Black Denim Lit #8: Return to Waypoint 5

By Black Denim Lit

The December, 2014 issue edited by Christopher T Garry features 160 pages of never before seen stories from ten 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.

“Cataclysm” by Madeline Popelka (The death of a cat brings about the end of the world); “The Things We Hide” by Clarissa N G (Yuen deals with a haunting while mourning); “Return To Waypoint 5” by Josh Roseman (Kage seeks dangerous answers about family and connections at an old space port); “Bit by Bit” by Cheryl McAlister (An unlikely pairing highlights the need for connection); “The Patchwork Girl” by Zack Miller (A post-pandemic world doesn't change needs of a girl missing a family); “Searching” by Lisa Shapter (Three men decide the fate of a lost corpsman); “Establishment” by Ken Poyner (The local watering hole isn't just for the bone and protein crowd); “The Degenerate” by Joe Christopher (A young working man finds an unlikely reason to change direction); “Maybe This’ll Be the One That Finally Gets Me” by Ben Spies (A veteran recounts his experience in the gulf coast disaster); “Gathering Gold” by Julie Reeser (Mae deals with loss of her mother and transition to a new life)

This draws from fantasy, crime, science fiction and straight drama for our selections. Such genre variety is brought together under the common thread of rich characterization. In all the stories this month, these are human beings at odds. Whether facing a gun, an alien, the choice to live or to die or the vastness of space, each of these players respond from a very deep place of truth. And regardless of which genre can be applied, the authors have surprises in store.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Denim Lit
• Release date: Dec 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311294876

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 #8

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 eighth compilation, we continue to draw from fantasy, crime, science fiction and straight drama for our selections. Such genre variety is brought together under the common thread of rich characterization. In all the stories this month, these are human beings at odds with themselves. Whether facing a gun, an alien, the choice to live or to die or the vastness of space, each of these players respond from a very deep place of truth. And regardless of which genre can be applied, the authors have surprises in store. We pick stories we love and that remind us of where we’ve been or where we want to be. Above all, we pick stories that we wish that we’d written.

With "Cataclysm by Madeline Popelka, the death of a cat brings about the end of the world. In The Things We Hide by Clarissa N G, a young woman, Yuen, deals with a haunting on top of her own mourning. In the stellar Return To Waypoint 5 by Josh Roseman, Kage seeks dangerous answers about family and connections at an old space port. An unlikely pairing in Bit by Bit by Cheryl McAlister, explores the universal need for connection. In part one and part two of The Patchwork Girl by Zack Miller, we find a post-pandemic world that doesn't change needs of a girl missing family and losing friends. In a remarkable study of gender and relationships, Searching by Lisa Shapter, three men decide the fate of an unusual corpsman who has been missing. A familiar author returns to our pages with Establishment by Ken Poyner, where the local watering hole isn't just for the bone and protein crowd. The Degenerate by Joe Christopher, is a story which gives us a young jobless man who finds an unlikely reason to change direction. Disaster strikes in small desperate cuts in Maybe This’ll Be the One That Finally Gets Me by Ben Spies, in which a veteran recounts his experience in the gulf coast disaster. Finally in Gathering Gold" by Julie Reeser, young Mae deals with loss of her mother and transition to a new life.

Enjoy,

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

CATACLYSM by Madeline Popelka

Biscuit had been dead for over a day when the hills behind Emily’s apartment caught fire. The flames quickly ate through the shaggy gray trees, engulfing the neighborhood with smoke. Emily had only just recovered from the earthquake when she was faced with this next catastrophe. She hurried to close all the windows of the house, flipping on the radio in the process. The man on NPR was listing streets that were to be evacuated; hers was not one of them. Her house was downwind from the blaze, but Glendora, on the other side of the hills, sounded like it was in deep trouble. The announcer was asking people to avoid bridges and beaches. Early reports of tidal waves on the coast sounded grim. The earthquake had been a small one, but seismologists feared that it was just the first in a series of escalating tectonic shifts. Emily knew she should be leaving her house, but with a fire outside she chose to remain indoors. She also thought she could hear thunder in the distance. It was a rolling, angry noise that, unlike any thunder she’d heard her whole life, never paused. It sounded like the consistent growling of a cornered animal. Alone and trapped in her house, she considered the possibility that the death of her cat had brought about the end of the world.

• • •

The previous day, Emily had awakened to find that Biscuit, her overweight and lethargic cat, had expired during the night. She often called him Fatty due to his large, round belly, but now he looked rather small with his paws tucked under him on her kitchen floor. His matted tabby fur was dull in death, and below his closed eyes a thin crescent of fleshy tongue protruded from his mouth. He had been coughing incessantly for the past week, but she had assumed he’d been digesting a particularly large hairball. She had been making a cup of chamomile tea in the brown mug that she’d received from her mother on Emily’s most recent birthday when she first saw his lifeless body. She allowed herself five minutes of crying. Then she got to work. She grabbed a pair of rubber gloves, disinfectant, and a black plastic bag from her pantry. She half pushed, half dragged him into the bag, only pausing once to gag.

She disliked the idea of decomposition below three feet of soil, so she decided to take him to the nice crematorium downtown, just ten blocks from her house, and then she would bury his ashes in the front yard. She googled the number of the crematorium, but their hours online informed her they were closed on weekends. That gave her two days until she could deal with the corpse.

After taking a moment to glare at the lump in the bag, she opened her fridge and stoically began pulling out boxes of popsicles and frozen pizzas from the freezer. She threw them all away immediately. When there was enough space, she picked up the black bag and shoved it deep into the freezer. It was not ideal, but it was the best she could think of under the circumstances.

She called her brother. He picked up the phone on the second ring.

Hey Em, what’s up?

Hi James.

Is everything ok?

Biscuit is dead.

I’m sorry. Do you want me to fly out again?

No, that’s ok. I can’t have you here every six months.

You had him what, five years? Ever since you moved?

Yeah. Mom found him at a shelter when she helped me unpack. Always thought he’d live longer.

Mmm. She was always good at that. You know, finding the right one.

I know.

There was a pause on the line. Emily could hear James breathing.

So, how’s everything going? asked Emily. Are Molly and the kids well?

They’re good. Things here are wild as always, Brendan just got his first —

He was interrupted by a high-pitched voice in the background. Emily strained her ears to identify it. It sounded like Isabella, the younger one, was crying. James spoke to her in a low voice.

One second honey — listen, Em? I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I need to deal with this.

That’s ok James, I understand. We’ll catch up another time.

Definitely. I’m always here. You could even visit us!

Thanks, James. Maybe I’ll do that. I love you.

Bye, Em.

She hung up. The house was terribly quiet. Emily pulled open a window to air out the smell of disinfectant from having wiped down the floor. A soft breeze drifted in. It was refreshingly cool and smelt of freshly cut grass.

• • •

The man came later that day. He mashed his finger into her doorbell button insistently until Emily eventually answered, still wearing the rubber gloves.

He was slightly overweight and very neat, with slicked-back hair, horn-rimmed glasses, a wide blue tie knotted in the half-Windsor style, a crisp white shirt, black pleated slacks, and shiny black loafers. He was sweating lightly.

He informed her that he was a census taker and that she was required to answer the questions he had brought along. She let him in and offered him a cup of coffee, which he politely declined.

Do you usually do your work on Saturdays? she asked.

It’s when everyone’s home.

At her kitchen table, he pulled a clipboard out from the briefcase and began checking off questions as he went through them.

Full name?

Emily Ann Birch.

He filled in the blanks on the clipboard as she answered him.

Date of Birth?

November 12, 1982.

Status of Parents?

Deceased.

Number of pets owned in the last year?

One cat, also deceased.

At this, the census taker frowned and emphatically crossed something out that he’d written.

Are you sure?

That he’s deceased? Of course.

Was he taken to a hospital?

Like a veterinarian? No?

Were any attempts made at CPR? Did you use a defibrillator?

Emily glanced down at his hands. He was still reading directly from the form.

We’re still talking about Biscuit, my cat? No. He had already passed away when I found him.

The man was suddenly wracked with a bout of chills. He hunched his shoulders, rubbing his arms emphatically.

Why weren’t you there for him?

I was asleep.

You, his caretaker, abandoned him.

Hey, what is this? I don’t have to answer that!

The man gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white with tension. Eyes closed, he began inhaling, slowly filling his lungs. His body seemed to grow impossibly large as he sucked air. Emily took a step back and briefly wondered if she should be worried about the lack of oxygen. Then he exhaled in a burst, opened his eyes, and glared at her.

Bring him back.

The cat? Back from what?

We can give you anything. Maybe he’s gone now but there must be a way. Things like this don’t just happen. Bring him back, come on now.

He was rambling.

I think you should leave my house now.

Please.

I’m going to call the police.

He acquiesced, grabbing his clipboard and scuttling towards the door. He took one step outside before turning back to her to grab her arm and to implore her, Think about it.

She wrenched her arm out of his hand and slammed the door in his face. Retreating to the kitchen, Emily tried to load her coffee maker, but her hands were shaking too much to grasp the filter.

The remainder of the day passed slowly. She walked several blocks downtown to pick up some groceries. The streets were mostly empty, but at one point a large man stumbled into her when she was turning a corner, almost knocking her over. Later, as she was unpacking the groceries, she found a tattered picture of Biscuit in her pocket that she had no recollection of taking. She stared at it for a minute. Then she folded it into fourths and placed it back in her pocket.

• • •

On Sunday, Emily awoke to a voicemail on her phone. The caller id was blocked. The voice on the end was whispering, and it sounded like the man from the day before. He was saying nothing could live around her. He was saying she was poison, her mother died disappointed in her, and now she had killed the only creature that loved her. Emily looked down at her phone. She could see on the screen that this voice mail went on for ten more minutes. She deleted the rest of the message.

She considered calling the police and reporting the call for harassment. Instead, she tried to call James, but his cell went to voicemail after five rings. He was probably getting the kids ready for school, too frazzled to pick up. She tried again. The phone had rung three times when the earthquake hit.

She felt the ground vibrate, and the phone slipped out of her hand. The walls were shaking, knocking off framed photos. From her room, she could hear something shatter in the kitchen. She stumbled from her room to the bathroom and into the tub, covering her head. When all the noise and vibrations finally came to a halt, Emily scrambled out of the bathroom and through the front door. She scanned the street, but her neighborhood was vacant and silent. There were no other people evacuating their houses, no dogs barking, not even a comforting car alarm to cut the silence. All was still.

• • •

Then her phone rang. The number was restricted. She slowly lifted the phone to her ear and in a trembling voice answered, Hello?

You did this.

The voice was rasping.

What?

You let him die. You made the world burn.

Emily wanted to respond, to beg for an explanation, a reprieve, or at least some sign of humanity in that croaking voice, but the click on the line indicated that he had hung up.

Shaking from the call, Emily returned to her house to assess the damage. The crash she had heard during the quake had been caused by the shattering of the brown mug from her mother. She picked up one of the ceramic shards and let her fingers slide along its edges. Then she placed it on her desk and swept the rest of the debris into the garbage. She was almost finished cleaning up when the smell of smoke pricked her nostrils. She squinted out the back window where, in the distance, she could just make out a wall of fire.

• • •

Wincing from the thunder and squinting through the oily brown haze that the smoky light cast, Emily felt her way to her bedroom. The electricity had