The Society of Misfit Stories Presents... June 2021

By Julie Ann Dawson, Denny Marshall, Gustavo Bondoni and 6 more

The Society of Misfit Stories is a home for those wonderful stories that are too long for most magazines but too short for stand-alone print books. Whether you call them short stories, novelettes, or novellas, these stories are all of a length that often struggles to find publication traditionally. Each issue offers a substantial volume of amazing speculative fiction for readers who enjoy spending time with a good tale. 

 

A sample of what you'll find in this issue:

 

A community living on the back of a giant tortoise-like creature faces a threat when the creature stops following their commands in Raise Me Up an Eastern Mountain.

 

A guitarist believes an imposter has assumed his identity, but as he tries to unravel the truth, he discovers the imposter is ever more dangerous that he realized in Broken Strings.

 

A bookshop owner's obsession with a female customer who has a disturbing interest in books about pain is forced to confront his own buried demons in Black Leather Gloves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bards and Sages Publishing
• Release date: May 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201866372

Julie Ann Dawson

Julie Ann Dawson is an author, editor, publisher, RPG designer, and advocate for writers who may occasionally require the services of someone with access to Force Lightning (and in case it was not obvious, a bit of a geek). Her work has appeared in a variety of print and digital media, including such diverse publications as the New Jersey Review of Literature, Lucidity, Black Bough, Poetry Magazine, Gareth Blackmore’s Unusual Tales, Demonground, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and others. In 2002 she started her own publishing company, Bards and Sages. The company has gone from having two titles to over one hundred titles between their print and digital products. In 2009, she launched the Bards and Sages Quarterly, a literary journal of speculative fiction. Since 2012, she has served as a judge for the IBPA's Benjamin Franklin Awards.

Book preview

Broken Strings

by Roxanne Klimek

THE DIRT ROAD LEADING to the house was bound to destroy the shocks on Tyler’s car. Every year, in the rainy months, the ground swelled and hardened into deep waves. By the time a local came by to grade the road, Tyler and his band would already be gone.

Pebbles kicked up at the underside of his car as he pulled into the driveway. No clear number marked the house, only landmarks. He wasn’t sure he found the right location until he spotted Luke leaning against his own car, cigarette in hand. Thick, black dreadlocks swept past the bottom of his leather jacket and outlined his bulky frame.

They hadn’t spoken since Luke gave his notice to leave the band. He’d only given two months. The bare minimum their contract allowed. Tyler’s stomach twisted at the sight of him.

That allowed plenty of time to finish the new album, Luke had insisted, and to find his replacement. But two months wasn’t close to enough, despite the contract. They couldn’t find a new guitarist who could play at their level in that time, not one who could memorize fifteen songs and their stage routine before festival season. Definitely not one who they could all get along with in a cramped bus touring thirty states and a couple stops in Canada.

How could someone put his friends and their careers in such a terrible position and live with himself afterward? That’s not how friends are supposed to act.

Tyler tried to keep his face neutral, but his eyebrows clenched. He took a moment to knead them out before he shoved open the car door. Luke was probably watching, but Tyler refused to check.

He grabbed his guitar case and slammed the door shut. Determined to carry everything to the house without hunching over, he swung his bag around his shoulder and beelined for the door. He wouldn’t even acknowledge the strands of Irish-red hair he trapped under the bag strap.

Hey, man. Luke snuffed his cigarette on the heel of his boot and flicked it into the driveway. His deep, gritty voice squirmed into Tyler’s ears.

Hey, jackass. Tyler bit back the words. He still had to live and work with the guy for two months. Good fucking morning.

Luke stuffed his hands into his pockets and followed Tyler to the porch. We just got in, too.

Who’s ‘we?’

Me and Justin. Angie’s not here yet. Kat’s giving her a ride on her way to the studio. They’re on the road now.

Three bandmates and a producer. Everyone accounted for barring a car wreck.

Tyler tested the doorknob. They were in the middle of nowhere, so he’d be surprised if the owner locked the door. It popped open with a shrill creak.

Not bad for the money, right? Luke said. There’s even a hot tub. Maybe we can get Angie to jump in with us.

Tyler’s footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors.

Rural houses like these all had the same smell. Wood stain and fireplace soot. He’d been in enough of them around central Massachusetts to associate the scent with cobwebs and mold. But the house stood within a fifteen-minute drive of the recording studio, which made it worth the rent. They would make the commute twice a day for the next two weeks while recording the new album.

How many rooms? He rounded the corner to the staircase.

Three. I figure Angie’ll want her own. Then we can fight over the other single.

I’ll just bunk with Justin. Tyler searched the rooms for Justin’s green duffle bag. He hadn’t changed it in years. If nothing else, Justin was stable.

Yeah, I thought you would.

Tyler had been waiting for that, some little suggestive jab, but the words still jolted him. He didn’t have to defend his friendship with Justin to anyone, whatever they made of it. Luke had the wrong idea anyway. Tyler just wanted a friend who didn’t keep him at arm’s length. Why did everyone keep misinterpreting that?

Fuck yourself. Tyler tossed his bag into the bedroom and set his guitar next to Justin’s drum pad. The room had two twin beds and little else, with frames that looked like they’d creak if someone blew on them hard enough.

I didn’t mean anything by it.

Yeah, I got no fucking clue what’s going through your head anymore. He yanked the sheets from the mattress corners to check for bed bugs. He didn’t need so much force but he had trouble being gentle when he wanted to punch someone instead.

I told you I’m cool with it, Luke said.

There’s nothing to be ‘cool’ with.

Besides, Luke had to have some issue or he wouldn’t be leaving. He probably started to wonder about all the time they spent together over the years, all the late nights getting high and listening to their newest picks from the record store.

I don’t fucking get it. Tyler swiped the sheets into place. "You ditching. We finally have money in the contract to do something real with this. We might get on the bill for Wacken next year and you pull this shit. So if it wasn’t me and Justin, how about you tell me what the fuck it was."

He waited for a response that didn’t come. Maybe Luke’s expression or body language communicated something, but Tyler didn’t have the strength to look. He grabbed his guitar case and headed toward the door. Whatever broke between them, they weren’t going to fix it.

Luke stood in the doorway, a barricade of worn leather and Old Spice. Tyler tightened his fist around the case handle and met his eyes for the first time since they arrived.

Most of the adrenaline in Tyler’s body fizzled. He must have been so angry that he’d gone numb. The change swept through him so quickly that he leaned back an inch to process. Some distant frustration lingered, as if the conflict happened years ago. But it didn’t give way to any warmth or trust, anything a friend should spark. All Tyler felt was air.

He shook his head, sick to his stomach at his own numbness. That’s not how friends are supposed to act, either. Get the fuck out of my way.

Luke gave a gentle shrug and stepped away from the door.

Tyler studied Luke’s face as he passed. Had so much time gone by since Tyler last saw him? He didn’t even look the same anymore.

THE BAND HAD ONE NIGHT to settle into the house before their first day at the recording studio. Once everyone arrived and piled the rooms with worn clothing, cheap alcohol, and valuable instruments, they gathered on the porch with a couple six packs. They had no need to waste the last night of their break sober.

Kat spent the entire ride bitching about digital recording, Angie said. Despite the warm weather, she wrapped herself in a hoodie three sizes too large. A Sepultura logo poked out around the folds. You want to talk about analog for an hour and a half? Because I can do that now.

Tyler wiped his lip with the back of his hand. You mean vinyl, or—?

Tape. Magnetized tape. She downed the last of her beer. Yeah, guys. Looks like digital was a step backwards. We paid up the ass for nothing.

So we should go back to the garage and put everything on cassettes. Justin matched Angie’s sarcasm. His stringy blond hair refused to stay tucked behind his ear and looped toward his pale face. I think my grandmother has a voice recorder. We’ll make an anti-establishment stance on it. Make it as terrible as possible.

Worked for the black metal scene, Angie said. It’d save us some money to play in a drained pool.

Justin draped his arm across Tyler’s backrest. When he laughed, Tyler absorbed his humor through the shakes in the wood.

Mosquitoes circled the light bulb above the front door. Luke was leaning against the railing near the swarm, his cigarette smoke keeping the bugs at a safe distance. The harsh lamplight shone on his rich brown skin and highlighted his cheekbones. He would normally have something to say about the guitar setup. He could argue for hours about using a live amp over a simulator. But he was standing far enough from the group to avoid the conversation. Maybe he realized that he lost his opinion when he put in his notice.

Tyler’s anger about it was still muted. It only bothered him when he sat alone with his thoughts. When he looked at Luke in person, through the numbness, anger didn’t make sense.

He turned to Angie and Justin to stop staring. But the burn of Luke’s cigarette made him snap his eyes back. Luke was flicking it more than bringing it to his mouth. Whenever he took a drag, his breath was shallow, like a teenager trying to fit in with the crowd.

The digital samples sound wicked clean, Angie said. Ty, you’re going to love how crisp your notes are.

Tyler nodded and raised his beer an inch to quality sound. That was important to any metal album not making an anti-establishment stance.

You guys, too. They hooked you up. She motioned to the others, though she was probably thinking more about her bass and vocals.

"For digital." Justin tucked his boot under the chair and shook Tyler’s backrest again with laughter.

Tyler tried to listen but Luke kept stealing his attention. That awkward cigarette rang the tiniest alarm bells in his mind.

Luke had been smoking a pack a day since the stoned night shift cashier decided he looked old enough to buy them. Sometimes more. He was practically a professional.

He finally took a drag.

Tyler watched for the familiar pattern. Any second, Luke would let a tiny cloud escape before sucking everything into his lungs. He’d grimace as he held the scorching breath. Then he’d toss his dreads to the side, out of the path of the exhaled smoke. Except he didn’t.

Short breath in. No pause. Exhale.

Even the rise and fall of his chest looked unnatural, like he wasn’t actually breathing.

FIVE YEARS EARLIER, Luke and Tyler sped down a dark road in North Adams. Luke’s car was the best a thousand bucks could buy, which wasn’t much, and the steel rattled around them when they went too fast. In fifteen minutes, alcohol sales would stop for the night. Tyler needed to wait a few years before buying anything himself, but that mattered less once Luke hit drinking age.

The age difference never seemed to bother Luke. Of all the people he could have chosen to spend his nights with, he always called Tyler. After he knew his girlfriend wasn’t around.

This one again. Tyler almost kicked the dashboard to break the radio. I’m gonna start keeping track of how fucking overplayed this is.

It’s Ozzy. Luke shifted the transmission into a higher gear. Enjoy it.

"That’s what makes it so fucking bad. Turning Ozzy into shit I don’t wanna hear." He dug a hand into his pocket. His lighter was buried in a clump of rolling papers and guitar picks.

Better than not hearing it. I don’t have the album and I’m not gonna buy it. So I’m happy it gets played at all. Luke didn’t radiate enthusiasm, but he always found something positive to say. Tyler never seemed able to do that.

I’ll lend you the fucking album. He flicked his lighter.

Sounds good. Luke rounded a sharp corner into a small parking lot. The fluorescent beer advertisements lit the pavement more than the streetlamps. What do you want?

Tyler passed him a ten. Cheapest they got.

When Luke returned, he tossed a case of beer into the back seat. The cans clunked together, noting the end of the mission.

He slid into the car and slapped the heel of his palm against a fresh box of Marlboros to compress the tobacco, then rolled down the window and dangled a cigarette over the side. Where to?

Wherever. Your place? Boring, but the destination never really mattered, even with nothing to drink or smoke when they got there. Because whatever they were doing, even silently cruising in the middle of the night, Tyler was comfortable. He could get through the hours without picking a fistfight or drinking himself into a stupor.

Cool. Luke flipped the ignition. And with that consistent response, he said that he understood.

Tyler stuck his foot on the dash and cranked opened the window. At seventeen years old, with more enemies than friends, that understanding was enough for him to appreciate someone as a brother rather than just a bandmate.

At times, it terrified him. Like everyone else that understood him, one day Luke would be gone. And Tyler would be alone.

JUSTIN.

The raspy word floated in the threshold between Justin’s dreams and the moonlit bedroom. He barely heard it. He grunted and nuzzled the pillow.

You awake? Tyler raised his voice enough to keep Justin’s eyes open.

What is it?

The sheets lifted and Tyler slid behind him, keeping a few inches of distance. The squeaks from the bedframe chiseled through Justin’s temples until Tyler wrestled the blankets into a snug cocoon.

My head won’t shut up. Tyler’s breath hit the nape of Justin’s neck. A moment of clammy dampness followed each warm exhale.

It’s fine. Justin reached behind him and caught Tyler’s wrist, then drew it to his chest to encourage them closer together. When Tyler clenched, he worried that he crossed a line. But Tyler’s muscles loosened a moment later.

The contact wouldn’t go much further than that, even after a few drinks. Justin had wondered where the line stood, but at some point, he stopped stressing. Tyler would tell him if things strayed beyond what he wanted. Otherwise, they could relax and stop worrying about some arbitrary boundary.

You’re not gonna quit, right? Tyler asked.

Really? Again with the insecurities. Shut up.

Hey. Tyler tugged his hand.

Justin strengthened his hold to keep him from pulling away, reminding himself that Tyler was losing his best friend. A couple soothing words were likely all he needed for now. I’m not going anywhere.

Maybe he shouldn’t have let Tyler get so attached. Though Justin might not have been able to stop him. Tyler never felt anything halfway.

TWO WEEKS TO RECORD an album might have seemed like a long time, but the days would fly by in a minute if the band wasn’t careful. If they wanted a buffer to re-record a third of their material at the end of the booking, they had to complete one instrument for any given song every forty minutes. At least, that’s what Kat told them.

Tyler chewed his lip and watched Luke play his part through the glass partition. Luke already needed to redo his piece from earlier that day. No emotion. Completely flat. He’d need to rerecord this track, too, if he didn’t pull himself together.

Sounds fucking robotic. Tyler lifted his headphones off one ear and turned to Justin.

Then stop listening, Justin said.

That wasn’t the point.

Tyler waved to get Luke’s attention. He had to restrain himself from banging on the soundproof glass. Once Kat paused the recording, he turned on the talkback mic and hovered over the microphone. The fuck is up with you?

Luke raised an eyebrow. I’m fine, dude. He sounded grainy over the speakers.

Not your playing. You really want that to be the last thing people hear from you?

Luke obviously didn’t care anymore. He could at least pretend. He owed the band that much.

He paused before answering. Same as I always play.

Bullshit. Try being a human being for a fucking second and actually feel something, then put it into the strings.

Ty. Kat waved him away. Go sit.

Seriously? Tyler released the button and pulled off his headphones before he could hear more of the same monotonous notes.

Kat deleted the interrupted play-through, unfazed. She’d seen worse outbursts from all of them.

The hell was that? Justin rounded on Tyler and motioned toward the sound room. He’s playing just fine.

Not good enough for the album. He can do better.

Justin flattened his hand on the console. His hair slipped over his shoulder, greasy from sweat and a skipped morning shower. This shit from you is going to make him leave before the album is done.

Caring about what we do? Yeah, sure. Good fucking reason to quit. Tyler snapped his headphones over his ears and switched the plug to his practice amp. One of them could make good use of the hour.

All of this expensive studio time and they wanted to waste it producing mediocre music. They might as well spend it getting drunk. Same outcome.

IN THE LIVING ROOM, Tyler slumped in an armchair with Angie’s laptop. She had organized copies of the day’s recordings by song and instrument. He reviewed his own files first and jotted down everything he could improve in a notebook. Both of his pieces went on the maybe list for re-recording.

Justin’s drums were solid. So were Angie’s bass and vocals, though their producer might have a different opinion. Tyler tended to give the others more slack than he gave himself. If he thought Luke could do better, he could. Besides, high expectations were a compliment.

Eight files listed Luke’s instrument, initials, and timestamp. He clicked into the first and braced himself for more garbage.

It sounded decent. The notes were rhythmic, but they didn’t seem created by a machine anymore. Subtle differences in the accents and vibrato brought more life to the piece than he heard in his own leads. He relaxed his shoulders after the first few bars.

He could feel Luke’s controlled frustration through the notes. The resentment he’d never show. Listening warmed Tyler’s blood.

He checked the timestamp to make sure he didn’t mix up the files. But Luke only went into the booth once for that song. What could Tyler confuse the files with?

Justin, Tyler called around the corner to the kitchen. Come here a sec.

He spun the computer around and unplugged his headphones. The recording streamed out of the speakers as Justin poked his head into the room. When did Luke record this?

Justin came closer and narrowed his eyes at the listing. Why?

It’s good?

Ass. He swatted the back of Tyler’s head, just hard enough to get his point across. That’s the session you said was shit today. I told you, you were being hard on him.

No, it— Tyler brushed him away and listened more carefully to the articulation. It had less consistency than he remembered from the studio, but he almost preferred it that way. It showed personality.

Well?

Well, Tyler must have been wrong. Maybe the lack of sleep had already gotten to him. He wouldn’t say it, but Justin’s drums sounded better on the recording than they did in the studio, too. All of the emotion that wavered when Justin’s sticks were flying somehow came through on the track. The difference wasn’t as extreme as Luke’s, but he could still hear it.

Tyler leaned back in his chair. Maybe I was tired.

Or maybe you were being an ass.

Tyler focused on the sound and waited for his mind to offer a little give. The logical side of him conceded but his ears and gut wouldn’t budge. The latter usually won any internal battles.

His mind could have created the differences in Justin’s drum tracks to explain Luke’s guitar. He could rationalize all of the recordings sounding better. The equipment might have contributed. The grainy microphone could have distorted them in the studio. But for that, it had to affect everyone’s recordings the same way, not just Luke’s.

Tyler scratched his neck and waited for Justin to hear it. His ears were almost as good as Tyler’s. He had to pick up the strangeness. Maybe he was doing his own mental gymnastics to explain it. Or he was ignoring the differences on purpose to avoid trouble with Luke.

That might be for the best. The band couldn’t afford to lose their guitar player earlier than expected.

Maybe it was the studio. Tyler stopped the track. They had decent music on file, even if Luke snuck around about it. I probably just need to get used to the new set-up.

Sure. Justin turned and left him with the laptop.

He replaced his headphones and restarted Luke’s files. Something would orient him eventually. A familiar fumble or an accidental catch of Luke speaking. But the longer he listened, the less he could believe that they were the same recordings. He couldn’t have been that tired.

THE SECOND RECORDING session repeated the first, with a robotic sound live and surprise personality in the audio files. The third day was no different. On the fourth, Tyler couldn’t keep his eyes off the recording booth, headphones securely in place. Each session plunged him into the uncanny valley. Luke looked like a simulation of a guitar player reading electronic tabs.

Justin leaned around the console to force himself into Tyler’s line of vision. What’re you doing?

Tyler glanced at him and turned back to Luke. Keeping an eye on progress.

That’s Kat’s job. Wanna grab a beer with me? He paused for a response. Grab a beer with me.

Fine. Tyler stripped off the headphones and tossed them onto the control panel. The tracks would all magically become perfect play-throughs anyway. He wouldn’t complain about that. He just wanted to know how Luke was doing it. He couldn’t have made such high-quality recordings outside a studio. Aside