Dark Waters vol. 1

Dark Waters

Vol 1

Edited by

Kirstyn Petras

N.B. Turner

Copyright © 2023 Dark Waters Podcast

Introduction © Kirstyn Petras, N.B. Turner. Pinkest Pink © 2023 Jacob Close. Polyptych of an Invisible Boy © 2023 Kyle Tam The Book of I © 2023 Brian Gatti. Bearing Serpents © 2023 C.W. Blackwell. The Hitman from Hazard © 2023 Ashely Erwin. Sticky Stuff © 2023 Nils Gilbertson. Two Day Rental © 2023 Victor De Anda. Mouthfeel © 2023 Robert P. Ottone. Captain Ooze © 2023 James Hadley Griffin. I Hear You Paint Portraits © 2023 Keith J. Hoskins

No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the copyright holders. Names,

characters, places, and incidents featured in this publication either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, institutions, or locales, without satiric intent, is coincidental. All rights reserved.

Dark Waters Podcast

Darkwaterspodcast.com

Ebook ISBN: 979-8-8689-7276-8

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Pinkest Pink

Polyptych of an Invisible Boy

The Book of I

Bearing Serpents

The Hitman from Hazard

Sticky Stuff

Two Day Rental

Mouthfeel

Captain Ooze

I Hear You Paint Portraits

Acknowledgements

Trigger warnings

Introduction

It’s the fall of 2020.

I'm sitting in a terribly uncomfortable office chair at a terribly uncomfortable desk at my apartment in South Harlem with a very, very strong drink and N.B. Turner on the phone. We’re watching a webcast of a writers event that’s supposed to touch on query letters from every genre.

There is no horror, no noir, no crime. Nothing gritty. Nothing scary.  

And I, with all the bravado whisky and quarantine can give a person say, We should just do this ourselves.

To my incredible surprise, he agrees. He jumps at it. He says, no, really, we should do this.

And how can I adequately explain what that agreement has done?

Dark Waters started as a concept of how to promote indie authors. It began more on the side of editing, reading stories/works in progress and going through thoughts on how to edit them, to get them in the best possible shape for submission, to give the work the best chance possible for acceptance. Three years later, over 50 episodes, hours of laughter and conversation later, and we’ve learned…. a lot. We’re getting better at what we do. Our format has shifted to focus on author interviews and ‘book club’ reviews. We’re getting braver in reaching out to authors. We’ve been to conventions. We’ve done readings, had our work published, met some absolutely fantastic people.

But when it came time to work on the website, the best moments I had uploading our old content was listing on quite a few of our beginning episodes, This piece has now been published in….

To get to say that stories we’d had in rough draft versions on our show have since been published? That felt pretty damn good. It still feels pretty damn good.

It’s kind of insane to look back on how far we’ve grown the past couple of years.  Since we started the show, we’ve both been given some incredible opportunities. He’s now editor-in-chief of Hooiser Noir. I somehow convinced a press to release my first book. But in a way, it makes absolute sense that we’ve come almost full circle to what we originally said we would do – give some amazing writers a chance to share their words. This time, now in print.

I am always and forever grateful for N.B.’s support on this wild experiment we’ve been on; for the friendship that has only grown on every twist and turn we’ve been through together with the show.

Thank you to everyone who has been on, listened to, or shared our show. This book exists because of you. We’ve only gotten to do the show this long, with plans to keep growing and getting better and better, because of you. You’re awesome, and you should know it.

For all the authors in this book, thank you so, so much for submitting to us. For trusting us. For your incredible words and immense talent.

But, most importantly, thank you, dear reader, for picking up this book of wonderfully dark stories. For believing that dark fiction deserves to exist in dark times. For supporting indie authors and indie presses. For being willing to dive into unknown, treacherous waters, to see what’s on the other side.

With all the gratitude this icy heart can muster,

Kirstyn

We had no idea how this project would work. We had some drunken text messages, a few friends with some stories and some time, and a poor understanding of how to produce good quality audio recordings. We recorded the first episode three separate times before we thought it was good enough to release. By all rights, the Dark Waters Podcast was a shot in the dark, and at the start, we didn’t yet know what target we were trying to hit.

Three years, numerous guests, a novel, and multiple publications later, we’ve now found ourselves able to publish an anthology of stories we love and are honored to share with you all.

This journey is a labor of love for the two of us: love for stories, for people, for the tangential conversations which result in laughter and understanding and really bad dad jokes. And more than anything, apart from getting to share this with a dear friend, the best part of it all for me is knowing that you all have chosen to come along for the ride. For a couple geeks who met in high school who somehow ended up feeling like the cool kids (well, Kirstyn is cool, I’m just the half-decent comic relief), it means more than you could know.

To those who listen and share, thank you so much for giving us your time and letting us talk your ears off.

To those who have published our work and the work of our guests, thank you for giving space to good storytelling and beautiful things.

To our guests, thank you for trusting us with your work and your stories and your ideas.

And to those who bought this anthology, thank you for jumping in the deep end of the water. There’s a lot to find here, and it only gets better the deeper you go. Just remember to always look beneath the surface.

In humor, in gratitude, in hope for the future, and love for you all,

N.B. Turner

Pinkest Pink

Jacob Close

There were no words for the horror contained within that little square of pink paper. Unnamed and unknown, having not yet been born, but gestating. Developing, somewhere between fuchsia and blush.

Pickman tapped the swatch with a well-manicured finger, and the sides of his lips curled into a conspiratorial smirk.

What do you think? he asked.

Miles squinted at it. The gallery office’s glass walls and harsh overhead bulbs peppered the glossy paper with mildewy spots of light, giving the already oversaturated sample an appearance not unlike an oncoming headache.

When he could take no more Miles leaned back into his chair again, took a moment to fix his posture, and slid Pickman a diplomatic grimace.

It’s nice. Good, I mean.

Let’s not play the diplomat, Mister Warren, Pickman replied. "It’s shit. Utter horseshit, you know it, I know it."

With a single deft movement Pickman crushed the glossy paper between his thumb and forefinger, as easily and spitefully as one might crush an ant. That sort of confidence made Miles Warren envious. Perhaps even jealous. Whatever it took to so casually wreck a five-thousand-dollar pigment sample, be it the self-assurance of genius or an idiot’s confidence, he wanted it. 

It’s been the same story since they invented Vantablack: pasty little philistines in pale little lab coats, calling a test tube a picture frame. The media eats it up, of course - my man at the Telegraph says they’re going to name it ‘prime blush’, whatever the hell that means, Pickman continued, pausing briefly to take a sip of espresso. They send it out with a little dossier of numbers and figures attached. Spectroscopy this, luminance value that. It’s like reading over a cancer diagnosis.

Miles glanced at the crumpled sample on the ground. Against the pale white tiles of Pickman’s office it seemed to insist itself upon his peripherals, lingering like a chemical smell at the edge of his senses.

So… you want me to recreate it? he ventured, finally bringing his eyes up. Pickman let out a chuckle and shook his head.

No, Mister Warren, he replied. "I want you to utterly destroy

them."

The conversation lulled for a few moments as Pickman picked a pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket, an all-black Turkish brand that was likely too expensive for Miles to recognize. Behind him, London’s jagged slate spires jostled for space in the wraparound window, austere against a smoke-toned sky. Privately Miles imagined what it must be like to have that view every day. A view so much unlike his own, despite being the same city.

Before he could ruminate too much on the thought, however, Pickman floated back to the foreground on a cloud of fossil-coloured smoke.

I’ll cut to the chase: I attended your exhibition at Granary Square and I liked what I saw. Artists who mix their own pigments are a rarity these days, and your command of colour – if a little derivative of Matisse – is breathtaking.

Thank you.

"I’m planning an exhibition in answer to thisprime blushnonsense on July 18th. A shade far in excess of their pitiful little attempt, the pinkest pink ever made by man – or, more specifically, by you."

Miles felt himself go white. The crumpled sample on the floor reasserted itself again, this time with all the threat of a hot iron.

That’s…that’s an incredible offer, Mister Pickman, Miles said, before trailing off. Beads of sweat were forming on his palms. I just really wouldn’t know where to start.

Am I to take that as refusal?

No! No, I’m…I’m sure I could do it, but it would take time. More time than you’re suggesting, certainly. A year, if not more.

Three months is ample. I shall put you up in one of our studio apartments, provide you with whatever equipment or supplies you need within reason. All I need is a ten-by-ten canvas, unicolour, no need to overcomplicate it, Pickman explained, and a mischievous grin crept across his cheeks. On the unveiling day, we’ll have a patent officer officiate a declaration of inventorship before a live audience. Then, we’ll burn it.

"Burn it?"

Like a zen garden, Mister Warren. A moment’s excess.

Pickman pointed through the glass walls towards the staircase, and presumably to the treasure trove waiting downstairs.

In return, I would give you residency of the east wing for six months. All of it. Any new work you produce would have a place here, no questions asked. I’m sure I don’t need to impress upon you the opportunities that would come with such exposure.

Miles gave Pickman a smile back, though neither man could tell whether it was borne of fear or desperate excitement. Both of them knew that no artist would pass up a chance to hang in the Pickman Gallery. People had made offers to pull out their own teeth for the privilege. 

So, can I assume you accept? Pickman ventured.

Miles’ eyes wandered a final time to the crumpled sample. It seemed a hundred feet tall now, and luminous as the sun. It made him think of his own dark, cramped apartment, and the many less desirable shades within; the dull red of dead LED indicators on the heating system, the ethereal blue of mouldy food, the unforgiving black-and-white of overdue bills arrayed like deconstructed skulls on a pale pine counter.

When faced with such terrible colours, what else could he do?

‡

The 18th of June arrived in grey company. The cloud cover which had lingered on from a morose spring remained overhead, drabness inside and out. Pickman sat at his desk, not doing anything. Just waiting, like a lion in its den.

The glass door creaked open, and a young woman shuffled inside – the latest of a never-ending parade of interns destined to burn out, bend over a desk or ‘find another passion’ pointedly outside the industry. They’d be invisible to Pickman if not for the name tags which, ultimately, were more for the benefit of their dignity than his interest. This one’s name was Natalie, apparently.

Sir? she said, clutching her clipboard close. Mister Warren’s waiting in the foyer.

Send him in.

She disappeared with a merciful lack of small talk and reappeared a few minutes later, flanking a decidedly grey Miles Warren. He lingered outside the glass door for a moment as if Pickman couldn’t see him, shoulders slumped in defeat like a man going to an execution, which seemed a good sign – it let Pickman know exactly where the lines of battle and surrender were drawn. He waved them both in, Miles sitting heavily down on the seat opposite and Natalie hovering silently in the far corner.

Good afternoon, said Pickman, adding, though I might have preferred good morning.

I’m sorry I’m late. I’ve not been sleeping well… what am I saying, that’s not your problem, Miles apologised, looking around at the room with hollow eyes, as if it were the first time he’d seen it. Then he startled abruptly, remembering the briefcase still clamped in his grip. I have the latest drafts here. Number, ah… I think it’s numbers eighty-one or eighty-two through one hundred.

I see.

The conversation stopped briefly and Miles squirmed in his chair, as if his skin were too tight and too itchy, while Pickman stubbed out his cigarette to light a new one - if only to let the dread hang awhile longer. Too many people got into the art world for the prestige or the aesthetic, but Pickman was in it mostly for the inevitable silences: the kind of quiet which