Category: Original Fiction

The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 9.1 – Rope

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for prehistoric hot air balloons

That’s not right.

That tree wasn’t there. None of this was there.

I’d looked down at the trail.

I’d looked for only a few seconds.

Schmidt was behind me. Lucas just ahead. The sounds of our over-encumbered out-sized expedition echoed all around.

Now there was an eerie silence. Now I was alone.

It wasn’t very long before I emerged from the far sparser jungle into what I can only describe as a savanna.

The field of burnt high grass spread away into the horizon like some great reedy shag rug. Trees and clusters of trees occasionally breaking the beige monotony.

It wasn’t long before my tactical side took over. I retraced my steps. I avoided calling out. I began to look for high ground.

There really wasn’t any. So I decided to improvise. My best bet seemed to be a tree whose lowest branch was about eight feet off the ground.

“You can never have enough rope.” I recalled my uncle saying on a hazy Appalachian evening. That trip was over a decade old, that uncle was dead, found floating in the Colorado river. Maybe he forgot his rope. But I didn’t.

I tied a tent peg to one end of the cord and tossed it over the branch caught it and looped it over again. I passed the peg through the knothole and yanked.

Climbing with eighty pounds of gear was something we hadn’t trained for. Because it’s fucking stupid. But so was leaving my kit unattended in the Twilight Zone.

I was glad for the wisdom of bringing gloves. Though their original utility was to soften the impact of a machete handle they now became an indispensable recon tool.

After what seemed like centuries I hooked an arm over the branch and hoisted myself up using my torso. As I surveyed the rope below my dangling boots I cursed myself. I could have just hoisted the damned pack up first.

Well, it’s not everyday I hop between dimensions. That’s what was dawning on me now. Maybe this is where those weird Saturn fuckers were coming from.

The air felt different. The sun felt different. I really was in the twilight zone.

‘What am I a theoretical physicist?’ I mocked myself as I realized that action was a higher priority than thought. I looked up.

Thankfully the next branch was within arms reach.

I shook my head at the realization that I’d only considered the first branch.

‘Dipshits luck…’ I chuckled at my good fortune.

The pack would be fine as long as it wasn’t on the ground. I hoisted up the rope and used it to secure the kit.

I reveled and rested for a bit in the sudden weightlessness of unencumberment. Then ascended.

I really had picked a good tree. It wasn’t very long before I burst above the canopy.

I gasped.

“Where the fuck is the jungle?”

The ‘forest’ that I had just been in was nothing but the largest patch of the trees in a savanna. I blinked in disbelief and glued the Nikon’s to my peepers.

Jesus.

It just went on and on. 360 degrees of savanna interspersed here and there by plucky patches of rain forest. It was like the Pantanal but on a grand scale.

That however wasn’t the greatest shock.

As I continued to pan I noted an anomaly drifting in from the west. As I increased magnification and focused I gasped again.

There in the indigo distance was a brilliantly chromatic balloon.

Full Text

~

Previous Chapter

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Cheesy Medical Drama Yello#5 – Saturday Night Freewrite

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Humor, Original Fiction, Philosophy, The Fractal Journal, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Image result for cheese

“The best thing you can do…?”

“I’m telling you what’s the best thing that you can do.”

“You think it’s knowing the signs of a subarachnoidal hematoma?”

“Fuck that.”

“The best thing you can do is tell me what you are!”

“No shutup, shut the fuck up…it’s a rhetorical command…shhh…don’t move those suppositories  ya call lips…fuckin kiss-ass…don’t even think about it…”

“Cause I’ll tell you what you are.”

“You’re worthless, you’re powerless, you’re a fraud, and the sooner you realize that the less people in this death camp disguised as a hospital are gonna croak. ”

“You chinless fucking boy-band reject. Fresh out of Harvard…well whoopdeefuckin doo.”

The chief resident pantomimed a vigorous jerk off session.

“Studied the sages under the seasoned? Yeah, well guess what they know? FUCK ALL.  And the good ones will be the first to tell you. But…hey…that doesn’t matter does it…cause you’re not listening…you weren’t listening then…and you aren’t listening now.”

“I mean Mrs. Bray has pneumonia! Why…? Acute stroke and now pneumonia. She wasn’t presenting any signs before. That means that’s hospital flora in her lungs! And how in the holy fuck did it get there?”

“Ahh uhh ahh uhh ooo….no dipshit it wasn’t you, or the nurse, it was entropy, the real God of this world. And you’d best bend that knee and kiss his ass cause that’s the only hope of salvation. You think these are machines we’re dealing with. You think that because we can reduce certain functions to a handful of variables…that we can control them. CONTROL IS THE FIRST ILLUSION!”

Ok, so I had a rather late start on my WordPressing tonight. This was due to a combination of music practice (I still suck but I realize how much so that’s progress), nerdy ass PHP lessons, weight-training, and dishes. Holy shit do those fuckers stack up fast. I might go back to bankrupting myself with meals at the pub.

Anywho. The above snippet is just something I pulled from my subconscious as I was pondering what to do with the Sketch of Sam Monroe. It’s completely unrelated to that novel but emerged as a sort of overflow from the aforementioned brainstorm session.

I suddenly recalled Antonio Damasio’s books popularizing neurology and his findings in that field. I remembered how he talked about the immense gaps in understanding that we have surrounding consciousness and even less intangible things.

This tied in neatly with thoughts that I’d been having about how we are all still children playing on the shore. The latter concept being something from a poem or something from a something. The source is not as important as the message.

Because it communicates that the world is indeed mysterious and our grasp of it is indeed tenuous. So maybe some reverence is due?

I know that entropy can be overwhelming. That the sense of the loss of control can lead to anxiety and depression.

But just like in Jujitsu sometimes in order to get out of the grip of your opponent you have to get closer.

So the moral of this story is that we should embrace the knowledge of our ignorance and not look to oracles in lab coats. Because the oracles only know a few more tricks than the average schlemiel.

This is not to poo-poo medical professionals and scientists but to merely acknowledge that they’re less magicians and more mountain-climbers who are subject to scrapes, slips, and downright tumbles into the abyss.

So hopefully I left you more entertained this evening than you previously were. And that maybe you found some food for thought in here.

While I’m here I might as well throw a few bones to fellow writers who are thinking about writing an actual medical drama and not just a cheesy writing exercise.

Check out these links I found while looking for realistic medical scenarios to use in fiction.

Medical References for Wirters

https://www.writersdigest.com/writing-articles/by-writing-goal/improve-my-writing/how-to-use-facts-in-your-fiction

https://redwoodsmedicaledge.com/

https://writersforensicsblog.wordpress.com/

P.S. I was listening to Elliot Smith, Jeff Buckley, and Mazzy Star while writing this. All very nineties stuff. The asshole chief resident is based on Dr. Cox from that 90’s acoustic radioshow called Scrubs.

P.P.S. Just to piss of atheists and Jesus simultaneously for using Jesus quotes on this Pascha while remaining a staunch heathen here is a verse that IMO really fits the mood of letting go to gain a profounder wisdom.

25 “For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it; but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 9.0 – Pop Quiz

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, Technology, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for portable geodesic dome

“I see that the test went swimmingly.”

Thornton’s corny dad joke landed dully in the comm tent.

He ignored the silence and our high-res grimaces.

“If these coordinates are to be believed you boys are less than a month’s trek from your destination.”

We groaned collectively.

The old spook was fond of subtle psychological torture. Likely cause he viewed it as practice.

Cold amusement flickered through slate blue eyes as he casually took a sip of my favorite beer.

“What’s the MO Baird?” He asked.

“A cold brew and a warm whore.” I considered aiming this joke at his mother but there’s something classic in his aura. Something of the high school principal or deacon that sealed my lips.

“Still a sophomore I see.”

“Better than a senior citizen.” I quipped. Surprised at the quickness of my own wits at such an early hour.

“I heard you were last in line for reveille. That’s why I’m picking you to help me reorient the team. So, once again Lieutenant Commander Baird…what is the mission objective?”

“Get high for Uncle Sam on the tax payers dime.”

“I see that you’re tired Lieutenant. Perhaps you’d like a change of occupation? This is a voluntary, privileged position, for which you applied. You are well compensated….but I hear maybe not enough. Your credit score seems to have slipped. Shelby’s cost a bit more than they did in my day. But, hey…you’re a smart guy… I’m sure America’s HR climate is highly hospitable to drunken seamen with dishonorable discharges.”

“No one else could do this job. We both know it.” I was too worn for threats.

“Your overconfidence may increase the probability of success. So, I’ll let your cocky bullshit slide. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want an answer. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want an answer, now.” He replied with steely vehemence.

Thornton never cussed. So I reluctantly turned on operation earnest boy-scout.

“PLATO – practical alchemy towards order – is a psychological and pharmacological project for which Captain Schmidt and I  successfully competed – and were placed in leadership of – because we were the best of the best candidates…”

“The objective Lieutenant….”

“The objective is to expand knowledge of and develop techniques for pacification. It is a less than lethal weapon on a mass scale. A hippy bomb if you will. That and the free acid is what I signed up for.”

“Narrow your scope.”

“We are in the Amazon for the dual purpose of researching the correlation between geomantic practices such as henges and traditional medicines. We are also in pursuit of a possible cache of high technology in the city of Z. A hypothetical remnant of a civilization which seems to have been confirmed by Hoyt’s map.”

“Good. And how will you get there?”

“….” Before I could reply, I was again witness to a classic Thornton idiosyncrasy as the screen went black.

Full Text

~

Previous Chapter

The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.9 – Schulze

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, The Fractal Journal, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Image result for spanish hospital

“Roderick!”

Something wet and foul registered.

“Roderick! …wake up….!”

My hand closed round a cold roughness as I yanked it from my forehead.

My eyes followed the motion panning left and to the floor. There lay a disgusting rag.

“Wake up you sloppy drunk! We have to leave!”

I was terribly confused.

“Leave…?”

“I saw them…spied them from the adjacent house…with your field goggles. There’s time if you’d just move!”

My mind was blank. My limbs were heavy.

“Damn you and your whoring!” Jones cried as I gasped from the cold shock of his buckets contents.

Slowly like a jigsaw the pieces were falling into place. I’d been chatting up some brown eyed number…Maria I think. There had been a liberal amount of wine. Yet, not that liberal.

Not to drive me to this. I felt like wood. Verdun was kinder.

“Stir!”

He yanked me onto cold marble. I was always surprised by the strength his gangly frame possessed.

I registered a sharp boot in my ribs.

“You’ll thank me…there’ll be worse if you don’t hurry…they’re going to bleed us Hamilton.”

I raised myself up to my knees, heart racing, vision blurred to behold a hospital room.

Acrid coffee was thrust in my face.

“Drink.”

The hot tin cup burned but my hands were so numb that it barely registered. The taste made me wretch.

Though not as much as the vision my growing wakefulness afforded. Next to my bunk were jars of bile and blood.

“That’s not even a quarter of what they’ll take. We had to drain the poison.”

“They?” I inquired rising to my wobbly feet.

“Yes, those blasted Germans….the Black Lodge…she was one of their’s. That little treat she slipped in you drink was preparation…ritual garnish.”

“Schulze in Spain?!” I was incredulous.

“Good! You’re up. Now come on! I have a motor waiting.”

I stumbled after him into the unforgiving glare of continental sun. Barely noting him shoulder a bayonet.

Scarcely had my feet alighted before the car began to move.

“Do you have your sidearm?”

“It was in my jacket.”

Fred Jones shook his massive brow and handed me a cigarette.

“It’ll steady your nerves.”

“For what exactly.” My brain was still foggy.

The next items to fall in my lap were a heavy Mark I revolver and a box of matches.

“They might be possessed but they’re still Huns. It’ll take them a while to figure that I paid their whore better for your miserable life. Still, better to be ready now than later.”

“Where are we going?”

“Malaga…then New York.”

“New York!”

“Better New York than the grave.”

“Schulze is no reason to quit Europe.”

“Schulze is a finger of a hand that belongs to hefty arm.”

We drove on in silence till we entered the country and stopped at a farm-house. A somber looking Spaniard exited and exchange keys with Jones.

We switched cars and were back on the road again.

“While you were playing in the trenches I was doing liaisons.”

“Playing…playing…! You…”

I was about to strike him when he interjected.

“Good! That’s exactly the sort of energy we need right now but don’t use it to mar the face that saved you from becoming Satan’s cocktail.”

He was right. But, I still didn’t understand anything.

“Where the hell are we getting the money to go to bloody New York?”

“Where there are wars, there is plunder, where there is plunder there are secrets, and where there are secrets, there are her majesties spies.”

“I see. At least that’s intelligible. But, tell me what the hell does Schulze want.”

“We broke his toy…don’t you remember?”

“The shewstone? That old parlour trick prop. He tracks us to Spain…for a trinket!?”

“Serves him right. That wasn’t Gabriel that appeared in Hamilton Manor.”

I rolled my eyes.

“O, we have a skeptic. Well, then how do you account for your family’s seat sinking into the moors?”

“Peaty soil.”

Jones rolled his eyes right back.

“Tell me Sir Roderick….do all your families possessions suddenly hum and sing and sink without a trace into the soil?”

“Well, ok suppose I buy your voodoo story. What’s so sacred about a shewstone? How does it warrant risking health, wealth, and liberty…”

“He doesn’t care for the material. He cares for what we awakened. As rotten as he is…he’s not evil… but there are others in Germany and I’m afraid England as well…that very much are.”

“I don’t believe in evil.”

“Let’s hope you can maintain that illusion. Believe me if the thing that Schulze wants to propitiate with your blood get’s a hold of your spirit you will.”

“Oh, come off it. You’re just eager for a holiday in the colonies and jealous of my success with Spanish ladies.”

“You’re a baboon Roderick.”

“He can make another shewstone…this doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s not just a shewstone. There’s a reason the Bible warns about searching for signs and wonders.”

“Huh?”

“You have to disabuse yourself of gnostic deceit. Matter is not profane. And there exist certain arrangements of matter that in the presence of great spiritual energies become conduits.”

“I don’t follow.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m telling you there is a greater war a greater horror coming to Europe. Schulze only recently caught on to the intentions of certain parties within his order. Being the single-minded hun that he is he fancies it can all be put back into Pandora’s box by having us offered to the abyss.”

I was silent.

“What he doesnt’ understand is that he’ll actually be feeding it. And if he succeeds in our capture we will become keys to a far greater hell than is already inevitable. His puerile Prussian mind has completely missed the obvious tell. If those in his order that he fears are now backing his efforts towards our destruction shouldn’t that raise a red flag?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I tell you man. I tell you that I saw them and they communicated. They painted so many scenes in my mind. I am awake. I do not fancy it. I am awake in a way that wasn’t meant for the sort of engine that a mortal brain possesses.”

“HEY WAKE UP!”

I was again confused. “But I’m already awake talking to you..” I said as I felt a weight on my shoulder.

“Baird wake the fuck up. Nap time is over.” Schmidt said letting the full weight of my rucksack come to rest on my chest.

Full Text

~

Previous Chapter

The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.

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French Words

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized2 Comments

ashes

“What’s the use of passion?”

“That’s not my forte in the first place.”

“Oh, I like that word forte…it sounds French.”

“Probably.”

“Do you know any more French words?”

“Sure.”

“Like what?”

“Blasé.”

“O that one’s nice. What’s it mean?”

“It’s the face you’re trying to put on now.”

“How do you mean…?”

“You’re trying to do that ‘seen it all’ face.”

“Is it working?”

“Nah.”

“But I really feel like I’ve seen it all. So what is the use of passion. You’re just goin’ to crumble to dust anyway…”

“What’s so bad about crumbling into dust?”

“It’s just so sad…”

“Sad? I find it rather grand. I intend to crumble with gusto!”

“Now who’s tryin’ to be blasé?”

“Well for one I’m not trying cause blasé is my forte.”

“O that rhymed!”

“See that’s the attitude that makes the ‘seen it all face’ look really daffy on you.”

“O well your rhyme is stupid then. And you have a big nose.”

“Yes, I’m a Cyrano a fact so plain as to illicit ennui.”

“O that’s a fresh one…ENNUI! And is Cyrano a type of kimono?”

“What’s in your wine?”

“Umm…wine I think.”

“Yeah, and what happens to that wine?”

“Well, I drink it and it tastes good.”

“Yeah, and after that…”

“Well..um…I …I don’t want to say.”

“Come on everybody does it.”

“Fine…I guess I..I go to the bathroom.”

“Does that make you sad?”

“Huh?”

“Does it make you question the use of wine?”

“Well, no but…huh…I don’t get what you’re trying to say.”

“Life is piss. And its release is bliss!”

“Well at least it rhymed.”

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.8 – Elect, Element, Eloquent, Eligible, Electrons

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for elohim

~

The adventure continues!

Full Text

~

Previous Chapter

The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.

“There he goes again.” Schmidt whispered from the adjacent hammock.

“Yep.” I replied as we watched Hoyt gingerly unfasten the velcro and disappear through the tent-flap.

“He thinks he’s sly.”

“Well, isn’t he? I mean how many of those Saturn cultists has he slain?”

“My question is why do they keep wasting soldiers?”

“Yeah…it’s real fucking odd…I haven’t heard a bird…or seen anything on radar. No word from Thornton or the donut dippers either.”

“I mean we don’t even know if they’re after us or Z or what…he kills them before they get within a half mile.”

“And nobody does anything about it.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do?”

Lucas shrugged.

“You know.” I said. “A thought just occurred to me…”

“You remember the yokel that broke into our lodge?”

Schmidt was silent for a bit and then chuckled. “Yea, the big ginger dufus…what was his name…uh…Jesse.”

“Yeah.”

“You remember the story he told us?”

“Shit..that’s goin back a ways…lotsa shits happened but uh yea I guess vaguely…I think he said somethin about guys in polos.”

“Yeah, that was in his explanation of how he trekked through sixty miles of Kentucky forest to get to Luckadoos. In his story the polo guys were working with some kinda lizard men.”

“You buy that shit?”

“At this point I’ll buy just about anything. But really the weirder stuff from his story is beside the point. The point being that there was something real fucking unnatural about the amount of time it took him to get from Foley to the lodge. It involved those business casual assholes and then we were attacked.”

“I mean yea…that is what happened as far as I remember…so?”

“What if they’re the same guys Hoyt is hunting?”

“I dunno why they would be. These lemmings are all normal size. I swear that fucker who dislocated your ribs was well over 6′ 8″.”

“I know. But think about the other similarities.”

All I heard for the next half-minute was jungle and snoring.

“I’m drawin a blank.”

“Well, the thing of it is that in both situations people popped up out of nowhere.”

Schmidt laughed.

“You suggesting a teleporter? Well, beam me up Scotty!”

“Shit…maybe…”

“You’re serious?”

“I dunno..but I’ll tell you what…I rember that kids description pretty vividly cause I had to coax it outta him…and it sure sounded like there was some sort of physical disruption..I think he even used the word ‘oscillator.’ What kind of backwoods duckhunter talks about oscillators?”

“Well he was a deacons kid, I think…right?”

“Still though…oscillator?”

“Deacons can be physicsts.”

“In Foley fucking Kentucky?”

Schmidt sighed. “A fuckin’ teleporter Baird….”

“I didn’t say teleporter ya daffy cunt.”

“Well, then what the fuck man…I know I’m sleepy are you sure you’re not just pullin shit out your ass cause you’re delirious too?”

“Look, tripping on DMT is part of our job. So you’re aware of the elves?”

“Sure, but dream states and shit that simulates dream states is likely to illicit similar things. It’s Jungian archetypes like serpents that have to do with primitive shape and pattern responses. I think one theory Thornton showed us was that the elves are a combination of youth and age. They are small and child like but wise and sometimes bearded like the aged a perfect overlay for our instinctual simultaneous dread and love regarding birth and death.”

‘Fucking Germans…autistic godamn cocksucker….’

“Yeah..I don’t care...what does the word elves start with?”

“E.”

‘For fucks sake pull the kraut out of your ears.’

“Yes, E, and then l…EL!”

“So…”

“What did Hoyt tell us this afternoon?”

“He told us a lot…that was actually the most I’ve heard him talk since his freakout back at the lodge.”

“Right, but specifically when he was talking about God.”

“Again he said a lot.”

“Ok…names of God…”

“Uh….Jesus…Yahweh….um…KAHN!”

I sighed. “Baruch, Elohim, Adonai.”

“Mm..ok…”

“What does Elohim start with.”

“E!” Lucas cried. “….just kidding man…EL so where are you going with this EL business?”

“Elect, element, eligible, eloquent, and electrons…all these fancy words for fancy things both basic and complex begin with EL.”

“So that’s where my hash went…”

“I’m serious. You don’t remember when Ant went on that Jordan Maxwell kick?”

“Oh! Ok, well shit…do I ever. I think I get where you’re coming from now…but I mean…Jesus Baird…that’s some nutty stuff.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit patched together but I think the old boffin was feeling his way around something real.”

“Yeah, I remember about Elohim now….Maxwell claimed it was plural but it’s not really plural in the same way the trinity isn’t really plural. Plurality of force doesn’t necessitate plurality of persons. Just like we have arms, legs, and hands with different function or forces.”

‘Jesus…the lectures…about shit I already know…Rhinelander‘

“Anyhow Maxwell also went on and on about Saturn in one of the lectures Ant shared with me. That and his fixation with El, Hoyt mentioning Elohim, the fact that folk are popping up out of nowhere, and the loose association of being tired…makes me think of Electrons and like you said plurality of forces.”

“Holy word salad batman…WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT.” He whisper shouted.

“Jesse talked about how everything kinda went into a negative state, and the world got distorted, right before he passed out and woke up nosing round our lodge…if I’m recalling correctly.”

“Ok…”

“I also remember the recording of Hoyt’s uncle and his little seance at Cambridge…he mentioned the El…he mentioned them in context with Set who affixes spirit into matter.”

“I really don’t follow.”

“It’s ok I really don’t either but I know I’m right near the answer as to how these Saturn assholes keep popping up…they’re trying to play God again…like those guys at the bottom of that cenote were.”

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.7 – Conflagration

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for sodom and gomorrah

~

The adventure continues!

Full Text

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Previous Chapter

The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.

“How old are these stories?” Graham asked tapping Fabre’s Bible.

“Depends on a lot of factors…” Cook said puzzling over the possibilities.

“Which stories are you referring to exactly?” Bohm inquired.

“Soddom and Gomorrah.”  Hoyt replied.

“Buttstuff.” Sam sniggered.

“Well, I honestly have no idea.” Cook said. “It’s not my area.”

“Do you think they are original?”

“The stories from the Bible?”

Graham nodded.

“The modern convention suggests that some are borrowed from earlier civilizations such as Sumeria. And I believe that Abraham’s origin is somewhere around Iraq.”

“If the children of Israel borrowed from Sumeria. Is it possible that Sumeria also borrowed.”

“Certainly, but that isn’t archeology…that’s sheer speculation.”

“Of course.” Graham exhaled smoke. “But entertain the thought.”

“Ok.”

“Who is God?”

“Christ.”

“His Father?”

“Yahweh.”

“Who is Yahweh?”

Cook shook his head.

“Baruch…Elohim…Adonai.”

“I am not Jewish.”

“Neither am I…but you see how we got trinitarian…and then downright polytheistic.”

We were all blankfaced.

“Do you really not remember my uncle’s record?”

It was so long ago. We were again blankfaced.

“Names, divine identities, these are human inventions, they are descriptors of the indescribable. Something that can never be grasped. Grandeur that one cannot gaze upon. What happens when you gaze upon it?”

“You are burned away…by the glory of the most High.” Fabre piously muttered.

Hoyt smiled his Cheshire smile, “…and what happened to them?” He jerked his thumb towards the monitors.

“You are suggesting that this is the site of Sodom?”

“What was Sodoms sin?”

“Buttstuff!” Sam repeated excitedly.

“Which is the first commandment?”

“Thou shalt have no other gods….”

“What presumption is implied by gazing upon the face of God?”

“Omnipotence, omniscience, a Luciferian entitlement.”

Hoyt nodded. “There is something of the cleric about you Doctor.”

“I fail to see what this has to do with anything here.”

“They were burned away and something fertile grew in its stead. Something fertile and primitive…a humbling occurred.”

~

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.6 – Syncretism?

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Amphibious drone

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The adventure continues!

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.5 – The Good Divers Always Live

The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.

The tent was hastily assembled on the periphery of what we surmised to be a drowning pool. Syncretism wasn’t unthinkable but it still surprised Cook to see Mayan rites along an Incan road through Kuikuro lands. That is if that’s what we were currently seeing on our monitors.

“So you don’t have to preprogram it?” Lobo was incredulous.

“Nah, this Israeli shit is pretty good.”

“South Korean.” Lucas corrected.

“Jointly developed.” I finished.

“So..100 feet…there’s no way radio waves can penetrate the water…”

“Ultrasound.”

“Yep, that’s real time response.” Lucas said proudly. His brother in law headed up R&D in Seoul.

We hovered over the submarine ossuary. It was a grim show indeed. I counted at least seven skulls. Who knew how many more lay beneath the silt?

“These aren’t children’s bones.” Bohm said.

“So it’s not likely that it’s Incan.” Cook elaborated.

“Either way that’s bad Voodoo.” Fabre said clutching his Gris-gris. I smiled at the syncretism among syncretism. A Catholic holding an IslamoPagan charm for protection against Mayan wells in the green hell.

“There is no sign of trauma?” Bohm stated and asked simultaneously.

“Not that I can see.” Cook replied.

“We’d see a lot better if we were down there.” Sam whinged.

“With the roots, silt, and currents?” Lobo challenged drily.

“With dignity, manhood, and not being a little pussbag.”

“Idiot.”

“Did you note the discoloration?” Graham surprised us.

“…no…but now that you mention it…”

“This couldn’t be any clearer.” Hoyt said flatly.

“…phh..hm…well why don’t you just tell us then.” Cook was beginning to get irritated.

“It would be unsportsmanlike.” Graham Hoyt replied exhaling smoke.

“O?”

“Tell me doctor have you ever been to the Ganges?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“Did you witness the pyres?”

“Si.”

“Well, than it’s all in hand.”

Cooks face took on a look of extreme concentration. Just as I was sure the vein on his forehead would burst he exclaimed. “Pugilistic positioning.”

He extended a finger toward a skeletal forearm and fist.

“They were burned.”

“I am not aware of any Mesoamerican rite involving fire.” Bohm said.

“It wasn’t a rite.” Hoyt added in his detached way.

“Shit!” Sam cried out. “I had a dream about a fire last night…they…they were trying to escape the fire.”

Graham smiled.

~

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.5 – The Good Divers Always Live

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for cave diving

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.4 – Huaca

The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.

 

Image result for cenote  Ah, this was good.

My knees thanked me as my back relaxed.

We weren’t stupid. Our unanimous decision was to swim. No one was about to dive – much to Sam’s dismay.

“Bichano, please…” Lobo teased mixing 90’s street talk with Brazilian spice.

“Y’all are the bitches!”

Image result for cave diving

“I’d rather be a live bitch than a dead ass.” Lucas smirked.

The soil filtered rainwater caused no occlusion. The water was absolutely clear. We could easily discern the bottom some hundred feet below. There did however remain some mystery round the floors periphery due to the angle of the sun.

We’d seen caves there before the passage of noon shrouded the portals in shadow. This surprised me.

If you have one of those dimmer lights and you turn it on to 1/2 or at most 3/4 – you get an impression of the level of photons filtering through the canopy.

I supposed that whatever anomalous geologic formation had collapsed beneath the deep rainforest soil may have accounted for the odd gap in the canopy. But then again it seemed too wide. My brain entertained a kooky thought.

“Think this mighta been a meteor…or…UFO crash?”

Dr. Cook’s beer belly provided excellent buoyancy even as he laughed. “After all this time with you Americans I certainly believe in aliens…I…” He paused. “Oh, but wait…the truth might be…a lot more interesting.”

“How so?”

“The Hamza river.”

“Is that some sort of tributary we’re near?”

“On top of.” Bohm remarked.

“An underground river!” Sam interjected joyously.

“Not exactly,” Cook resumed. “It flows slower than the average glacier.”

“Yes, it’s more like an aquifer that moves in West from the Andes and empties out into the Atlantic. Just like the Amazon.” Bohm added.

“Now we have to dive!” Sam disappeared beneath the water.

We all laughed.

“What an idiot…who here has experience with overhead environments?” Lobo asked.

“Actually he does.” I answered.

“Really?” Lobo was incredulous.

I nodded. “Sailors gotta know how to exit a sinking ship or in our case how to scuttle a floating one.”

Lobo rolled his eyes. “That’s not the same.”

“Hey, I’m not the one that wans to go spelunking. I remember horror stories my instructor told me about some Yups down in Florida. One of them yanked a chunk of suit and the regulator off the other one. Great teamwork… a true ‘Florida Man’ incident. Coked up Miami shits…”

“Florida man?” Cook questioned as Sam surfaced.

“Well, this one is actually dumber if ya can believe it.”

“Hey, Monroe: Training, Guide, Depth, Air, Light…any of that ringing a bell?”

“Yea, smart ass…”

“O?”

“The Good Divers Always Live.”

“And which of them ingredients is missin’ from this Gumbo?” Fabre asked.

“I had plenty of training diving into your mother’s bush.” Sam blurted out as he raised a middle finger that melodramatically followed him below the surface.

“He’s a fucking kid.” Lobo said.

“Sounds about right.”

“You want to bet he dies first.”

“It’s not gentlemanly to bet on certain outcomes.”

Sploosh. “Brrr…it gets chilly down there.”

“No shit Sherlock…ya mean cave water ‘s cold?”

“Cold and full of bones.”

It took a while for the comment to register.

“What!” Cook cried.

“Guess they weren’t good divers.” Sam said wryly.

~

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.4 – Huaca

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for mato grosso jungle

The adventure continues!

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.3 – As Wicked as the Wicked

The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.

 

Image result for 80lb ruckMy knees ached.

Jesus, did my knees ever ache.

Good training is indeed good. It is how I recovered the key. The key to the castle keeping my memories.

No madness, no brainwash, no demon lights could obfuscate screaming joints. Sinews that cry a song of burden. Protesting eighty pounds of ruck sinking boot into irregular soggy soil.

These that were so far from the Andes. These Huacas were magnetic. Subtle to the point of indistinguishability. Mixing with greens, browns and vines as fixture rather than feature. They nonetheless transformed it all.

Their magic made one forget and remember.

The pain was gone. The faces and conversations I surveyed became a backdrop. Older than the predecessors of Viracocha. Yet as fresh as the soul.

These weren’t palisades, earthen ramparts, or village rings. Bluish grey and porcelain smooth, Easter egg hints of Easter island, a fragmented monument to Ur, yet they are beyond Babylon. As hoary as Pangea, their ruin, is the Urtext of our civilization.

Graham’s bloody deeds, the polyglot chatter, and all the strain of expedition were forgotten. In its stead stood a remembrance. Memory the stuff of dreams and visions awakened.

Yes, awake is right.

That is the state revered here. Of course the natives regard their dreams as real.

Harris was right. The shem was here.

Pine Cone Pineal Gland

 “Did a vehicle…” I began.

“…land somewhere…” Sam continued.

“…in the Andes…” Lucas finished.

Hoyt simply trudged on in spooky silence.

So, the others felt it too. We were close. Close to shattering the gnostic lie. Matter and spirit are not to be regarded as separate.

The shaman’s lights no longer perplexed me. I was untroubled by the madness we’d seen in Pacific depths.

The glory of God was not profaned by dust.

Duality needed no affixing since it’s just myopia. We were in no danger of transgression.

Here at arm’s length was the physical. In truth it transmitted… no it was the spiritual. The question now was how to travel from vein to heart.

Yes, we were awake. Wakefulness has grades. To complete our mission to gain ‘Total Information Awareness’ we merely had to hop from the bed. What was mere in the mundane was complex in the mystic.

Despite appearances Cook probably didn’t know the sort of thing we were after. Hell, neither did I. Yet, together through converging interests we were working it out.

Fawcett’s city, his fascination with the occult, his disappearance all these puzzle pieces led to something far beyond archeology.

In the tradition of the magi a mystic announces the Aeon. We are in the Aeon of Horus, the age of fire, and there is transformation afoot. Transformation of the sort that those servants of Saturn feared.

It is a calculus of dance.

We had just a few more differential pirouettes to skip into the ecstasy beyond dimensions. Not interdimensional mind you. But dispensing with dimensionality altogether. There are some among us who fear this to be gazing upon the face of God.

Yet, God’s face everywhere appears and all these thresholds are pagan fears.

I again noted the vines wreathing the roots of great trees like a crown for the true arboreal head.

I nodded to Chuck. He understood me.

The horticulturist stooped and harvested.

We trekked on through primordial vesper.

Yes, the trick you see, the excellent training. This we received in spades. Before any sort of psychedelic or ascetic work it is essential to set anchors. Failure to do so when delving into anything beyond intermediate depths will cause a slip into the all-consuming fire.

Despite them trying fervently to thrust me headfirst into Hell. I am whole. I am whole because I tethered myself. It is why I remember all of this. It is why I am recounting all this.

Even in my strange exile, here among discarded Wonton bowls, and modem stripped laptops. As I float in the South China Sea – I recall everything. I recall everything because pain in the legs is the heart of Zazen.

Schmidt was the first one to notice the sinkhole. Having picked his way to the top of a peculiarly shaped mound of  ruin and flora he cried out.

“Holy fuck!” Image result for sinkholes in the amazon jungle

Holy fuck was right.

“This is very similar to the cenote in Valladolid Mexico.” Cook remarked.

“What it is! Is fucking dank…!” Sam exclaimed clapping his hands together. “Ya fags got SCUBA shit right..I mean we’re bound to have scuba shit…”

Lobo nodded.

We still had several miles to go before reaching the next rest stop on the route Hoyt’s ancient map outlined. But, several miles was forgotten in light of this seductive anomaly.

It was unanimously agreed that we go swimming.

It’s important to do dangerous dives well rested. Initial explorations would have to be made. This was also an excellent opportunity to assess the amphibious fitness of our drones.

That’s a lot of activity.

Which is why we set up camp before noon rolled around.

~

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