of Altered States volume I

About

This book is the result of the first year of collaboration.

Early 2011 we had the idea to start a fiction project that would bring together a group of writers and would result in a series of short story anthologies. The one you're currently reading is the first edition.

This anthology has been produced in its entirety by the of Altered States contributors. This includes the fiction, artwork, cover design, editing, book formatting and distribution, but also our website, Twitter feed and Facebook page. In all ways this is an independent project.

Six months ago we released this anthology as a fiction-only edition. But since then we were joined by several visual artists and together we decided to re-release this first edition fully illustrated. In future, all anthologies that we'll release will be full-artwork fiction editions. We also hope, in due time, to stretch out and offer self-contained narrative art, whether this is photography, full-page illustration, or short graphic stories and comics.

This fully illustrated re-release includes a bonus Choose Your Own Adventure story by one of yours truly, Alan Gowing.

For now we hope that you will enjoy this re-release of our first edition of of Altered States. And we look forward to bringing you more art and fiction in future.

If you are experiencing problems with how our e-book is displayed on your device, please request a free hand-formatted replacement copy via the contact form on our website. To do so, visit us at URL www.ofalteredstates.com.

Your editors,

Alan Gowing

Victoria Griesdoorn

July 2012

LAD 2.0

by Bill Sauer

Ilya keeps his eyes shut tight as he reaches with one hand across the tussled bedding and finds it empty. Without lifting his face from the rut he’s worn into his pillow he considers the consequences; the nightmare will go on another day. Marisol will not be back. He remembers pain, the false hope and bitter disappointment. He remembers the slow fade, the apathy of her doctors. The funeral. It presses down on every nerve as if it happened the day before.

At least he hadn’t brought another dancer back to his miserable little apartment. He might be spared any uncomfortable morning-after games.

He turns his head and fights against the stickiness sealing his eyes shut. He needs to see that he is alone. The sheets and blankets are a jumbled pile at his feet. It’s hot. The humidity is oppressive. Harsh sunlight streaks through vertical blinds spaced too far apart for his liking. An illusion of shadow and light across the empty half of the bed reminds him of prison bars. The king-size bed came with the apartment; once more he promises himself he’ll replace it, downsize it.

Ilya rubs the remaining grunge from his sight, blinking his eyes into focus. On the nightstand an old picture frame lay face down, a faded photograph of them both in full pirate costume. The only relic he has left from their life together, taken on a Halloween night a lifetime ago. He usually sets it down like that when he doesn’t want Marisol to see him with strange women. As evidence of a night not spent alone this doesn’t bode well.

The cloying essence of stale coconut clings to his palate, threatening to take up permanent residence. He can’t make sense of it. He’s a beer man; he doesn’t drink fruity, tropical concoctions. He thinks, trying to grasp something from the night before. The incessant drums of a DJ’s nonstop dance mixes begin to pound his clouded memory, taking on the form of a hangover throb rocking his consciousness down to its darkest depths. Drums, dancing and drink; that is all he can remember. He slides across the bed to reach the picture frame and feels the grit of sand in the sheets.

What the hell? He mutters. Not again.

He picks up the picture and takes a long look.

I’m so sorry, baby, he whispers, setting it back down. He rolls over onto his back to rub his eyes some more, this time with both hands.

Drums, dancing and drink. What day is it? Drums, dancing and drink. The words run through his mind like a mantra. He reaches back to the bedside table and forces its little drawer open. Feeling around he locates his tattered moleskin notebook and a tiny stub of a pencil. Drums, dancing and drink. Committed to paper, the words stop bullying him and he casts it all aside.

Ilya sits up, finally able to negotiate pain-free vision despite the morning sun’s relentless judgment. Or the afternoon’s, Ilya can’t be sure, he’d smashed his latest alarm clock two, maybe three days prior.

Had she been there, Marisol would be inviting the sun in with a cheery little tune and toss of the blinds. Ilya wants nothing to do with it. Maybe this would be the day he simply boards himself in for good. A yawn and a stretch later, he realizes he has his sole pair of pajama bottoms on, which does bode well. Not waking up naked means less chance for regrets later. Maybe he is alone after all.

He swings his legs to the opposite side of the bed, turning his back to the light. Ilya hopes the day will take the hint but knows it won’t. At some point he will have to face it. At some point he will have to smile and nod and play well with others. He stands and a wave of nausea nearly topples him. After steadying himself he takes a step toward the closed bathroom door. The shower on the other side pops on, causing him to pause. He looks back to the bed and finally notices the bikini halves strewn across the floor, interspersed with distinctly feminine, sandy footprints. The evidence of another beach party up on the apartment building’s roof, brought home to his bed.

I’m so sorry, baby. I hope it’s Brooke, at least. Please, god, don’t let it be Quinn.

He stumbles backward into his desk chair and pops open his laptop. Thirty-eight new e-mails later, thirty-four of them deleted without reading, he logs into his blog, Life After Death 1.0, and pauses to rub his eyes one last time. He begins to type.

LAD 1.0

September 17, 2009

Drums, Dancing and Drink

Well kids, it looks like I’ve done it agai…

His phone rings. The I.D. reads Alex.

Hello. The word claws its way past syrupy drink phlegm, rattling around his throat like a dying man’s last gasp.

Jeezus, Ilya, did I wake you up? It’s almost noon.

Ilya yawns, resting his forehead on his palm, closing his eyes again. Noon, your time. It’s almost two here. So?

You were up partying all night again. Why are you still doing this?

What? Last I checked I’m an adult.

A year ago you didn’t even drink. Alex’s voice is even and calm. Usually he would be getting louder by this point in the conversation, the older brother instinct coming out. Ilya doesn’t know how to read him this time.

Are we going to have this discussion every time you call? he asks.

The shower stops.

Baby, you awake? calls a female voice. Get in here with me.

Shit, it’s Quinn, Ilya says aloud, though it wasn’t his intention. He pulls the phone away from his mouth.

I’m on the phone. Just give me a minute, he calls, trying to sound sweet and sincere. The shower pops back on. He sighs, hoping she hasn’t heard his curse. He slouches down in his chair, letting his head fall back so he can stare up at the ceiling fan.

Say what? asks Alex. You have company again, don’t you? You don’t sound happy.

Ilya sighs a second time. Quinn.

Isn’t she the one with the really big—

Yes, that’s her, Ilya interrupts. But she ain’t pretty, she just looks that way.

When are you going to stop punishing yourself? Marisol didn’t abandon you, she died. It’s been a year and a half.

Ilya grits his teeth and wrinkles his nose, hesitating, fighting to suppress a stream of expletives. She was taken. And I’m not punishing myself. To punish myself, I’d have to believe I’d done something wrong.

You’re trying to punish somebody, that’s for sure.

You’ve been discussing me with your girlfriend again, haven’t you? Look, I didn’t ask for it, but it’s mine, my anger. I claim it. It sustains me. Did you call just to freakin’ lecture me?

Jeezus, Ilya, can’t I worry about my brother? Listen, I had a conversation with the creative director at our agency. I convinced her to take a look at your online portfolio.

Ilya straightens up again.

She wants to hire you. If you just show up for the interview you’re in. You just need to get your ass down here.

Tucson? It’s too hot. Besides, I don’t need a job.

You might not need the money, but I know you need to work. And if you keep spending what you have the way you are, you’re gonna wake up one day really needing a job after it’s too late. It isn’t bottomless. Seriously, Ilya, think about it. You can live with me until we find you a place. I’ll even spring for a storage garage for your stuff. Call it a ‘deal sweetener’.

Is she pretty?

Who?

The creative director.

Alex’s voice rises half an octave. I’m trying to be serious here, Ilya. Just think about it, please.

The shower shuts off again, followed by the rattle of the door handle.

Okay, I’ll think about it. I gotta go, she’s coming out.

Alex’s turn to sigh. Call me later. You need a freakin’ reboot, kid. You need to do this.

The line goes dead without a goodbye. Ilya turns back to the laptop and hits delete.

Aren’t you comin’ in, baby? Quinn’s voice reminds Ilya of a car in need of a new fan belt. Her head appears past the doorframe, long brown hair dripping water on the hardwood floor. Ilya begins to type again.

LAD 1.0

September 17, 2009

Altered states: Drums, Dancing and Drink

Kids, have you ever wondered why…

I’m getting cold.

Ilya turns his gaze to her. Quinn stands in full view, naked and wet with her bottom lip pushed out in a girlish pout. Ilya takes her in, marveling for just a moment at the perfect twenty-something body, at the powder-blue eyes pleading for his attention. He smiles and turns back to his laptop, hitting delete. He begins to type again.

LAD 1.0

September 17, 2009

Altered states

Once upon a time, I had…

Damp, soft warmth presses against his shoulders and neck. A delicate hand slides down his bare chest, stomach, slipping under the hem of his pants. He can’t stop the reaction as she whispers her intent and her fingers curl around him.

He turns to face her; their lips engulf one another for several minutes.

Okay, okay, get back in there. I’ll be just one more minute.

Quinn withdraws slowly, deliberately, before traipsing back through the door with a seductive shake of her flawless backside. Ilya hits delete again. Her head appears once more.

Then you’re gonna take me shopping, right? You promised me shopping last time.

Ilya smiles at her, though his thoughts do not warrant it. He nods, whispers sure before turning back to his computer. The shower turns on again. He stops for one more sigh, logs out, closes the top and heads into the bathroom.

***

Satiated, clean and dressed to go, Ilya is at the desk again, hands on the lid of the laptop as he considers how much time he has. Quinn primps her hair one last time as her cell phone rings.

What? No. Really? You can’t get anyone else? Seriously? What about Noelle? Fine, I’ll be there in an hour.

What’s up? asks Ilya, without taking his eyes off his hands.

Quinn leans into the doorjamb of the bathroom with a dull thump. Arms folded and bottom lip poked out again, she waits until Ilya looks at her before speaking.

"Anthony needs me to work a double tonight. Can you