Black Denim Lit #6: The Girl in the Glass Case

By Black Denim Lit

The July, 2014 issue edited by Christopher T Garry features 124 pages of never before seen stories from eight new authors, creating narratives that are variously dark, cynical, inspiring, violent and longing. Black Denim Lit is a monthly journal of fiction available on the web and eReaders.

"'Til Death Do Us Party" by Kelly Schrock (Cinder is suspended on the far side of death); "Call for Help" by Zack Miller (Jenny considers her place at the center of suicide support); "Unfinished Things" by Ethan Fast (A thing lurks in the dark speaking low and reasonable); "What Pavel Found" by Geoffrey W. Cole (Pavel visits a future that has a past requiring more than a lifetime to understand); "The Girl in the Glass Case" by Matthew Di Paoli (Fred struggles with tenuous socialization and stark sexuality in an increasingly internalized technological world); PLUS "Uncanny Valley" by M.T. O’Byrne; "The Teacher's Connection" by T.D. Edge; "Local News" by Benjamin Schachtman

What are you looking for outside yourself? What gives you forward motion in a brutal life? How will artificially intelligent androids feel living at the edge of what scientists today call the Uncanny Valley?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Denim Lit
• Release date: Jul 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310831263

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 #6

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

With our sixth book, having seen material now from some five hundred different authors I can say confidently what it is that we want to read. We want to get a feel for the author’s consistent and unique voice. For any of the contributors this month, if you read their work carefully... if you soak in it, close your eyes and repeat a passage in your head, you will hear their voice. You will hear their voice.

In ‘Til Death Do Us Party, Kelly Schrock renders a girl worth more than she knows, but suspended on the far side of death. Schrock has a genuine and disarming voice, full of dark emotion just beneath the surface and a sentence level skill that surprises.

Zack Miller drags us to the near side of death, shining a single, shadeless bulb over the edge in his Call For Help, finding a taut humor on suicide.

After that, Ethan Fast offers, Unfinished Things, the things which sit in the dark and speak low and reasonable, grating to be let out.

In,What Pavel Found, Geoffrey W. Cole visits a future having a past that requires more than a lifetime to understand. This is a terrific layered piece considering not only age but the cultural impact of future.

Matthew Di Paoli offers, The Girl in the Glass Case, exploring tenuous socialization and stark sexuality in an increasingly internalized technological world.

Considering the point at which human approximation in an android unwittingly graduates from impressive to merely creepy, Uncanny Valley by M.T. O’Byrne, explores android culture, whose curators idle at the edge of society.

In The Teacher’s Connection, T.D. Edge visits pop philosophy, the frustration of writing and just what it is that we are looking for outside ourselves.

Local News, by Benjamin Schachtman, examines the bonds we form that give a forward motion in a brutal life with imagery and introspection into character that are stark and masterful.

This all took a long time to edit this month. Not because the material was somehow ill-prepared. To the contrary, it worked well and each piece demanded its time and space to fully realize itself. The work here is immutable, rough and crimson, almost hot to the touch.

When I first encountered each of this month’s stories, I stayed pure reader as I often do while scouring the inbox. That’s my honor and privilege as an editor, to still strike that pose for the first blush, ready for the red rush of a piece that works.

In each case, I finished reading. And afterwards...

I thought, greedily, it’s mine now.

I was immersed in dark prose with vivid characters.

This one: Will this be me...?

That one: Was that me already...?

In every case, they got under my skin and gave me pause.

Enjoy,

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

‘TIL DEATH DO US PARTY by Kelly Schrock

The worst part about being dead is you get invited to all these parties. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes they’re pretty fun. But there’s this persistent thought that you only know so many people who are going to die, that there’re only so many people to send off into the land of still hearts with cheers and tears and irreverent eulogies. A nagging knowledge that one day you’ll run out of people who will even remember your name – much less to invite you.

Then there’s this dancing around the question, Do they know they’re dead? You’d think everyone would know that they’ve had their brains blown out or wasted away in the cancer ward, but they don’t. There’s a firm, unspoken rule that you never tell the clueless dearly departed about their breathless state. They’ll figure it out in their own time. It’s rude to rush them.

I remember one time early on there was this guy; I don’t remember his name now. He was clearly a newcomer still trying to figure out if he could walk through walls (you can’t) and contact the living (sometimes you can, but why?). Anyway, some ancient mutual acquaintance dies, and we’re eating white cake and drinking some weird German booze that was a favorite of the decrepit deceased. We’re all doing our rounds, you know, Nice to see you, Jim. It’s been ages. How are you doing? And Jim doesn’t know. So we don’t tell him. It’s obvious from the glazed unconcerned confusion in his eyes, but it’s pretty easy to ask, How are you doing? and if someone doesn’t say Dead you don’t mention anything. But this stupid new-timer marches in, claps Jim on his frail, wrinkled shoulder and booms, Welcome to the afterlife, buddy, I thought you’d never die!

Jim, of course, goes off on him. Breaks his nose right there, blood all over the white cake. It was pretty impressive for such an old dude.

After the anger simmered down Jim stopped talking to anyone. He stared blank at his hands going, It’s a joke. A cruel joke. Over and over. When I leave he’s still mumbling his mantra, tears rolling down his wrinkled cheeks.

Bucky’s party is probably the worst I’ve been to since I passed out drinking penny royal tea cursing my ex, my bad luck, my own fertile body, and woke up to my grandmother beaming, Welcome home!

• • •

Unlike me, it wasn’t Bucky’s fault. Unlike me, he was full of life. He was one of those people so full of exuberance it’s tiring to be around them. A rarity in the punk scene rife with cynics whose best excitement is getting drunk and angry at eviction parties. Bucky loved everything: flowers, cool-looking moss, abandoned buildings, the moon, every kind of food, graffiti, really gross blisters. He’d talk to toothless men begging on the streets, share his pocket whisky with them. He was on a first-name basis with all the homeless who hung out on the corner by our work.

He even loved me. Not that I was good enough. Not that I returned it. Not that I knew how. My heart too crippled, beating all arrhythmic and blowing up like a backfiring car over every little thing. I was jealous, untrusting, cagey, disloyal. I was a liar, cheater, thief. I was hung up on the asshole who scarred my face, even after he left me for his stepsister. EX-stepsister... I can still hear him correct me, our parents were never technically married.

Bucky was brave and bright and broken and sweet like a penny in the gutter, like a lost broken earring. Hopeful as a child.

But even with all that hopeful, all that joie de vivre, all that love for animals and good stories and making giant pots of chili, Bucky died. In police custody. Hand-cuffed to a chair, face brutalized almost beyond the point of recognition. Trying to escape. Wrists oozing.

• • •

When I show up, he’s still cuffed to the chair. I think he spends the whole night that way. We’re all too afraid to touch him. What if he finds out he’s dead? How could you digest that kind of end?

He looks like shit.

The whole idea of getting your perfect body back when you die is bullshit. Sometimes there’s the asshole who spent his whole life terrorizing his children, his dog, who split open his wife’s head not once but twice, who gets crushed by a wayward semi at toothless 80, and comes down here a gorgeous 20-something with perfect skin. But that’s a rarity. Most people here show up like his poor terrorized wife, with all her scars and the limp from "falling down the stairs," who still has to rest when she moves too fast because her poor broken head spins. There’s no reason behind it.

I’ve never stopped cramping. I still have all my scars. And I shit blood. Daily.

But Bucky, God, I can barely look at him. The worst part is he can’t feel any of it. His broken split lip smile is as careless and genuine as ever, blood dripping down his chin.

How the hell are you, Cinder? It’s been a grip, come sit by me.

I sit. He smells like piss and fear.

Hey, man, how you feeling?

Great! Everyone is here! He grins, gestures to the crowd with his un-cuffed hand. His nails are torn. It’s been too long since we had a party like this. Not since summer at the Doghouse with Grant and Kalypso. You remember that?

That was four years before I died. Death does funny things to memory, makes it all dreamy and out of place.

The bonfires. Remember when Chris caught his hair on fire?

I smile.

Bucky sighs, satisfied with remembering, Was this all your idea?

You think I could have come up with all this? Never, Bucky, you shouldn’t be here until you’ve lost every memory of me in wrinkles and grandchildren’s laughter.

Holy shit, is that Joe? Joe Rickert! He yells, waves. Joe smiles and starts over. God, I can’t believe that guy is still around, Bucky chuckles, Thought he would’ve killed himself on that bike years ago.

He had.

I excuse myself to get a drink.

• • •

Chelsea is by the keg. Hers is the first of the parties I went to down here. Heroin overdose six months after my untimely end.

I spent my time here before ... that scared, alone in the dark, shitting blood and cramping. Halted life in my belly heavy as bricks. Time down here can get pretty loopy and sideways, especially when you’re alone. It felt like a lifetime of dark and lonely.

Her party was actually fun. She knew she was dead, thought it was hilarious. We spent the whole time getting hammered and speculating who was next and how they’d go.

What did we ever decide for Bucky? She’s had the knack for reading