Colors of the Initial Noise

By DJ Jones

Beneath the quaint surf town of Indigo Bay, an enormous cavern harbors a hidden city of unspeakable vice. The few who know of it do not speak of it. Those who protect it rule us all with the wealth of the world. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Colloquy Publishing
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989266227

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Colors of the Initial Noise

By DJ Jones

© 2023 Colloquy Publishing

DJ Jones

Colors of the Initial Noise

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under the terms of any license permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Angency.

Published by: Colloquy Publishing

Formatted by: Camille Jones

Cover Design by: Stoneridge Books

For Those Who Fight Power

"The Underground is a heinous place where anything goes. A place of subtle, yet all-encompassing evil. Protected by people of unfathomable wealth and Power. People like me.

Once you understand that, maybe then, you can understand its purpose."

November Kimberly,

A Woman With No Discernable Morality

"I wouldn’t worry about Amber. She’s got more to her than she or anyone knows.

She probably thought she was a bother, or a third wheel, or she needed to get home to play a video game. Her lights shut off many years ago waiting for anyone but her to hit the switch."

Aaron Bennett, A Man With No Past

and The Wisdom of Centuries

"For whatever reason, music is important to Circles.

It’s a powerful thing showing someone a new song they like. It connects you."

Raile Trujillo,

A Woman Who Would Help Even When You Hated Her

Lizbeth swigged from a shooter of vodka on the way to Blue. No use arguing with her. She’d ruin Amber with a screamed volume that made passing cars swerve. But Amber anticipated the panic. Lizbeth spilled. That’d take a few days to air out. Lizbeth danced to the music in her head because there was never music in Amber’s car.

Today was Lizbeth’s birthday, Amber’s annual visit to her party rock world. A lot of drinking and mess. Typically tears from someone along the way. Her alleged best friend had asked Amber to dress slutty. Amber didn’t understand any compulsion to show off. Her meager closet contained nothing but holed t-shirts and jeans. A few pieces of high-end, fitted athletic wear.

Lizbeth had screamed, keeled over on the sidewalk, not even fully out of the Uber. Eyed Amber’s sports bra shirt, the yoga shorts, and cackled. Lizbeth pulled out an old maroon leotard from ballet, so tight it pulled on places not to be pulled. Took scissors to some particularly ratty black jeans. Made daisy dukes to replace the sportwear. Cut a t-shirt to come just below Amber’s solar plexus, a V to almost meet the bottom.

You’re going to the club, not a sexy gym, bitch!

The logic was there. Amber did not want to spend the effort to understand it.

Partied

Out of

Obligation

Lizbeth professed that if she had abs like hers, she might as well display them. She lifted up her shirt and grabbed her self-proclaimed FUPA. Jiggled it at her benign best friend. As far as Amber could tell, she was an incredibly normal Italian girl in her early twenties. Amber said nothing about the comment. She almost giggled. Like anyone could change Lizbeth’s mind. Also felt like a denial plea from her friend and Amber never liked those.

Indigo Bay was a small college town where everything was eight minutes away and expensive when you got there. Cigarette smoke swirled around the line outside Blue. Populated with college students of various skin hues in their strange cultural uniforms. All the femme-leanings wore weird updos, loose clothing. The masc-leanings jeans and flannel and tight buns. The current look that got you laid. A hypothesis Amber concocted due to the prevalence of the same look on everyone. She didn’t want intrusive thoughts on sexuality. Seemed to occupy a great deal of retail space in her peers.

Folk would walk. Check her out. See her face. Turn away. Butterface syndrome. Everything looks good ‘but her face,’ was how Amber understood the term. It was normal, so Amber ignored it. After tonight she could crawl back into her hole.

Lizbeth yammered as Amber cycled through Reddit, Tiktok, and Instagram. Her self-imposed teacher didn’t need much to keep going. A shallow ‘oh really,’ or vague ‘is that right’ was all she needed. Then Amber would get a text tomorrow saying how much Lizbeth loved hanging out with her, pointing out how much fun they had and that’s why they should do this more than once a fucking year. With a response along the lines of I know, we totally should, with no follow through from either.

Eventually let in. Harsh blue lights saturated the bar and made it hard to see. Near blacklight. The bar long and the bartenders dressed nicely. The music in between singers was thuddy and inoffensive. No one danced to it, but you know, you could. Amber’s whole upper body settled back. No nausea yet. VIP stages, floors lit from the bottom with bright light. Lighting reversed on faces perfectly tuned to be sufficiently attractive but not too much. Never too much.

The last singer just finished their karaoke song, a new pop thing and it was fine. They all sounded safe and comfortably formulaic. Present nostalgia Amber appreciated.

Amber sat outside by herself. Quietly scrolled through her social media loop. The music was too loud. Made her stomach ache. No real desire to talk to anyone. Lizbeth would make her rounds. Forget about Amber. At least until she needed a ride home. Ten o’clock. Four hours ‘til close. Here’s to Lizbeth getting thrown out before then.

The birthday girl came out ten minutes later with two clear drinks that smelled like Redbull. And another yellowish one, cloudy and fermented. Smelled of sweet and sour fruit. Amber tried the ‘go out drinking’ lifestyle before but never grasped why. The burn always hurt. She now faced the choice. Drink one now or risk the wrath of Lizbeth’s volume. She tasted the yellow and grimaced.

I know you don’t drink and I hate whiskey! But I was like, Amber-boo would like whiskey sours.

Amber surveyed a myriad of toxic implications of the statement before dropping it. Lizbeth just bought whatever drink she thought of at the moment. Amber was a prop of impulse. Not a consideration.

Jason! Lizbeth recognized whoever. Left Amber with the ochre foul. She tried it again and hated it. A mixed whiskey cocktail. Cocktail. From the French coquetier. Egg cup. Who could tell for sure, and she wasn’t sure why her brain flagged that fact for remembrance. Originating in New Orleans. Or myth.

A dark side of her was ever-curious of the vices that ruined her family. She took another sip. Easier. More data needed. Finished the drink over the course of the next twenty minutes. Mostly out of internalized spite. Drink or risk the banshee screech from her bestie.

Fuck, a young woman said as she put her half empty glass of actual whiskey on the table. Maybe it was rum. Tequila? No, Amber knew that smell all too well. Made a perfect margarita from a young age.

Amber side-eyed the new person’s eye-rolled sigh, trying not to engage with it. The latest song finally didn’t induce the Swallows. Amber was pretty sure she would make it. The poor voices on most of the songs helped a great deal.

The angry young woman’s high cheekbones sized Amber up. Tight, gothic complexion, intense blue eyes. Bordered too extreme. She glanced away as if she didn’t want to talk on a shared level. Did one of those, I’m talking ‘at you, not to you’ things.

Oh, sorry.

No worries.

My name’s Jazz, what’s yours?

Amber.

Ha, two girls with weird names. We have something in common.

Amber did not think she had a weird name, though she’d never met another one. Her name always seemed to refer to a basic white girl. Which she had to admit she resembled one. Dead on.

Jazz sat down, took out a pack of cigarettes. Not a regular pack. Unfolded like a book that read Nat Sherman, with Classic on the front. Sophisticated cigarettes. Amber supposed she could kill herself with class.

So, what do you do, Amber? she said.

What was with the unwanted small talk? Amber built her walls of ‘don’t talk to me’ thick and high. Jazz was a stubborn conversationalist. Very disappointing.

I go to college and work at a silkscreen shop. Rote answers for now.

Oh, what’re you studying?

Music theory, focusing on AI-generated composition. She stopped. Most people lost interest at this point.

An ornate gate slammed.

What’s that mean? Jazz smiled at Amber ogling her cigarettes. Opened the fancy case to offer one.

What the hell, why not? Jazz struck a match and held it. Amber struggled to remember how to light the thing. Violently coughed out the foreign smoke.

Don’t worry about it, everyone coughs the first time. It’s like a club. When I was in Africa, there was a club for shitting your pants. Everyone joins eventually. I certainly did. But once I did, felt like I belonged. Here, try dragging deep, get it to the bottom of your lungs, then exhale slow so your body doesn’t have a chance to cough it out.

Amber tried again, not exactly inspired by Jazz’s tangentially related story. She measured her body’s response. Achieved it with a small cough. Lightheaded and distant. Nicotine high. Loved it every time. Never more than once a year or so. Liked it too much. Nausea set in. Waited for it to pass before another drag. Coughed again, but the nausea dissipated faster. Needed to spit but swallowed. Why was that feeling one of the only ways the body expressed displeasure with an activity? It was such a vague sensation. Too universal across all sensations to mean anything at all. Amber had many such thoughts on nausea.

So, what does that mean? Jazz asked again, patiently waiting. Amber suspected that somehow, Jazz was genuinely interested in her. Not ticking boxes on a ‘how to have a pleasant but short conversation’ checklist.

Artificial Music. I study boring music. Or inoffensive music. Music that a computer can write mechanically.

That’s weird. I love it. How ironic. Why are you interested in that?

Jazz was slow to talk about herself. Waiting for Amber to answer the reciprocal questions once Amber gave the requisite responses. Only a few lines of dialogue until Jazz arrested the conversation without being rude. The finish line had to be close.

A lot of people like it, but there’s not a lot of research on it. So I thought it a good area to focus on. Other students struggle with hyper-focused stuff. I study why everyone likes lo-fi hip hop or smooth jazz. Why do we not hate it, or even take it in as pleasant white noise? Common consensus says we shouldn’t like the formulaic nature of it. Amber surprised herself with that one. Getting her party pitch down. Script coming along nicely.

Ah, that’s not what I asked. That’s what you say when asked. Why are you interested in music with no heart?

Normally when people asked what you studied, they didn’t care. Jazz’s face pressured her with interest. Why did people ever want to talk to anyone?

It doesn’t make me sick. Amber shrugged. She didn’t like how disaffected her voice was. No energy left for tone when it was an effort to do anything.

Music makes you sick?

And no one knows why. Not yet anyway. So sort of how trauma victims go to school for psychology. I study music because I’m a victim of music. The voices in her head mocked her for not putting at least a little bit of effort into selling herself, even though they were the reasons why she didn’t. Little hypocrites.

Yes! Damn, got super real there, huh.

Sorry, the salt came out a bit.

Naw, I love it. The more real the better I always say.

Amber had met quite a few people who claimed to want real, when in reality that was not the case at all. She wasn’t sure where Jazz fell on that spectrum Amber just made up.

So you go to school? Amber said. Persiflage continued.

Redirection. Cool, I get it. Yeah, I study synthetic spider silk. It may one day replace steel.

Cool, Amber said. Here she thought Jazz’d be a communications major. The conversation fell. She’d get bored with Amber soon, fingers crossed. They both meaningfully dragged off their cigarettes. This unfortunate thing made of potential-cancer filled awkward moments.

You said you worked at a silkscreen shop? Jazz said. Is it Shirts with Words on Them?

Yeah, how did you know? I mean, I guess it’s the only one in town...

I’m Dot’s cousin, she’s dating Tyler, you know. Tyler and a guy named Aaron own the place, right?

Yeah, they’re my bosses.

What do you think of them?

Tyler’s great. Not such a great boss, but lovable.

Amber loosely crossed her arms near her torso. She got that Jazz was scouting for intel on her bosses. Gear shift. Oh good, this had nothing to do with Amber.

What about Aaron?

Umm, he’s a boss, I guess. Keeps the place together. Don’t know, just see him as a boss, don’t know much about him.

Would you describe him as scary? Jazz tapped her cigarette’s ash at Amber.

Amber hunkered down. Confused by Jazz’s lowered tone, as if implicating her boss of something. Mysterious, I’d say, more than anything. Accidently noir.

Hmmm... she said.

Why? Amber wanted to go home and play Magic: The Gathering Arena. Or Final Fantasy XIV.

Interesting. Thanks for sharing a cigarette with me. Maybe see you round? Jazz said at the exact moment the exchange lasted long enough for both of them. Shockingly polite. You can keep the pack. Have a good evening.

She put her pack of matches on the table, drained her drink and left. Probably the kindest person Amber had met in a while. Not used to not being thankful when an accoster bounced. Dammit the singer inside was good. Amber had to wait it out. Got the sweats too. Spat on the ground a few times. A technique her brother taught her when she was twelve, swaying drunkenly outside her room. Promptly puked his sixteen-year drunk ass on the floor.

Amber! Lizbeth pulled a guy along with her. Nice gray slacks and azure dress shirt with burgundy suspenders. Even his dark scruff meticulous. Lizbeth normally went for scummier types. Almost always with a criminal element.

Amber! This is Jason!

Hey, Amber said. He’d stick around for a minute then Irish Exit. She didn’t want to talk to the hot guy. He didn’t want to talk to her. Fair trade. A little floppy too. Tidepool brown eyes distant and puffed red. Was he drunk in that outfit? That struck her as weird for a second.

Do you want another drink, Amber!? Lizbeth said. I got you!

Sure. But could you get me just a plain whiskey, please?

Why? Whiskey is disgusting! Whatever, weirdo. Oh my god! We can drink together now! You aren’t such a priss about it for no goddamned reason!

A priss? Just never saw the point.

Amber had one little bottle of wine a month when she didn’t want to go home yet. From a four-pack she bought when her dad asked to buy him cigarettes on her way.

Yeah, yeah, Lizbeth dismissed with a hand flap. Whaddya want Jason?

Juss’ get me ‘nother Liberty, he slurred pretty heavily.

Great. Gotta interact with two drunks now.

An IPAaagh. If Lizbeth didn’t like something, you’re wrong for liking it. She ran inside. Literally.

Amber, right?

Yeah.

Cool, what do you do, besides caretaking Lizbeth?

I work at Shirts with Words on Them and go to IBU for Music Theory. Same four lines of dialogue to make them leave. A magic spell of cumbersome dismissiveness.

Cool, cool. I’m out with my friends. Jason looked inside like he expected something to be thrown at him.

You alright? Amber said out of social obligation. Her knees swayed impatiently and betrayed her lack of concern. She forced them to stop. Silly body. You do what Amber tells you to do all the time. Follow the cues. Get through the day, get to the end of this conversation. Neither person wanted to mediate Lizbeth’s shenanigans.

My girlfriend’s suddenly pissed with me, so I stepped away to have a smoke. Pulled out his pack. Amber opened the one Jazz left. Lit the match. Coughed only a little.

Lizbeth sat down. Saw Amber smoking. Got all wide-eyed.

Look at you, whore! I left you last week at lunch a high brow dumbass, then I dress you to show off your hot bod. Now you’re smoking and drinking. A badass now, huh?

Lizbeth swayed back and forth in drunken air currents. She didn’t need to know this wasn’t Amber’s first time. Probably not the last time. Lizbeth didn’t need or want to know anything about her.

Probably not.

Psshhaw.

How many of those have you had? Amber said at her always-half-empty, double-fisted drinks.

Nine, with a retched burp. The entire bar knew what that burp meant. Lizbeth did too and bolted inside.

Every year she almost dies on her birthday.

Don’t get me wrong, but you seem like a good person. Why...why are you around Lizbeth? Jason said, gripping the table.

Best friend from elementary school.

A small woman with a wild afro of ginger hair came out on the hunt. Pointed her jeweled hand and obnoxious clicky colored plastic bracelets at Jason. Her green and black striped shirt, mardi gras beads, yellow sequined shorts, green leg warmers, and yellow shoes flipped Amber out. Bold choices. Jarred heads into submission. It was a look, for sure.

Motherfucker, I leave you for five minutes and you go hit up some yoga bitch.

Hey, Amber called out, the light in her guttered.

Shut your fucking face before I shut it for you. I’m sure you have, like, the best personality. News flash bitch, eating is good for you. Skinny cunt. They had to kick the dead horse so many times. You can walk home, dick cheese.

She stormed off, followed by her slew of friends.

God that chick had a goddamn mannequin face, a member of her posse said. They all cackled.

Jason sighed and poked at his phone. Amber’s stomach dropped out and her heart sweat. She wrapped her hands around her own biceps and triceps. Her fingers couldn’t touch quite yet.

I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world, they all started singing.

Guess I’m walking home. Prob best to dry up a lil bit, ya know, Jason said. Oblivious to Amber’s interior spiral.

Lizbeth came out, truly haggard for the first time of the night.

Where do you live? Amber said.

Over in the harbor. Ain’t far. Should be good.

I’ll give you a ride. Gotta get Lizbeth home. Eager to leave.

That’s...That’d...Cool.

Amber walked slowly while the two drunks weaved around the sidewalk. A cop slowed as she passed, and in a moment of inspiration Amber yelled I got it!

The cop nodded and kept on.

Hadn’t finished the whiskey. Which was good, because by the time she got to her red Durango, she wasn’t feeling herself. Like the nausea pills that looped her. She’d driven more looped than this. She knew it wasn’t a great idea. Did this make her a lightweight or not? She was more interested in that. Aaron drank two bottles of whiskey every night. Said it did nothing to him. Her boss being the honest sort, Amber believed him.

Jason reached for the radio a few times. Amber told him not to, that she disliked listening to music while driving. He didn’t need to know more than that. He shrugged, and they continued in silence. The harbor gates were closed, but Jason stumbled out and stabbed the passcode. He had sobered up a little bit. Lizbeth was passed out in the back. Amber didn’t feel right just kicking Jason to the curb.

How do you afford to live here? Amber said when Jason presented a sailing yacht with a few masts. Amber knew nothing of aquatic housing other than it was cramped and a lot to maintain. The yacht seemed to be on the higher end of a moneysink.

I rent it from some rich couple who take it out once a year for a trip. I maintain it for the rest of the year.

Cool.

He climbed aboard and invited her up. Nice inside, if cramped. He took out a bottle of tangerine juice from the top-open fridge and poured her a glass. Didn’t take long to show off the place. A helm and galley. Tiny two burner stove. Bed in the front, where it narrowed to the bow. He kept it clean. The wood trimming was wonderful.

Check this out, he said. He took out his phone and played around for a second. Music pounded throughout the cabin. A guy sang, Immigraniada, a few times over a bass line before the drop hit. All the instruments exploded and crushed Amber. She collapsed and projectile vomited across the floor. The music stopped, interrupting the singer’s broken English.

Woah, are you okay? Jason said. Shame crammed into Amber. She tried to run away. He grabbed her. Immediately let go with apologies. Naw naw. It’s fine! No worries. I’ll clean it up. Amber, what happened? I’m so sorry.

I gotta go, please!

My bad, what happened, I’m so sorry.

Thank you! She nodded and ran.

Nurtured guilt and shame rumbled the purple edges of her vision. Swirled into a whirlpool she was accustomed to riding down. An upset insect buzzing over her mind.

Partied Out of Obligation

Partied Out of Obligation

Partied Out of Obligation

Partied Out