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    Apex Magazine Issue 119: Apex Magazine, #119
    Apex Magazine Issue 119: Apex Magazine, #119
    Apex Magazine Issue 119: Apex Magazine, #119
    Ebook120 pages1 hour

    Apex Magazine Issue 119: Apex Magazine, #119

    By Apex Magazine

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    About this ebook

    Apex Magazine is a science fiction, fantasy, and horror magazine featuring original, mind-bending short fiction f

    EDITORIAL
    Words from the Editor-in-Chief — Jason Sizemore

    FICTION
    Professor Strong and the Brass Boys by Amal Singh
    All Votes Will Be Counted (We Promise) by Paul Crenshaw
    Face by Veronica Brush
    A Fool's Baneful Gallantry by Derek Lubangakene

    NONFICTION
    Interview with Author Amal Singh by Andrea Johnson
    Interview with Cover Artist Marcela Bolivar by Russell Dickerson
    The Pros and Cons of Stage Directions by Alethea Kontis

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherApex Publications
    Release dateMay 5, 2022
    ISBN9798201986247
    Apex Magazine Issue 119: Apex Magazine, #119

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      Book preview

      Apex Magazine Issue 119 - Apex Magazine

      Apex Magazine

      Issue 119, March 2019

      Amal Singh Paul Crenshaw Veronica Brush Derek Lubangakene Alethea Kontis

      Edited by

      Jason Sizemore

      Apex Publications

      Contents

      Words from the Editor-in-Chief by Jason Sizemore

      Professor Strong and the Brass Boys by Amal Singh

      Interview with Author Amal Singh by Andrea Johnson

      (Sponsor) Into the Game

      All Votes Will Be Counted (We Promise) by Paul Crenshaw

      (Sponsor) Broadswords and Blasters

      The Pros and Cons of Stage Directions by Alethea Kontis

      Face by Veronica Brush

      (Apex) Do Not Go Quietly

      A Fool’s Baneful Gallantry by Derek Lubangakene

      Interview with Cover Marcela Bolívar by Russell Dickerson

      Apex Magazine Issue 120 Preview

      Contributor Bios

      Website and Newsletter Info

      Subscription Info

      Jason Sizemore

      Words from the Editor-in-Chief by Jason Sizemore

      Well, that was an experience.

      I’ve survived a triple resection of my mandible. There’s still plenty of pain, swelling, and a lack of teeth, but considering all things, I’m doing really well. The support of the genre community has been incredible. Your messages of love and healing did a lot to keep my spirits up, and I thank you.

      I owe a big debt of gratitude and thanks to my incredible team. Especially Lesley Conner, Jane Clark, and Hannah Krieger. They kept the magazine operating smoothly in my absence. Lesley Conner was a champ taking over the role of ‘boss’ while I was blissed out on pain medication. She is about as good a friend and colleague anyone could hope for.

      This month we are featuring stories about resistance to celebrate the release of Do Not Go Quietly later this month. We have two works of original fiction that deal with difficult choices. In All Votes Will Be Count (We Promise) by Paul Crenshaw, a father must decide between love of country and love of family. In Amal Singh’s compelling Professor Strong and the Brass Boys, a group of androids choose to express themselves in a uniquely human manner. Amal’s story is also our podcast fiction selection this month.

      International fiction editor Cristina Jurado brings us an exciting fantasy novelette titled A Fool’s Baneful Gallantry from Ugandan author Derek Lubangakene. It’s firmly in the traditional fantasy category, but we think you’ll still love it.

      Rounding out our fiction is Face by Veronica Brush. It’s a reprint from Do Not Go Quietly: An Anthology of Victory in Resistance edited by Lesley and I. We’re extremely proud of the anthology, so after you read Face we hope you’ll give the rest of the book a try!

      In our nonfiction selection this month, Alethea Kontis ties together the world of stage acting and the act of writing in The Pros and Cons of Stage Directions. Andrea Johnson interviews our featured writer Amal Singh, and Russell Dickerson and Marcela Bolívar discuss resistance art in this month’s cover artist interview.

      Enjoy the issue! See you next month.

      Jason

      Amal Singh

      Professor Strong and the Brass Boys by Amal Singh

      5,200 words

      I stand backstage, anxious. My cognitive implant, fed by a recursive code, tells me this is a bad idea. It tells me this decision is, as humans would say, impulsive. I am desperate. Desperate to make a good entrance. Desperate to make a point. Much of what has happened in the last few weeks would come to fruition today. The future of the droids in front of me depends on how I make this entrance. It could be good, or it could be bad. It could be so much worse.

      My brass thumb caresses the wooden violin neck. I sense an electric shiver in my right arm, the one which is clutching the bow. I grip the violin so tight, the neck might just break. I fear for the worst, trying too hard not to freak out. But I know I must not. Because if I break now, so will my brass boys.

      Professor, I think you should have prepared the speech instead, says Lovolo, the frogoid with the trombone.

      I will not succumb. I shall overcome. Vinthian, the owl-like droid in charge of the saxophone, hasn’t stopped chanting those two sentences, in ris oily, too robotic voice. The humans haven’t seen these droids in any other capacity than servitude. Fragile species that they are, the humans are known to respond to a change in status-quo with anger, frustration, even violence. Thousands of years of history, embedded in my memory banks, tells me this. It also doesn’t help that I am a history professor at the school. And a respected one at that.

      Professor, I think it won’t be the same without Yuyu, Lovolo voices ris concern.

      Remember, boys, we’re doing this for Yuyu, I say in my best professor-y voice. It is a preset baritone. I also emulate a slight cough, even though, in the company of these droids, I don’t have to. Coughs are for humans. Sighs are for humans. Ahem, ahem, clear the throat before you begin the speech. One, two, three, sound check, before you begin the song.

      But music is also for humans, so we were told. And here we are.

      I decide to take that step. For me. For them. For the one missing brass boy who couldn’t make it.

      Two weeks earlier, I stood in front of my class, my eyeball swiveling in my brass socket, registering the dew that had settled on the window. It had rained the night before. Humans like rain. Put two and two together, and I could very well figure out the reason of the sudden disobedience. Adam Irvine kept stealing glances outside, biting his lip every other second. Anjali Madhavan kept playing with her hair, never satisfied how it was braided. The back-benchers ignored me all together, and were now sitting on the window ledge, admiring the grey clouds outside.

      My circuits flared up. Humans really loved rains.

      I made a movement with my hands, and the information board behind me was wiped clean. I made another movement, and the words Spanish Civil War appeared, greenish black against the grainy, translucent screen.

      I emulated a cough and began. Class, please pay attention.

      No one listened.

      Mr. Phillips, if you’d be so kind to answer what was the one thing that prompted this harrowing war.

      Todd Phillips was one of the backbenchers. He was sitting on the window ledge, his back against the pane, legs dangling. Uninterested. He shrugged and summarily ignored me.

      Seeing as Mr. Phillips is otherwise engaged at the moment, I’d request Miss Madhavan to answer the question.

      Professor, said Anjali. You told us in the first class there is no single reason for a large-scale conflict.

      One of those small wheels turned inside my brain. Anjali was smart.

      C’mon, Professor, let us go already, said Todd.

      If I do that now, in the rain, I might as well be canceling tomorrow’s class. You’ll all be wheezing and coughing tomorrow, requesting another dismissal.

      You see right through us, don’t you, Professor? Todd said. My circuits flared differently this time. Sarcasm was dripping off Todd’s face, and my cognitive implant was not only intelligent enough to get it, but also erudite enough to help me come with a smart reply of my own.

      There’s not much to see, Mr. Philips, I said. It took a while to dawn on Todd what I’d said. Some chuckles followed. I had succeeded in this little banter, if only marginally. Class dismissed, I said.

      A noisy shuffle of feet. Bags hitting bags, shoulders grazing shoulders, arms in arms, with chit-chat not proper for a classroom, the students slowly trickled out. In the end, only Anjali was left. She was doing something with her braids again. Her bag, too, was not packed.

      Something’s the matter, Miss Madhavan?

      Nothing, professor.

      I wiped the information board clean and started to leave, when Anjali called me.

      Professor, I wanted to ask you something.

      Ask away, Miss Madhavan.

      She pushed a couple of textbooks inside her bag hastily, and clasped it shut. Hauling it on her shoulders, she said, What is it that you do once you get home, Professor?

      I don’t understand, I

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