story that explores what terrifies the nightmares and what happens if, rather than being afraid, one nightmare becomes enamored by the very thing that could unravel their entire existence.

Unboxing by Lavie Tidhar packs a powerful wallop in just over 2,000 words. This story takes the children’s unboxing viral video fad and twists it in a truly sinister way. Go ahead and give it a try. I bet that like the little girl in the story, you won’t be able to look away.

Claire Humphrey first appeared in Apex Magazine way back in 2014 in issue 58 with The End of the World in Five Dates. This issue she returns with a story about running a small business, quality products, and mass production undercutting sales. The State Street Robot Factory is steeped in the realities small business owners face every day as they strive to stay afloat among larger companies undercutting costs with subpar products, but rather than being melancholy and morose, the story finds a sliver of hope. It is delightful and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Sara Tantlinger brings us the second of the six promised stories from the Apex Magazine 2023 Kickstarter. In After the Twilight Fades, Emilia finds herself stuck in a life where her thoughts and opinions are constantly overshadowed by her husband and sister’s. An experience with a meteorite and a strange hypnotist unlocks truths she had kept hidden inside herself for years.

The Words That Make Us Fly by S.L. Harris delves into a world of magic and friendships that were. It is hard to be the friend that is left behind—people move away, move on, and sometimes die. If you’re left wanting what used to be, there’s a deep sadness that can feel overwhelming as you try to recapture what was. S.L. Harris has written a heartbreaking story of trying to reclaim the magic between a group of friends who are no longer all together. It’s a story that easily could have gotten bogged down in the sadness of what once was, but instead becomes a celebration of finding that magic within oneself. It is beautifully done and not a story you won’t want to miss.

Our flash fiction comes from Taryn Frazier and Rich Larson. Taryn’s piece came from our inked themed submissions and Rich’s is from the candy floss pink submissions.

Marissa van Uden interviews Code Audeguy-Pegon and S.L. Harris in our author interviews. Bradley Powers chats with cover artist Lenka Šimečková about the pressures of having a large social media presence and the importance of symbolism.

Our classic fiction is by Joy Baglio and Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki. Our essays come from Emmy Jackson and Paul Weimer.

As always, I hope you enjoy this issue as much as I have enjoyed putting it together. I love when stories can pluck things from modern life—social media, YouTube, air travel—and turn them in a way that we’re forced, as readers, to view them differently. If you enjoy this issue and the ones that have come before it, I hope you’ll consider picking up a subscription to help us fund future issues of Apex Magazine. You can buy a subscription directly from us here: https://apex-magazine.com/product/apex-magazine-subscription-one-year/.

Also, when this issue comes out, we will be in the midst of a Kickstarter to fund a new anthology co-edited by Jason Sizemore and myself. Robotic Ambitions is an anthology of genre short fiction exploring what it means to be mechanical and sentient. We have a stellar lineup of anchor authors contributing stories to this project and look forward to diving into the submissions once the anthology has been funded. Find out more about Robotic Ambitions on Kickstarter here: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/apexpublications/robotic-ambitions.

Until the next issue, I wish you fantastic stories and happy reading.

Lesley Conner

ORIGINAL FICTION

Over Moonlit Clouds

6,900 WORDS

CODA AUDEGUY-PEGON

Content warning¹

Folks later claimed she was acting strange from the moment she boarded the plane.

They described her as skittish, curt, radiating an aura of danger. Some, when confronted with the security footage, which showed her to have behaved rather unremarkably up until she bolted into the bathroom, refused to change their story. They swore nine ways till Sunday that they saw what they saw, that CCTV lenses simply failed to capture the malevolent glint they’d caught in her eyes.

I noticed no such thing. To me, she was just another passenger, another hand presenting a ticket stub, a faceless body to be directed down the appropriate aisle. Later, when I was walking down the cabin to make sure all seatbelts were securely fastened, I did notice an edge to her polite smile, but it struck me as more frazzled than threatening. Just another nervous flyer.

During the multitude of protracted inquiries and trials that followed the incident, she never changed her position; she admitted, without caveat, that she’d made a foolish mistake. The masses, however, demanded a more compelling story, something on which to project their fear, a culprit more substantial than a mere fumble.

Her defenders insisted on painting her as a victim of environmental pressures. She was battling the state for custody of her three children, and her employers were in the midst of a massive retrenchment campaign, and her building was going co-op, and her widowed mother had recently passed and left her with massive medical bills, and she was having to travel back and forth to manage all the various crises, and, and, and … The system failed her, they claimed. Some went as far as to hold the airline responsible. How, they asked, could we have allowed this to happen? People like her have existed since the dawn of history. How could we have been so unprepared?

It’s sad to think that casting blame on the airline may have caused her ultimate undoing. The moment corporate profits were in jeopardy, the debate got ugly. Some big law firm with too many old-money names on the letterhead got involved, and they had no qualm stoking prejudice to redirect blame. In the eyes of the public, they made her into a monster.

The first clear memory I have of her is one of beautiful weariness. The last rays of the setting sun were dancing on the ridges and valleys of her features, highlighting her capable but rushed faux-natural makeup. She looked exhausted but oddly wistful as she stared out the window, her body slumped in the stiff seat, her attention lost in the vast stretch of clouds.

She turned to me, cheeks twitching into a reflexive smile. Excuse me? she asked, blinking in confusion.

Would you like something to drink? I repeated.

She clocked the cart in front of me. Oh. Uh … no. Thank you.

I made to move on to the next passenger—the practiced script already playing out in my head, the words, hollowed out of meaning by countless repetitions, already forming on my tongue—when she jerked upright.

The sudden motion caught my attention, drawing me back to her, only to see her expression solidify into a mask of pure dread. Her jaw dropped, nostrils flaring, terror shimmering in her wide-open eyes. Oh no. Barely a whisper, the two syllables tumbling out of trembling lips.

She leapt out of her seat. One moment, she was sitting there, her stance comfortably familiar, and the next, her knees were to her chest and she was propelling herself through the air with the grace of a wild animal. I ducked.

She hit the drink cart. Some of the bottles and cartons toppled and spilled, producing a burst of startled yelps. I dropped to the floor as she vaulted over me. By the time I looked over my shoulder, she was already racing to the bathroom at the tail end of the plane, shooting past confused faces without a backwards glance.

She tried the stall on the left, found it locked, and let out a distressed moan before crashing against the right stall. The door gave way, and she disappeared, slamming the lock in place.

Murmurs filled the cabin. I felt the weight of countless gazes as I straightened.

My brain registered a grumbled complaint from a nearby passenger, and the hardwired reflexes of a service job snapped me out my shock. I grabbed a handful of napkins and offered them, rather helplessly, to the pair who’d just been doused in fruit juice and milk. I’m so very sorry, I professed as I straightened the toppled bottles and cartons. I’ll get a bigger cloth.

Their questioning frowns followed me as I made my way down the aisle.

Ayanda and Sam caught up with me by the bathrooms, wanting to know what had happened. I’d worked shifts with them before and knew that if I indulged their curiosity, they’d get distracted. What they needed were clear instructions, a task to keep them out of the way. I sent Sam to address the spill and asked Ayanda to find Naseem, our crew leader.

I gently knocked on the bathroom door. Are you alright?

When I didn’t get an answer, I listened more closely. She was doing her best to stifle the sound, but there was no mistaking it: she was sobbing.

Please, tell me how we can help.

You have to … Her voice cracked. She was struggling to get the words out. You have to land the plane.

At that point, I probably should have been worried, but I still saw her as an uncomfortable flyer—a particularly dramatic one, to be sure, but I simply couldn’t imagine such a ludicrous request was coming from a reasonable place.

We can’t help unless you tell us what’s wrong.

I … I’m so sorry … she hiccuped. I … lost count … of the days … The last words turned into a soft whine.

I’m not sure what it was about her voice, maybe how genuine and visceral her dismay felt even through the locked door, but it jogged something in my memory. The connection wasn’t fully formed yet, more like a faint tugging at the back of my mind.

Before I could get a firm grasp on it, Ayanda returned with Naseem. I delivered my report, sticking to the facts, which made for a short list. She lost count of the days? Naseem repeated.

I shrugged. Now that a supervisor was on the scene, I was only too glad to take a sheepish step back.

Naseem knocked on the door. Ma’am? Are you in need of medical help?

We strained our ears, hoping to catch a response. All we heard was a faint raspy breath.

We jumped when the door to the toilet stall behind us swung open but made a quick recovery. The passenger frowned at our plastered smiles.

Please, Naseem recited without missing a beat, could we ask you to return to your seat?

The passenger’s confusion only increased upon sensing the sickly sweet density of fresh drama permeating the cabin.

Then came the moan. It was an otherworldly sound, a snarl biting down on a whimper.

Instead of reacting, Naseem punctuated the polite instruction with a graceful, if insistent, wave down the aisle. Our smiles never faltered, as though none of us could hear the inarticulate groans coming from the locked stall. Cowed by our lack of shock, the passenger had no choice but to obey.

Naseem leaned towards Ayanda and whispered, Go help Sam keep the herd in check.

I never much liked that sort of dehumanizing language when referring to our guests, but as I followed Ayanda with my gaze, the wording did feel appropriate. The herd was definitely getting restless. An economy class cabin is a powder-keg of tension on the best of days, a myriad of mild annoyances crammed into a flying steel tube; in such an atmosphere, mysteries are best avoided.

Naseem gave another rap on the still-locked bathroom door. Ma’am? We need to know what’s going on.

Nothing. The strange moaning had stopped.

Ma’am.

The door unlocked. We both took a step back.

She opened it only a sliver, tossed something at our feet, then slammed the door and locked it shut.

I bent down to pick up a small medical bracelet. Again, memory tugged at the back of my mind. I flipped it over, unaware that my life was about to change forever, and found a small tag branded with three simple letters: LYC.

The same panic I had read in her eyes filled my chest, and the same helpless words floated out of my mouth. Oh no.

My aunt’s husband was diagnosed with lycanthropy as an infant.

He was one of the lucky ones, especially back then. Many in his situation were murdered during episodes, attacked on sight, all too often by a loved one or relative. Some simply ran off into the night, reappearing weeks, months, sometimes years later as nameless corpses in a ditch. Most kept their condition a secret as they strove for normal lives, shouldering the burden alone for as long as they could.

Strange condition, lycanthropy. The overwhelming instinct among those afflicted is to hide it, even as toddlers. To cower in fear and silence, until the moon passes. It’s as though they know, even at a young age, how catastrophically a bad encounter can go.

That’s all most folks know, the bad encounters. Tragic affairs. Gaping bullet wounds from a rifle wielded in panic, flesh torn open by teeth and bare hands, buckets of blood spilled in misinformed self-defense.

My uncle was one of the loveliest men I’ve ever known. He wasn’t without his flaws, but he brought a touch of tenderness to everything he did, every task, every word, every smile. I think it was his way of tipping the balance,