Apex Magazine Issue 20
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About this ebook
Apex Magazine is an online digital zine of genre short fiction.
FICTION
The Itaewon Eschatology Show by Douglas F. Warrick
The Tolling of Pavlov's Bells by Seanan McGuire
Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Mary Robinette Kowal
POETRY
"The Unkindest Cut" by Mike Allen
"The Terminal City" by Preston Grassman
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Apex Magazine Issue 20 - Apex Book Company
COPYRIGHTS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Itaewon Eschatology
Copyright 2011 by Douglas F. Warrick
The Tolling of Pavlov’s Bells
Copyright 2011 by Seanan McGuire
Tomorrow and Tomorrow
Copyright 2006 by Mary Robinette Kowal
The Terminal City
Copyright 2011 by Preston Grassmann
The Unkindest Kiss
Copyright 2011 by Mike Allen
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
Cover art Cat and Dog
by Viktors Kozers
ISSN: 2157-1406
Copyright 2011 Apex Publications
Apex Publications
PO Box 24323
Lexington, KY 40524
Please visit us at http://www.apexbookcompany.com
Table of Contents
Short Fiction
—§—
The Itaewon Eschatology
By Douglas F. Warrick
The Tolling of Pavlov’s Bells
By Seanan McGuire
Tomorrow and Tomorrow
By Mary Robinette Kowal
Poetry
—§—
The Terminal City
By Preston Grassmann
The Unkindest Kiss
By Mike Allen
—§—
Submission Guidelines
The Itaewon Eschatology Show
by Douglas F. Warrick
She sips her coffee like a lady, and then downs her whisky like a champ. Her name is not Alice, but that is what I call her, because her Korean name is hard on my tongue and she doesn’t like to hear me mispronounce it. Her hair is brown, the kind of brown that you call black until you get close enough to her to get it caught on the sides of your mouth, close enough that in the morning, you find strands of it on your pillow. But the lights in this place, strung high, blue and red, they make her hair look blonde. Christ Jesus, they lie to you.
She says, Don’t go to Itaewon.
Her English is good. Much better than my Korean. She tells me this on the nights when she’ll be working.
And I tell her I won’t. Even though I will.
Those are the only words we share at dinner. I keep turning to the waiter and saying, Yugio.
And he keeps coming over.
I keep saying, Coffee.
And he keeps saying, 피피?"
And I keep saying, Whisky.
And he keeps saying, 키?
And we drink our 커피 and our 위스키 until eleven. And then it’s time for her to go home and for me to go someplace else.
I meet Kidu in front of the place where the taxis gather like fat blue fish, lazy and overfed. He has a beer in each hand. One for me and one for him. From the torso up, he is dressed like a clown. His waistcoat is purple, his felt porkpie hat is red, and the tails of his black-and-white checkered jacket are long enough to brush the sidewalk. The tails will look better when he straps on the stilts, more natural. He pulls his cigarettes out of one pocket of his jeans and sticks one between his painted lips. In the dark like this, the white and black greasepaint makes his face look like an inkblot.
When he gets close enough to me, he plucks the cigarette out of his mouth, cocks his head to one side and buzzes his lips. He sounds like a kazoo.
Cute,
I say. I thought we were getting dressed in Itaewon.
I got it out of the way,
he says. You’ve got the stilts?
Both pairs are sticking out of the top of my backpack, stark and obvious like the stolen bones of some enormous and forgotten animal, and I know he can see them so I don’t answer.
We hail a cab. Kidu tells him where to go. When we are together, Kidu talks, and I am silent. When I am with Alice, it’s the same way. In Korea, I don’t ever have to talk to anyone.
Once at dinner, Alice told me, It isn’t like the States. It’s not something that nobody does; it’s something that everyone does. Women expect it. Men don’t even think about it, they just do it.
That’s just so fucked up,
I said.
She wrapped a piece of barbequed pork in a piece of lettuce and slid it into her mouth, occupying that space so that she wouldn’t have to respond.
You’ll get hurt,
I told her. Don’t you have a pimp or something?
I have a boss,
she