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Apex Magazine: Issue 35
Apex Magazine: Issue 35
Apex Magazine: Issue 35
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Apex Magazine: Issue 35

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Apex Magazine is a monthly science fiction, fantasy, and horror magazine featuring original, mind-bending short fiction from many of the top pros of the field. New issues are released on the first Tuesday of every month.

Table of Contents
Fiction:
"Love is a Parasite Meme" by Lavie Tidhar
"The Second Card of the Major Arcana" by Thoraiya Dyer
"Alternate Girl's Expatriate Life" by Rochita Loenen-Ruiz

Nonfiction:
"Editorial: Blood on Vellum" by Lynne M. Thomas
"World SF: Our Possible Future" by Charles Tan
"Interview with Lavie Tidhar" by Stephanie Jacob

Cover art by Raúl Cruz.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateSep 15, 2016
ISBN9781370286331
Apex Magazine: Issue 35

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    Book preview

    Apex Magazine - Lynne M. Thomas

    Apex Magazine

    International SF Themed Issue

    Guest Edited by Lavie Tidhar

    Smashwords Edition

    Copyrights & Acknowledgments

    Love is a Parasite Meme Copyright 2011 by Lavie Tidhar

    The Second Card of the Arcana Major Copyright 2011 by Thoraiya Dyer

    Alternate Girl’s Expatriate Life Copyright 2011 by Rochita Loenen-Ruiz

    No Poisoned Comb Copyright 2011 by Amal El-Mohtar

    World SF: Our Possible Future Copyright 2011 by Charles Tan

    Interview with Lavie Tidhar Copyright 2011 by Stephanie Jacob

    Publisher—Jason Sizemore

    Editor-in-Chief—Lynne M. Thomas

    Senior Editor—Gill Ainsworth

    Assistant Editor—Maggie Slater

    Interview Editor—Stephanie Jacob

    Submission Editors—Zakarya Anwar, Mari Adkins, George Galuschak, Deanna Knippling, Sarah E. Olson, Lillian Cohen-Moore, Olga Zelanova, Patrick Tomlinson, Sigrid Ellis, Michael Damian Thomas, and Travis Knight.

    ISSN: 2157-1406

    Apex Publications

    PO Box 24323

    Lexington, KY 40524

    Please visit us at http://www.apex-magazine.com.

    Cover art by Raul Cruz

    TABLE OF CONTENTS

    FICTION

    Love is a Parasite Meme

    Lavie Tidhar

    The Second Card of the Major Arcana

    Thoraiya Dyer

    Alternate Girl’s Expatriate Life

    Rochita Loenen-Ruiz

    POETRY

    No Poisoned Comb

    Amal El-Mohtar

    NONFICTION

    World SF: Our Possible Future

    Charles Tan

    Interview with Lavie Tidhar

    Stephanie Jacob

    LOVE IS A PARASITE MEME

    Lavie Tidhar

    Love is a parasite meme, she’d told him once. It would have been Amsterdam, with the poisoned canals and a gibbous moon, made green with atmospheric pollution, gloaming over Station Centraal.

    They did not like to use the word love, what they had was something else, a shared loneliness—

    He called himself Job because when the world turns rotten all around you, like God’s goddamned apple left out for the snakes, when it kills your family and what friends you had and the neighbours and the neighbours’ dog, then it’s trying to sell you something even while it fucks you.

    You’re a blank, she used to tell him. They saw each other periodically—under the burnt-out stump of the Tour Eiffel in Paris they had fucked  because she wouldn’t say making love, she said you couldn’t, really, not anymore—and later, as they became cold, he tried to deny it.

    I had a life, he said. But I could never explain it adequately to people. I was a composite, I never lived in just one place or spoke a single language. I grew up on a kibbutz in Israel, for fuck sakes. Hardly anyone comes from Israel. I’ve lived in the places we used to call South Africa, and in London and Laos—

    Why is it always London and not the United Kingdom? she said, stretching.

    Because London is a world, not a city,’ he said.It was, not is," she said.

    I spoke English and Hebrew and Bislama and I could swear in Afrikaans and Thai, he said, though he lied—he had never got the hang of tonal languages and his Thai had been limited to numbers at the market. I moved around, I had no cultural anchor.

    You must have been happy when the world ended, she said, astutely.

    Job never replied to that. She didn’t require a reply. She knew.

    The end of the world had been a fucking relief.

    In Paris he had spent a long winter once sheltering in an abandoned bookstore on the left bank of the Seine, by Notre Dame. He’d been alone in all of Paris that year, but for a presence he could not explain. Walking through the empty streets of the Latin Quarter at night sometimes he’d hear music, chansons d’amour echoing through the stone houses crowded close together, as though someone, nearby were playing old vinyl records on a gramophone, the quality of the music scratched and old and battered. He hated the invisible player of the music, had hunted for him, but the music and its master evaded him, growing distant the closer he got.

    There had only been him

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