Black Denim Lit #5: No Sleep Till Deadtown

By Black Denim Lit

The June, 2014 issue #5 edited by Christopher T Garry features never before seen short stories from eight new authors. They create narratives that are variously dark, cynical, inspiring, disturbing, longing and irreverent. Black Denim Lit is a monthly journal of fiction available on the web and on all eReaders.

**"No Sleep Til Deadtown" by Michael Haynes: an unusual taxi driver risks a dangerous game **"Jinn" by Daniel Moore: a woman plays 'Marid' for her clients, guiding them through subconscious memory and desire **"Deficit" by Sarah Vernetti: mother and child are pursued through a world in crisis **"The Line of Fate" by Suzanne Burns: a young wife struggles with mania and identity **"Gladys Collins" by John Pace: a quiet life implodes under the shadow of a smothering stranger **"The Cloud" by Elaine Olund: a uniquely simple solution for anxiety and fear PLUS **"Pigs Fry; Pigs Fly" by Janet Slike; **"Ripples From The Weather Aggregator" by Sean Monaghan

How do you wield power in a world bent on a balance of terror? What if extricating all your anxieties left nothing earthly behind? What comes from wishes made of snow? Can you fabricate a memory into something spontaneous?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Denim Lit
• Release date: Jun 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310160646

Black Denim Lit

Black Denim Lit welcomes thoughtful writers, new and established for online and print literary journal (monthly / twice-annually). Rolling monthly deadline, all year.They are looking for fiction up to 7,500 words that has unique, lasting artistic merit and will offer token payment. They consider novelettes up to 17,500 words on a case by case basis, and some genre work. They offer writer-focused, personal feedback and fast response.Why "Black Denim"...? It's understated and unpretentious, typifying the tone of style that appeals: grounded, approachable and unassuming. Their tastes consider that "lasting artistic merit" can emerge from almost anywhere.Black Denim Lit (Fiction: $token, G/F/S/O). http://dtrp.me/m_14164.aspxEnjoy.Sincerely,The EditorsBlack Denim Literature Magazine

Book preview

Black Denim Lit #5

Dark Fantasy. Science Fiction.

And other oddness.

A short story collection edited by

Christopher T Garry

Compilation Copyright

© 2014 Black Denim Press, LLC

Published by Black Denim Press, LLC. At Smashwords

[e-mail]

INTRODUCTION

In, Jinn, by Daniel Moore, Endo plays Marid for her clients, guiding them on requisite dives into subconsciousness. In, Deficit, by Sarah Vernetti, Iris and her mother are pursued through chaotic crisis, with society breaking down and the world’s water diminishing. In The Line of Fate, by Suzanne Burns, Tabitha follows palmistry and her mother’s dolls. In, No Sleep Till Deadtown, by Michael Haynes, Char runs her taxi for unusual clients in a dangerous game. In, Gladys Collins, by John Pace, Gladys’s life implodes to nightmare at the appearance of a stranger who plagues her. In, The Cloud, by Elaine Olund, Maribel works against overwhelming anxiety and fear using a breakthrough medical solution. In, Pigs Fry; Pigs Fly, by Janet Slike, Hannah waits for a good butcher in this romantic fantasy. Finally, in, Ripples From the Weather Aggregator, by Sean Monaghan an action thriller ensues as Jaclyn Jack has her work take an odd turn when her US-bound flight is diverted.

Enjoy,

— Christopher T Garry, Renton, Washington. (June 1st, 2014)

JINN by Daniel Moore

Endo’s body was drained, her stomach concave and skin wet. All she wanted was sleep, to roll back to the middle of the bed and let the hours melt away, but the thumping at her temples forced her eyes to stay open. It was a vice of tensed muscles that clamped down at the base of her neck, reminding her that sleep wouldn’t be an easy thing to find. She had often wondered if the implant was a mistake, if she could’ve done without it or made money some other way. There were options in the new city. Unlike New York, L.A. seemed to have industries on top of industries buried just beneath the surface. She wasn’t a stranger to going through seedy routes to keep the lights on. But in the end, Endo always came back to the same conclusion; she couldn’t live without it.

The body next to her rolled over the sheets. Pale skin turned blue beneath flashing lights trilling to the tune of the alarm. Endo ignored the sound and stared at her, watched her breast rise and fall as she took shallow breaths in her sleep, dreaming of memories that took place thousands of miles away, on nights that ended like this, years ago.

Endo leaned over to kiss her awake. The sting of a migraine bit back in protest, making her grunt in discomfort. She held it for a moment, felt the clamp tighten behind her eyes. When she felt she wouldn’t vomit from the pain, she leaned in and planted her lips beside her ear.

Endo climbed out of bed, massaging her temples with her thumb and forefinger, trying to make her brain fit in her skull again. She switched off the alarm, killing the flash projecting from within the walls. She looked back at her bedmate, reaching out, searching in slumber. Silently, Endo tiptoed out to the bathroom, carefully closing the door.

The digital display on the vanity greeted her by first analyzing her features with intuitive software designed to prepare her best for the night ahead. Text over her reflection suggested that there might be damage to one of her trigeminal nerves, and listed homeopathic and pharmaceutical remedies to ease the tension. Endo tapped the glass, hearing the beginnings of a simulated voice springing to life to read the options aloud. Rather than heed the suggestions, she opted for a handful of ibuprofen from behind the mirror and a drink from the tap. The taste of chalk and the lump in her throat was tolerable — 1200 mg would ease the pressure on her head in time.

Endo showered and hummed that familiar tune, the one that traveled with her from the life left behind. While washing her face, she remembered fragments of the chorus, words that dropped to the beat but didn’t line up properly. And as she brushed her brown hair, careful not to touch the nape of her neck — the opening to her jack, the seat of her metal-lined slot — she heard the song playing from the bedroom, softly coming from the speakers of her PC monitor. She smiled.

Endo walked back to the room, finding her sitting in the center of the bed, her face awash in the glow of a tablet resting in her naked lap.

Aren’t you tired, said Endo, burying her head in the corner closet.

Aren’t you? she said, running her fingers through her short, black hair.

I wouldn’t mind sleeping for another day or two.

Well, I’ve slept enough. It’s like all you want to do is keep me locked in your apartment.

You’re right. I don’t want you going anywhere.

It’d be nice to put on clothes one in a while. Maybe go further than the door.

I prefer you here, just where you are. Endo slipped on the gray jeans and red tank top, judging her look in the mirror.

Where are you headed?

Work, said Endo, dragging black boots back to the bed. I have to go in and meet with a client for a little while.

A client? she said, helping to fasten the last buckle in a series of twelve, failing in the process. And what is it that you do for your clients out here?

Same as I did back home, only different.

On stage or in private?

In private.

Is that your way of telling me I can’t come with you?

That’s exactly what I’m saying. Endo walked over to the armchair by the door, grabbing the leather biker thrown over the armrest. She slipped it on, hearing it creak around her arms, feeling almost too small around her ribs. It smelled of her. After years, it still smelled like her. Do you mind?

Take it, she said. It’s yours now.

Endo walked back to her, held her head in her hands and kissed her for an inordinate span of time. She kissed as if it were a good-bye. There’s food, said Endo, finally pulling away from her gay-eyed stare. You already found the PC. So, you know, just keep busy till I get back. I won’t be long.

I’ll be here, she said, turning on her back, setting the tablet on her stomach. She sent the song back to its beginning.

What’s the name of that? said Endo. It’s been bugging me since you returned.

She smiled. I’ll tell you when you come back home.

Endo walked to the door, reluctantly, staring at her reflection in the tin doorknob. She had to talk herself into walking out the door.

The taxi’s software screwed up — though the cracked screen with the markered glass was probably more to blame — and dropped her off further up La Brea than she wanted. Not wanting to screw up a second time, Endo swiped her card through the partition’s reader and continued on foot.

She lit up a cigarette and blew the smoke up past her face, careful not to perfume the jacket. A file of vinyl skirts and nearly bare chests pointed to the temple facing Hollywood Boulevard. The working girls didn’t follow her past the church. They stopped acknowledging her when they saw her step in the direction of the minarets surrounding the neon lamp above Majlis al Jinn.

The thought of the lounge nauseated her. The atmosphere was calm on most nights, and the music wasn’t always horrible. Nevertheless, the lights and the chatter weren’t easy on her. Brain pressure was still something she was getting used to, and any unwanted stimulus was an attack on the senses. That there’d only be one to work with tonight made the world something she could tolerate.

Gynoid twins greeted Endo when she stepped onto the main floor. Hard plastic and running lights separated molds of female flesh, colored and textured to look like human skin. They recognized her face, her height, and her build. One claimed Endo had lost color in the past month and her already low intake of vitamin D had dwindled further. The other noticed a drop in weight, red branches forming in her eyes, and asked if she was ill or pregnant.

It took Reza several calls to grab her attention away from the six-foot-tall toys to his position at the far end of the floor.

You’re cutting it close, he said, working his fingers into his thick beard. He’s already here, and he’s asked to get started a few times already.

Guess I’m just not feeling well.

What’s the matter? Something serious?

No, said Endo, feeling her implant flare up, I just had something else I wanted to do tonight.

Well, this won’t take too long. The guy’s a virgin; he’s not going to last long. Between you and me, I think he just wants to make sure it’s still there, that everything is like it should be. I doubt he’s going to make you run a marathon.

They