Dark Tomorrows, Second Edition
Page 1
Dark Tomorrows
Curated by J. L. Bryan
Stories by Joel Arnold, S.W. Benefiel, J.L. Bryan, Michael Crane, Robert J. Duperre, Amanda Hocking, Vicki Keire, and Daniel Pyle
Table of Contents
Foreword
The Present:
Fortune Teller by Michael Crane
The Fortune Teller’s Lament by JL Bryan
The Officefrau by JL Bryan
Spectrum by JL Bryan
Day of Sacrifice by S. W. Benefiel
Hangman by Michael Crane
The Second Coming of Pippykins by Amanda Hocking
Of Shoes and Doom by Amanda Hocking
The Future:
S.O.L. by Michael Crane
The Fixer by JL Bryan
Bad Code by JL Bryan
Shiners by Joel Arnold
New and Improved by Daniel Pyle
Chorus by Robert Duperre
This Silent Country by Vicki Keire
The Long Night by JL Bryan
About the Authors
Copyright information
Foreword to Second Edition
by JL Bryan
Welcome to the second edition of Dark Tomorrows!
This collection was originally much smaller. When first released in December 2010, it only included my stories and Amanda Hocking's two shorts. Now, we have stories from six more writers, representing some of the best indie authors of paranormal and horror.
The collection is organized into “The Present” and “The Future.” The stories set in the future are organized “chronologically,” from the near future to the deep future.
I call myself the curator of this collection, rather than the editor, because “editor” would imply more of an active role, such as picking the stories. Dark Tomorrows is more of an anarchic collective, with each writer added what he or she felt would best fit the theme. Some of the stories are comic, others extremely dark.
I want to thank all the writers who contributed stories, as well as you, the reader, for picking up this collection and giving it a try. We hope you'll find plenty to enjoy in this collection...though it could be the kind of enjoyment that keeps you up late at night, fearing the darkness that tomorrow may bring.
-JL Bryan
THE PRESENT
FORTUNE TELLER
A drabble by Michael Crane
“So, you would like to know your future?” the old fortune teller asked.
Harrison nodded. “Yeah. Why not?”
She took hold of his hand and closed her eyes. Under her breath, she chanted a couple of words that he couldn’t make out.
“You are a business man?”
He gave a nod.
“Very successful at what you do?”
“You can say that.”
Her eyes remained closed, and then she began to shake and wail uncontrollably.
“I’m afraid you’re going to die soon.”
Harrison’s eyes became big. “Die? How?”
“A robbery.”
“No. That can’t be—”
And that’s when she shot him.
The Fortune Teller's Lament
by JL Bryan
Micah was late to work. Mrs. Gafford, the forty-something lawyer's wife with the huge fake tits, was already waiting for him at the Book Cauldron. She couldn't even pretend to browse among the candles and incense, or the “magic” teas, or the silver Dungeons and Dragons-type jewelry.
“Where have you been?” Mrs. Gafford demanded. “We had a ten o'clock appointment!”
“It's only like quarter after now,” Micah said. He wasn't going to tell her he'd just gotten out of bed, though his hair probably made it obvious. “No big deal.”
“The customer decides when it's a big deal,” said Belinda, the proprietor of the Book Cauldron. She sat on the stool behind the cash register, her girth draped in lacy black cloth, her face slathered in white funeral makeup. “You don't decide.”
“Sorry, Belinda,” Micah said.
“What's that?”
“I mean, Lady Isis Ravenbeak.” Micah had forgotten that Belinda wanted to be addressed by her “circle name” at all times now. She'd been promoted to High Priestess of her coven, probably because the last High Priestess had been transferred to another Wal-Mart two states away. The elevation in status was a very big deal to Belinda/Lady Isis.
Micah gave Mrs. Gafford his best smile. “I'll give you an extra-deep reading today,” he said. “Since I kept you waiting. No extra charge.”
“Oh, a deep reading. That does sound nice.” Mrs. Gafford's eyes flicked up and down Micah's body. He was twenty years younger than her, lean in the way that came with living on coffee, Ramen, and the occasional tab of MDMA.
Her husband was a partner in Gafford & Wendt, personal injury attorneys who ran cheap local commercials late at night. He was jowly and balding.
“Come on back to the Psychic Sanctuary,” Micah said.
Mrs. Gafford checked her hair in a black scrying mirror with a plastic bat perched on its edge, then followed Micah through the door.
The Psychic Sanctuary was also the Book Cauldron's back storage room, cluttered with cardboard boxes and hung with the overstock of wind chimes. He moved a stack of invoices from the folding table, then pulled out a chair for Mrs. Gafford. He lit a few of the dark-colored candles that had melted into the tabletop, and each other, in a waxy mess.
He turned off the overhead lights, then lit a stick of incense, which he waved while circling the room and muttering under his breath. All this crap—the candles, the incense, the prayerful muttering—was just to provide some drama for the client. They liked to feel like they were getting their money's worth. He played some chanty New Age CD on the stereo.
“The room is now cleared,” Micah announced. He sat across from Mrs. Gafford, and he poked the bottom end of the incense stick into the mass of candle wax. “Would you like the cards or your palm?”
He lay his hand palm up on the table, knowing how she would answer.
“Oh, palm! Please.” She laid her hand on his and looked him in the eye. He could feel how horny she was—it crackled off her like the heat from a wood stove—but she wasn't the type to do anything, even if she wanted him. She was the type to flirt and flirt and then go home and work it off with a vibrator. She'd done it after their last two appointments.
Micah almost wished she would sleep with him. He could probably get more money out of her that way, and the apartment rent was past due.
He rubbed the edge of her palm with his thumb.
“What would you like to know today?” he asked in a stage whisper.
“I just need to know,” she asked. “Is there going to be any adventure in my future? Any excitement?”
“What kind of excitement?”
“I don't know. A man, maybe.”
“Aren't you married?”
“But I'm still a woman.” She smiled and raised her eyebrows.
He traced a finger along her heart line and down over her Venus mound. The palm lines were nothing to him, and neither were Tarot cards.
She was going to have a little something in the near future. Not with Micah, or with any of the young men she fantasized about. Instead, she was going to have too much bourbon eggnog and screw Barry Wendt, her husband's partner at the law firm, upstairs during the Wendt Christmas party. He was even older and uglier than her husband, and he was going to come within twenty seconds, and she would feel disgusted about it intermittently for the next few years.
“You'll hav
e an opportunity,” he said, “But it won't be the kind of thing you want. If you do it, you won't enjoy it, and you'll regret it.”
Mrs. Gafford frowned.
“On the bright side,” Micah added, “Your husband's going to win a big case later this year. You'll have some things you wanted.”
“Like that new Jaguar?” The thought thrilled her almost as much as sex.
“Very likely.”
“That sounds nice, doesn't it?”
“It does,” Micah agreed.
***
Micah saw two more clients, and then it was two o' clock and he was hungry. His hundred dollar fee was fifty bucks after Belinda's cut. With a hundred and fifty cash in his pocket, he was thinking about ordering a big spread at Waffle House. Maybe even double hashbrowns.
He opened the front door of Book Cauldron, which was strung with dreamcatchers and pentacles. The girl on the sidewalk outside turned and blocked his way. Livvie. Her hair was streaked purple and black, and her body was a display rack for her work—piercings at her eyebrow and nose, a barbell beneath her lower lip. She wore a short, black-mesh shirt that left the dragon on her midriff exposed. Through the mesh, you could see her bra, and the hybrid lotus flower/Venus flytrap on her left breast.
“Read my mind,” she said.
“That’s a hundred bucks an hour.”
“No discount for blowjobs?” She raised her eyebrows and sucked innocently at the tall strawberry smoothie in her hand.
“Maybe.”
“Don't leave that door open,” Belinda snapped. “Ruins the ambience.”
“Let's go to the loading dock,” Livvie said.
Livvie worked at the Rusty Skull tattoo parlor, in the same strip mall as the Book Cauldron. Between the two small shops lay a vast deserted space that had once been a supermarket. It had a large, badly cracked loading dock out back, with a roof that kept off the rain, and walls that blocked the wind. Everyone who worked in the strip mall took their smoke breaks there.
They sat on the loading dock, and Micah leaned his back against the grimy brick wall. Livvie sat in front of him, cross-legged, and held out her smoothie.
“Want a sip?” she asked.
He sipped the icy drink while she held it. SanFranSmoothie was one of the other struggling businesses in the dying shopping center. Their stuff was okay.
“Lot of clients today?” she asked.
“Three.”
“I got a new one,” Livvie said. “Cop. Wants a giant eagle across his back. It's gonna be so expensive.” She grinned.
“What are you going to do with all that money?”
Livvie set the Smoothie aside and straddled his lap. “I'm taking you somewhere.” She kissed him. Her tongue prodded into his mouth, and the stud in her tongue clinked against his teeth. Micah slid a hand under her shirt and caressed her pierced nipple.
“Where are you taking me?” he whispered.
“Right here.” Livvie moved her hand down to the front of his jeans and squeezed him.
“That doesn't cost anything.”
“It doesn't?” She unbuckled his belt.
“Wait,” he said.
“Wait what?” She unzipped his pants and reached inside.
“Stop,” he said. “We can't, right here.”
“We can't?” Livvie slid back off him and leaned down. She licked him, battering him with the stud in her tongue.
“Ow! Wait.” He looked around. Somebody could come out of any store, at any time--for a smoke, or to talk on their cell phone, or to take trash back to the dumpster...
“Have you ever tried this?” Livvie stuck the smoothie straw in her mouth and took a deep pull. Then she put her mouth on him again and sucked—but now her mouth was filled with freezing cold liquid.
“Oh, shit.” Micah grabbed the back of her head and pushed her down.
After a few seconds, she sat back, smiling.
“Wait,” he said. “I'm not finished.”
“You're the one who told me to stop.” She jumped off the loading dock. “I'm working until nine tonight.”
Livvie turned her back to him and walked away.
“See you at home,” Micah said.
“You can keep the rest of the smoothie.”
***
“You're not really psychic, though, are you?” Cara asked. She exhaled a plume of Native American Spirit into his face. The bar was crowded at eleven PM on a Thursday, and the place was much too loud. Micah hadn't even wanted to go out. When he was tired, he couldn't block out the information, all the pulses of insight into the future of any person who bumped against him. Now he was crammed against the bar, with Livvie and her friend Cara.
“No, he really is!” Livvie said.
“Then why don't you, like, win the lottery or something?” Cara asked.
“It's not like that,” he said. “Maybe if I met someone who was going to win the lottery--”
“What?” Cara yelled, over the music.
“If I met someone!” Micah yelled. “Who was going to win! The lottery! Maybe then!”
“Okay,” Cara said. “Relax, jeez.”
“It's hard to explain,” Micah said.
“So what's my fortune?” Cara asked.
Livvie pulled Cara's palm close to Micah. Micah sighed and accepted Cara's hand. He didn't bother pretending to study her palm.
“What do you want to know about?” he asked.
“Money,” Cara said. “I want money. Will I get some?”
Micah closed his eyes.
Cara waited tables at an upscale steakhouse in the financial district. Her boss grabbed her ass sometimes, but she put up with it because she thought she was going to meet a rich stockbroker or somebody like that. The guys she actually dated were mostly bartenders and waiters, though, because she didn't find many bankers attractive.
She was trying to get into modeling a little, too, but she hadn't told anyone because she didn't want them making fun of her. She had given a handjob to a guy who claimed to be a talent scout for the Victoria's Secret catalog, but wasn't.
Micah pushed forward into the future, trying to find any significant financial events. Nothing was sticking out to him. He could only see a few years ahead, usually. Things got gray after that.
“Not really,” Micah said. “Unless you date one of those geeky financial guys that don't turn you on.”
“There will be a cute one, one day,” Cara said. “A cute one who's into me.”
“Not as far as I can see. Just more bartenders and wanna-be musicians.”
Cara snatched her hand back. “Fuck you.” She covered her eyes and pushed away through the crowd.
“Micah!” Livvie said. “Why would you say that?”
“I just see what I see.”
“Do you have to be that blunt about it? Did you have to make her cry?” Livvie slid off the bar stool.
“Are you going after her?” Micah asked.
“What do you think?” Livvie snapped. “Micah, not everybody's ready to know the truth about their future.” Livvie disappeared into the crowd.
“Then they should stop asking,” Micah said. He ordered another drink.
***
The next day was Wednesday, and Micah was on time at the Book Cauldron. This wasn't because he got out of bed earlier, but because his first client wasn't until eleven-thirty.
“Still only two readings today?” he asked Belinda when he arrived. She was seated at the cash register, eating a bowl of Count Chocula.
“Yeah.” She didn't look up at him.
“What about tomorrow?”
She sighed and checked the appointment book. “Nothing until Friday afternoon.”
“Does it seem like things are slowing down?”
“Yeah, well, that's September for you. Do more marketing. Your little Craigslist ad isn't really raking them in.”
“But I’m even losing my regulars.”
Belinda shrugged.
Micah sat in the folding chair under th
e cheap posterboard sign that said “Psychic Readings: $100/hour, $60/half hour.” When he sat there—sometimes for half the day—he felt like one more useless product in Belinda's store.
His two appointments came and went. Micah warned a young insurance executive not to go out with her friends on Saturday night, because she was going to get in a bad car wreck and break her arm. He told a schoolteacher that the man she was dating was harmless enough, but she was going to get bored with him in a couple of months because there wasn’t enough drama.
He left the store and headed home early. He'd moved into Livvie's apartment, in a building converted from a rundown motel. One of the motel rooms had become the living/kitchen area, while the adjoining room was the bedroom. The place was cheap, but cockroaches were an issue.
He sat in the moth-eaten armchair, which had come with the living room and likely had been here back when the place was still a motel. He lit a cigarette and wished he had something stronger, like whiskey or pot. Coping with bright, often unexpected flashes of the future meant you needed to find ways to put your brain to sleep. But money was tight, the bills were late, and so he couldn't do much better than a pack of Dorals. Especially with his client list shrinking.
“You've been smoking in here!” was the first thing Livvie said when she got home. “Damn it, Micah.”
“Sorry.”
“Ugh. Come on, Cara.”
Cara followed Livvie into the apartment, looking exuberant. She pointed at Micah. “You suck!”
“What?” Micah asked.
“As a psychic.” She dropped onto the old couch. “You're a good faker, though.”
“Leave him alone, Cara,” Livvie said.
“What are you talking about?” Micah asked.
“You said there wasn't any money in my future.” Cara reached into her purse, then plopped a Ziploc full of pot on the coffee table. The bag was thick—there had to be at least an ounce in there. It looked like high-end stuff, too. “And guess what? Turns out my pervy old uncle died. Left me eighty-five thousand dollars. And his vintage porn collection.”