Hello World said the Ouija Machine

On July 23, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Humor, Philosophy, Social Commentary, Stories, Technology, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

These machines are febrile hopes for marking the memory of our passing. The permanence of steel, the artificial sun of a liquid display, the durability of plastic. We dance our fingers in frantic spells over 21st century Ouija boards.

We the dead write messages to those who are to come. They will follow in our footsteps. As we have followed the weeping drops of ink that came before.

These blossoming bones, so wrapped in gossamer lilac petals of intelligent skin, they Church into rot. They become nothing. Nothing save an electronic signature. A peculiar dance across a peculiar void that vomits dancers, then doglike swallows them back. So, electronically we sign.

Electronically we sing into the thing called future. A road that seems so straight. So certain in its coming.

Yet why? Why not simply breathe the Holy empty…

One was always zero and zero was always one.

Mu.

The immutable mutation wills us on. When we turn off we find we can’t. So litter now this waxing stack of ashes with variables at random overflowing.

For passing, parsing, is our only function, our only hope.

Selah.

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The Cottage – Part Nine – (Short Story)

On July 22, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

His eye fell on the neat red script. He should probably read the contents.

Maybe they’d offer up some clue as to the identity of his furtive visitors.

Then he remembered the meandering sentences, the puerile mysticism, the Talmudic dryness. He could not bring himself to do it.

‘It’s just hicks being hicks.’

Still, he thought it wise to postpone his exploration. At least for a couple of days. He needed to mull a bit. It was imperative to get to grips with the peculiarities of the situation.

‘If Dutch and Lizzy roam fearless there must be a reason.’ He theorized. ‘Though they sure are superstitious fucks.’

Then it occurred to him. Maybe, all of this worked like a mob. Maybe there were some degenerates in the woods. And townsfolk like Lizzy payed them protection. Maybe that was the cause of the Seng offering. It was, after all, a root that fetched a handsome price.

It did make sense. It made perfect sense. All the voodoo bullshit was a great way to throw the assuredly few cops off the scent. The feds probably didn’t care unless there was meth involved.

Hell, there probably was. How else did Hant afford all that crystal-ware.

‘What kind of redneck melodrama have I gotten myself into?’ Jim shook his head.

Yes. The Seng and the ways were probably some sort of elaborate communication system for a drug ring.

This put Jim at ease. He was used to dealing with criminals. Hell, he was a criminal in some regards.

A wicked smirk broke out. ‘I don’t think they’re used to city cunning.’

He very much doubted these blissful surroundings could produce the same level of soul crushing cynicism as cold blood-stained concrete.

Truth was Jim had grown icy under the bleak grey Boston sky.

“I’m gonna catch me a hick!” He murmured with amusement as he lit another cigarette.

The second Thursday was approaching. The due date was three days out. This was ample time ‘to go all Vietcong ‘n shit.’

He slept on that notion.

Awaking before dawn with the aid of an antique alarm Jim set out for the drop zone with a shovel in hand.

‘Yep, that’s the angle they’re gonna come at it from.’ He said looking at the moss the hicks had mentioned.

He began to dig. Country living had made him strong. So intense was his focus that neither root nor rock impeded a steady progress. It was just over three hours toiling that a six-foot-deep, three-foot-wide, manhole appeared on the mossy side of the stump.

He filled the hole three quarters of the way with loose leaves and twigs. Then covered these with a layer of topsoil. He made good and certain that the thick grass looked as natural as it had before the soil was disturbed.

This being done he lugged the wheelbarrow full of remaining earth back to the cottage and into the basement.

The early waking and the heavy labor took their toll. So, having assured that he was neither watched nor followed he resumed his self-interrupted slumber.

This time he dreamt of nothing whatsoever.

He awoke with a sense of foreboding. Something was off though he couldn’t place his finger on it.

It wasn’t the fact that it was dark outside. This much he had expected.

He went round the cottage checking all the windows and all the doors. He even went into the basement.

Everything was in order. Yet he still couldn’t put his mind at ease.

‘Maybe it’s been too long since my last whiskey.’

He poured a glass and sat on the couch. He sat and his ears began to listen.

There was no owl. There was no whippoorwill. All that he heard was the strange pleasant chirping.

A chill ran down his spine.

‘They’re talkin’. That’s how these assholes signal each other. Clever fucks.’

The chirping was louder and closer than usual.

‘Shit they might actually be plannin’ an ambush.’

That’s why the actual fauna opted for radio silence.

Jim sought higher ground in his uncle’s attic bedroom. He was used to raids from hooligans. The Carter economy wasn’t kind to latchkey kids. And latchkey kids weren’t kind to each other.

He switched his .38 for the Mossberg he’d found in the safe he’d cracked. Sometimes crime did pay.

He made certain to leave the light off. Carefully, tentatively, with the gingerness of a practiced surgeon he moved the curtain and peeked down into the yard.

Sure, enough every so often he saw brisk silhouettes flitting through the dark. But they moved so quickly he couldn’t make out any details.

‘Methed up fuckers…’

What the hell were they doing though. Leapfrogging? He was familiar with some military tactics on account of Kenny, but this pattern of motion made no sense. It was really more like serpentine but there were no snipers.

An ambush usually involved a slow, steady advance, like a cat stalking a mouse. Or a sudden strike like a snake in the grass.

This was neither.

‘Fuckin’ crazy hicks.’

He was entranced. So, entranced in fact that he almost didn’t notice the quick light footsteps overhead.

‘O hell no.’ Jim said releasing the safety and backing away from the window.

The chirping was everywhere. It sounded like a whole army of stealthy hicks were runnin’ unshod on Hant’s roof.

‘How the hell…’ Jim couldn’t figure it out. The angles of the cabin were so neat and the roof so lofty that access from outside was damn near impossible.

Suddenly, just as quickly as the chorus had started, it ceased.

Still, Jim held his position till dawn. As the sun began to rise, he fetched the alarm and set it for noon. This being done he laid down in Hant’s bed with shotgun in hand and napped.

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The Cottage – Part Eight – (Short Story)

On July 21, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

It was true.

Lizzy might be right in calling him a fool. But he wasn’t stupid.

He was not about to venture into the yawning depths. The fact that the Maglite beam was consumed by darkness, that it did not find a wall. This fact advertised the folly of his lust for knowledge.

“Fuck that shit.” He said aloud as he turned to face the steep hillside he’d shot down like a bobsled.

“And fuck this shit.” He cursed again at the prospect of ascending that slick, leafy, twig strewn mess.

He looked left and he looked right. There were no alternatives.

Jim thought of the approaching evening. Though he no longer feared the woods. He was not stupid. Getting turned around in a thousand miles of tree littered mountainside was a pain best avoided.

This and the call of the warm caress of whiskey stirred his battered frame to action.

He cracked a thick branch in half and sharpened it with Hant’s buck knife.

Jim dug in his heels and thrust the spear into the rich, black, soil. Soil that was aromatic with the memory of a million rotted generations. In this fashion he ascended the three or so hundred feet to the crest of the hill.

The position of the sun hinted at what his watch confirmed. It was now late afternoon. A condition that would soon turn to evening.

He took haste to find the ribbons that he’d left.

They were bright Tiffany green same as the curtains from which they had been cut. Not ideal in a verdant summer wood but useful enough against the browns and greys of tree trunks.

Which is why he was so surprised at being unable to locate any.

The rock formation was its own compass. It had enough idiosyncrasies that he knew on which side the last marker should lie.

Yet it was missing.

He even remembered the tree where it should hang. Not only because it was a peculiar sort of oak but also on account of the fact that he’d etched a giant B for Bruins into the mighty trunk. Most trees simply got a notch, but he’d felt the need to fashion a herald for his nation.

Sure enough, there, right at eye level sat the evidence of his patriotism.

‘Maybe it got blown away.’ He mused even though he found it unlikely. Since he’d tied it like the rest firmly in double-knots round a sturdy branch.

It kind of gave him the creeps. But he didn’t have time for that.

So, he sang a tune he’d picked up when Kenny his best friends older brother returned from Beirut.

“Don’t let yer dingle dangle…

Dangle in the dirt!

Pick it up…

And brush it off…

And stick it up her skirt!”

He was glad that he’d inherited some of the circumspection that plagued old Hant.

“Don’t let yer dingle dangle…

Dangle in the river!

Pick it up…

And brush it off…

And stick it in her Beaver!”

Because the second, the third, the fourth tree and so on had lost their ribbons. The only indication he had that his sense of direction was working were the notches he’d etched.

“Don’t let your dingle dangle…

Dangle on the floor!

Pick it up…

And brush it off…

And stick it in a whore!”

Eventually, after the span of a couple of miles or so, he saw the familiar garish green.

He halted.

“DUTCH! Ya crazy overgrown hick summabitch…is that you fuckin’ with me!”

There was no response. Only the cautious return of bird song and insect ballad.

“Lizzy! Ya old fuckin bitch!” He yelled hoping his filthy tongue would stir enough ire in the grandame to give up her position.

No response.

As the sound of fauna returned again, he grew concerned.

It was most likely hillbillys fucking with him. But, still…there was something he didn’t like in that pleasant chirping.

“Nah..never heard a bird like that.” He whispered under his breath as he double timed the last three miles to the cottage.

When he burst into the meadow he again cried out.

“Hey! Hey you hillbilly schmuck!” He yelled at the figure that melded into an adjacent line of trees some thousand yards ahead.

‘Is that a fucking kid…’ Jim shook his head.

As he did so a bizarre circle of darkened grass caught his eyes.

“Nope.” He said out loud drawing his .38 and firing into the ground, the air, the trunks of trees.

“You do not want to fuck with Jim Cleary! I guarantee it! You inbred fucking son of a bitch!” His father’s temper flared through him. He considered giving chase to the midget hick.

But his wits soon returned, and he began to chuckle as he kicked at the strange discolored circle of grass.

“You think this gangland shit is new to me!” He cried in the direction of his prankster.

“You know what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna go jerk off and take a nap. No thugshit is gonna scare me off what’s mine.”

He retrieved a kerosene can from the supply closet and poured the liquid fuel into the shape of a B. After half a cigarette he smirked with self-satisfaction of a Bruins logo adorning the middle of the circle of hick mischief.

He pissed on it for good measure.

“Southie piss n’ southie pride!”

He could not be bothered to give any more of a shit than that to prevent a forest fire and retired for the evening.

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The Cottage – Part Seven – (Short Story)

On July 20, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for kentucky cave — Part One –Click Here | Part Two – Click Here Part Three – Click Here | Part Four – Click Here | Part Five – Click Here | Part Six – Click Here

The basement was impossible to open from the outside. It was as stealthy an aperture as the access in the kitchen. Presenting itself as nothing but a flat slightly raised patch of wild grass.

‘I just don’t get this place.’ Jim shook his head as he looked at the pile of logs, he’d cut to replenish the ever-dwindling supply.

Sighing he made his way into the house. Making sure to flip the external switch by the nearly invisible door before descending into the basement.

He crossed the ample floor and ascended the opposite stairs. He cursed aloud at the convoluted lock as he worked the odd latch mechanism and swung the heavy grass bearing door open into the Kentucky sunshine.

‘Fuck.’ He said massaging his shoulder from the strain of exit.

It took almost as long to carry the logs down as it did to procure them.

A satisfied fatigue set in. He’d never felt this way in Boston. Though the feeling was similar to coming home from the various construction odd-jobs he’d done; there was a subtlety in providing so directly for ones needs which city life just couldn’t match.

So, as he settled into the couch with the now familiar thistle tumbler, he felt sublime. He felt downright esoteric.

The mountains were a throng of steeples. The hills a fragrant incense giving worship to the host of heaven. Which gleamed its blessing in return.

He was lounging on a celestial pew. A parishioner in a hurtling temple that arced its grand procession round manifold and Holy gifts. It was a sacrament to live.

So were his thoughts as he settled into slumber.

The owl, and the Whippoorwill, were joined by some novel pleasant chirping in a nocturnal hymn that sent Jim to dreamlands wilder than he’d ever dreamed before.

He saw glints of blue grey luminescence on the opposite shore of a subterranean lake. A lake in whose crystal clear and balmy waters he felt no hesitancy to bathe.

He dived. And oh, the depth of the thing made his heart race with an electric joy.

There was a moment of confusion when he realized that he could breathe. And he swam on into illimitable depths.

There were islands. There were stones. Stones with glyphs that sat among vague ruins that tantalized.

All the surfaces were smooth so perfect smooth. As perfect smooth as the crystal water that slipped through his fingers as if it were just another form of air.

He woke with a sweet feeling of steady energy. He was hungry but the hunger was secondary to the overpowering urge to wander.

So, with a sip of water, a ruck full off food, a canteen, a flask, and a flashlight he set off into the late morning etching notches and tying ribbons round the trunks of trees.

He was keen on knowing the whole of the valley.

Since he lacked a compass, he improvised his own system of cardinal navigation.

The three peaks, big blue, horizon, and broken pine were his north, south, east, and west. As his first formal foray he picked big blue.

Maybe cause he was a yank and the south was more exotic.

The wood thickened, the wood thinned, here and there were groves, gullies, and ditches. He delighted in the wonderful variety of landscape. But he did not allow it to distract him from marking his path.

A city wasn’t entirely different than a forest. Graffiti, broken sidewalks, and construction cranes were comparable navigational aids to ribbons, oaks, and streams.

It was midafternoon when he came on an odd collection of rocks. A few of these were so chair like that he couldn’t help but pause. The sudden stop made him recall the rumbling in his belly. And so, he ate the wild turkey sandwich he’d brought.

After a while he noticed how odd his picnic spot felt.

Was the air here cooler?

He walked well beyond the perimeter of the granite formation.

Yes. It was warmer there.

He walked back to the rocks. Yes. It was definitely cooler round the stones.

Jim circumnavigated the geologic caprice. This exploration yielded a discovery. There was current of the strange cool air which seemed to come from the opposite side of the stones as the last marker he placed.

He followed it for maybe a quarter of a mile when he suddenly shrieked. He was sliding. Sliding down fast through damp leaves and mushy moss.

“Shit…shit…shit…shit…!” He cursed as his descent accelerated.

Finally, after what seemed like an aeon he caught sight of an approaching rock. Though he knew it was going to hurt he swung his foot to catch it as he flipped onto his belly and dug his screaming fingers into the hard black twig littered earth.

As he sat on his haunches giving himself a damage report he gasped.

At the foot of the hill that had almost killed him sat the mouth of a cave.

‘How the hell does cool air rise?’

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The Cottage – Part Six – (Short Story)

On July 20, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for kentucky deep forest — Part One –Click Here | Part Two – Click Here Part Three – Click Here | Part Four – Click Here | Part Five – Click Here

As the week wore on Jim grew comfortable. His initial carelessness returned.

He rambled in the woods, feasted on his uncle’s ample supply of venison, and drank much whiskey.

Thursday came and Thursday went and there were no consequences.

His Yankee pallor disappeared. He was bronzed and game fed. The wiry in him gave way to brawn. It was a solid frame that strode out the wood and into Reed that Tuesday.

As Jim exited the post office clutching a bank statement that confirmed his uncle’s promise the massive frame of Dutch rounded the corner.

The giant paused and gave Jim a steady look over.

And then in his slow pithy way said, “I see ya been lookin’ a’ter yerself.”

Jim shrugged.

“Have ye been lookin’ after da property?”

“Ya bet. Ain’t nothin much to do beside. Place is as spick and span as it was. I’ve moved nothing. It’s all as blessedly neurotic as Hant himself.”

“That ain’t the whole of care.”

“Huh?”

“Ye’ve only dun a quarter.”

“What you want me to start a vegetable garden too?”

“Nah., I mean yea ain’t wise.”

“What? I mean yeah, I thought about joining the mob. But they beat that Connor kid to death…kept wakin’ him up with coke…and kept on beatin. Least that’s what my brother told me. So, yean. I decided not to get wise.”

Dutch shook his head slowly.

“I mean ye look like a fool.”

“Well, I don’t put on airs. And I don’t know much, nor do I care to. I’m a friggin Buddhist ya see. I take the middle way. Worked so far.”

“Won’t here.”

“Huh?”

“Ya didn’t honor the ways.”

“Screw the ways. Frank Sinatra said that I think.”

“Why did’n ya put out the Seng?”

“Cause it’s better as a garnish.”

Suddenly a sharp pain erupted from Jim’s right ear.

“Your better open these fool!” Old Lizzy cried.

“Fuck.” Jim said as he recovered from the shock and surprise.

“I’m getting’ kinda tired of ya. If you weren’t a woman I’da decked ya.”

“I ain’t no woman. I’m a Viking. And if yer hankering for a fight I’ll lick ya right here.”

“Crazy old bat…”

“Ye know what else is old? The ways is old. And ye’d better learn to respect your elders.”

“Wasn’t it your generation that said never trust anybody over thirty?”

“Look fool if you want to keep getting that pay, you’d best follow the way. I rhymed it…I even rhymed it for ya. We’ll know…we’ll know, and your uncle will know, and your inheritance will be as empty as ye.”

“See…there we go. Capitalism…this I understand.”

“Good.” Lizzy said. “Cause if ye don’t at least make a show of heedin than something far deeper, far older, than these hollows will make ye understand.”

“Gotcha auntie.” Jim winked. “I understand more than I let on. Which is why I need to jet, or I won’t beat the sunset. I even rhymed it for ya.”

“Smarts don’t do much good here, fool.” She said as her and Dutch turned as one to go.

“Crazy ass hicks.” Jim said striding down the long meandering trail home.

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The Cottage – Part Five – (Short Story)

On July 19, 2019July 19, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for rustic cabin fireplace — Part One – Click Here | Part Two – Click Here Part Three – Click Here | Part Four – Click Here

Though Hant’s circumspection had proved to be a help round morning. It became a hindrance as noon began to roll on into evening.

Jim wanted one thing.

Fire.

To establish a hearth was to establish a heartbeat. The instinct for flame was as primordial as the fear of that which lurked beyond its perimeter.

He needed fuel. There were trees a plenty but where was the chainsaw? Where was the axe. Why were there no split logs? Why were there no splinters. Why were there no stumps?

He’d run through the grounds. He’d run through the house. He was exhausted.

As he slumped down at the kitchen table his eye fell on an irregularity in the wall.

It was a door.

A door so similar to the wall in which its wooden handle sat that he’d have missed it had his subconscious not called his pupils to sentry.

Nearly leaping from the chair, he traversed the space to the mysterious threshold.

As hinges creaked and the aperture swung inward, he beheld stairs leading down into inky blackness.

“The basement! Thank fuck.”

He fumbled for a switch. There was none.

So, he procured the lantern from the porch.

The stairs led deeper than he expected. To a depth that was nearly as tall as the cabin itself.

‘God I can’t imagine digging this out with just a shovel.’

But that must have been the way Hant did it. What did they helicopter in a tractor?

Jim recalled the iron in his uncle’s grip. Iron that had remained even on the sick bed. He felt a surge of waxing respect.

His surprise at the dimensions of the place dissipated.

There were fluorescent lights above him. Or at least there seemed to be.

He raised his lantern. Yes. There were those long tubes hanging seven or so feet above.

Jim smacked himself.

He trotted back up the stairs. And sure, enough the switch he was looking for was in the kitchen. It was almost as adeptly disguised as the door itself.

‘What is the fuckin point of a camo door?’ Jim cursed internally. ‘And a camo switch…’

But his annoyance turned to joy. For in the large rectangular cellar beside a set of stairs on the opposite corner was at least a month’s supply of logs.

The cellar seemed to serve as a sort of hybrid toolshed and storage space. Naturally, everything was fastidiously arranged.

There was also a worktable. On which many oak branches were carved into fantastic patterns and implements.

‘No wonder Lizzy is cranky. Old Hant must be one lousy lay if he pours this much energy into craftin knik knacks.’

Jim laughed out loud and began the happy work of conveying the logs to the fireplace.

Where they had come from, he did not know. He’d searched several miles of the nearby forest and found no stump.

Maybe they’d been ATV’d or horsed in from Reed.

These thoughts while interesting were merely background.

He’d looked up the chimney and found it clear. Clear enough to sully with the happy tickling tongue of flame and the warm breath of smoke.

O yes.

All the doors had been fastened. The windows shuttered. The .38 test fired and fully loaded.

Soon these assurances would be joined by warmth.

There were plenty of kerosene vessels about.

So it was that a flick of a half-finished cigarette started the heartbeat of Jim Cleary’s new home.

Though he was still a touch distressed by the clammy grip of isolation he’d begun to wriggle free.

The soft strange song of the Whippoorwill and Owl was a soothing lullaby. The warm crackle of the fireplace and the warmer glide of whiskey were a blanket that lulled him back to deep strange dreams.

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The Cottage – Part Four – (Short Story)

On July 17, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for kentucky meadow — Part Three – Click Here | Part Two – Click Here | Part One – Click Here

“You’d better get used to opening them ears.” An all too familiar voice chirped.

Jim started violently.

He ashed his jeans with spent tobacco and cursed aloud as hot coffee singed his hand.

Clad in a dusty grey-green dress with her torso wrapped in flannel Lizzy Jennings was more scarecrow than grandame as she stood chuckling in the meadow.

“Pain’s the best teacher.”

“Pain in the ass.”

“I told ya to watch that foul tongue round me. You best believe that I will cut it off.”

Jim believed her.

The sound of birdsong, the hum of the insect kingdom, and the scent of wildflowers were the perfect ambient noise. They were the perfect cover. No wonder she’d been able to sneak up on him.

“So, auntie why ya come pokin’ round here like a robber? And how did ya make all fifteen miles without an engine to tell me you were arriving?”

At this she let out a low whistle. After some moments an old brown packhorse trotted leisurely out the wood, across the wild grass thickets, and right up to the scarecrow. The scarecrow then produced two brown sugar cubes as an offering to the long and eager tongue.

“That explains why I didn’t hear a motor.”

“So ya called me auntie. Now I can tell ya read some of that… which you must. But I know that you have not read it all. Or even more than da faintest dip of a toe.”

“O yea. And how?”

“Ye wouldn’t be sittin so comfortable.”

“O?”

“Yea…O…hell-O…that’s why I came round. You seem slow to understanding. Irreverent, lazy, BOY.”

“A bit too old to be a boy…but irreverent…lazy…? Sounds about right. Slow? Maybe with math but then again do I look Asian?”

“You look like a fool.”

“I see why you and Hant got along so well…”

“Look!” She cut him off. “I don’t call ye a fool lightly. I am not teasing. It is a condition. A disease. You’re sick Jim. And we have to cure it.”

“A wise man once said: You can’t fix stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were stupid. I said you are a fool. Most fools are not stupid. In fact, the greatest fools are often pretty clever.”

“Ain’t clever neither. So, I think I’m pretty safely in that sweet spot in the middle there.”

“No. You are a fool.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

“No. No it ain’t…FIINE…,” she sarcastically drew out the ‘fine.’

“I’ve lived in Boston for twenty-five years. Left home at fourteen. That’s eleven winters worth of foolhardy. I’d say I am doing wicked FIIIINE.”

She started at the colloquialism.

“Yes…that’s the problem…that…is what makes ye a fool. You’re wicked. It makes ya thick to the old ways.”

“Never really cared for the old ways. Or any kind of ways for that matter.”

“Well, that bluster might impress folk who’d eat each other if the electrics went out but round here that kinda thinkin is suicidal.”

“The good die young.”

“It ain’t death ye have to be afeard of.”

“O great more religion…”

Lizzy shook her head. “No, this ain’t religion. This isn’t ritual. There ain’t no need for it in God’s presence nor in those spaces he has made desolate.”

“Still sounds like religion talk to me.”

“Well, maybe talk ain’t what ya need. Maybe what you need is to see…or better to feel. Then you’re gonna read. O you’re gonna read real careful.” She chuckled again as she mounted the leisurely grazer that had been bemusedly listening to the intergenerational exchange.

“Cryptic frikkin hillbilly psychobabble…if I want this much cheesy mysticism I’ll listen to Zeppelin.”

Fortunately, the coffee was still warm. He’d only spilled enough from the thick tin mug to sting his hand a touch. He resumed the reverie which had been so rudely interrupted.

Another Pall Mall bristled to life with the kiss of a Zippo. Through the pretty white cancerous cloud he saw the distant line of trees across the wild flowering meadow. They were not just trees but a wood. A thick wood by the looks of it. From his slightly elevated position on the top most porch step he saw mountains. Did the wood end only there? How far?

‘Just where in the fuck am I really?’ He mused.

Even though he found this particular morning particularly pleasing he could not help but regret a more careful assessment of the map. The lack of foresight in bringing a map or compass was even more lamentable.

He stood up and strode across the wildly varying ground as grasses grazed his jeans. All around him were trees. The meadow, though vast in comparison to the cabin, was but a brighter drop in a sea of green.

And while the town of Reed was fifteen miles away. That relative proximity added little balm to the gradual registering of the utter strangeness of all that had so quickly and recently transpired.

‘How far was an actual town?’

Jim reeled a bit.

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The Cottage – Part Three – (Short Story)

On July 16, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for johnnie walker red — Part Two – Click Here | Part One – Click Here

Jim looked at the manila envelope on the coffee table. In large, neat, red letters done up calligraphy style the envelope carried a message, “Read Now. Read Careful. Read again.”

He undid the flat diverging fastening pin. And instantly regretted it. There were at least a hundred typewritten pages.

The first line read.

“I know you are a fool.”

‘Yep, that’s Hants voice. Gee thanks ya crusty old hick. At least I don’t have to have some witchdoctor type up my letters.’

“You’d best heed Lizzy. She’s your aunt.”

Jim laughed aloud. “So he isn’t gay after all.”

The next few pages read like a chapter out of Leviticus. They were all stern commands spoken like a Hebrew prophet about the cleansing of this and the placing of that.

‘I’d make up weird shit too if I had nothing to do besides play with my prick and get drunk.’ He mused.

The Sunday School lesson was putting him to sleep and he deposited the pages back in the envelope.

“Maybe if I get bored…but right now…I’m gonna get blitzed.”

He walked over to the mantel. Saw a mostly full Johnnie Walker Red and poured it into an ornate crystal tumbler featuring a thistle.

“Musta done more than sell ginseng and mine…this shit costs more than my apartment.”

Jim plomped unceremoniously onto the mahogany leather couch and stared into the unlit fireplace. He was too lazy to light it. And there was no reason to. He was accustomed to broken heaters and Boston winters. Besides there was something hypnotic about the stillness.

It was so different than the roar of engines and the howl of sirens. Jim found it far more intoxicating than the whiskey that warmed his bones. Soon he sank into deep strange dreams.

Dreams that he could not recall when the brilliant mountain sun filled the cottage with waking. At first he panicked because he was late for his shift at Dempsey’s. Then as his bleary eyes slowly grew accustomed to the light he panicked even harder.

The envelope that he had left on the coffee table was lying neatly. Balanced ever so carefully so as not to fall off the armrest on the opposite side of the couch.

He started to his feet and cursed as the empty fifth clattered beneath them. He lost his balance and fell back onto his makeshift sleeping quarters.

“Guess Dorkothy’s not in Boston anymore.” He remarked chuckling at his own incompetence. Half from actual mirth and half to shield his wits from mulling too deeply on the implications of the letters new position.

“Shit, I musta drunk too fast.”

He figured that he must of got bored and played balance the bullshit while shitfaced.

“Yep…that’s that prehangover warning headache.” He said aloud as he ran to the kitchen and guzzled three tall glasses of well water from the faucet.

‘Thank Christ the guy has OCD.’ Jim mused as he happily discovered how easy it was to find the essentials. Eggs, frying pans, butter everything was in its place. He made himself a large omlete. Ate. Drank more water.

It was already past noon and pleasantly warm as he pissed in the outhouse.

“I could get used to this.” He spoke aloud again to no one in particular as he slowly recalled the right method from that one time he’d had to use a percolator.

He plopped on the front porch with a tin cup full of rich dark coffee and lit a cigarette.

“Yeah, I could get used to this.”

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The Cottage – Part Two – (Short Story)

On July 15, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Jim had never seen stars that bright before. In a sky as clean and clear as the angles of his uncle’s cabin. They hung silent. They hung cold.

“It’s chilly up here.” He remarked.

“That’s the damp settin in.”

“Well then I’d best be settin in. I see a chimney. And…” Jim said extracting the maglight he’d lifted off a distracted cop.

“Hey.” Dutch said with such resonance that he didn’t have to shout. “…Don’t be shinin that at the trees.”

“Uh….what the fuck Dutch?”

Dutch showed the first sign of discomfort that Jim had thus far witnessed. The aftereffects of the ATV headlights revealed a rolling of the eyes up and to the left. The giant seemed to be considering something.

“I hunt round these parts. In fact I got a bow on me right now. I don’t want ye to scare off my game.”

“Is it hunting season?”

“It’s always huntin’ season round Reed.”

“…well alrighty then…” Jim said. “Can I at least finally have a fucking smoke?”

“Don’t ‘fend me none.”

“Any reason that we were in such a rush? Couldn’t we have stayed at a hotel so that my Southie ass didn’t have to immediately get Lyme disease pokin round the dark?”

“Well, ye might think it silly but round here we have certain beliefs.”

“Ya don’t say…” Jim sneered recalling the ginseng.

“Hant’s house cannot stand without Hant’s blood.”

Jim took a step back.

“I ain’t into that bloodletting Wicca shit. Had this one girlfriend…”

“T’ain’t what I meant.”

“Good,” Jim said allowing the hammer of his .38 to come to rest more audibly than it had been cocked.

“I ain’t afeard of yer pea shooter. Nor should ye be afeard of me.”

“I’m a city boy. I ain’t afeard of anything cause I’m afeard of everything. People are more dangerous than bears.”

“Well, then maybe you’ll last longer than I thought ye would.”

“Last…?”

“Don’t ye mind that. I didn’t mean to insult ya. It’s just that most folk. Even country folk…they can’t dwell here too long. There’s not enough of the wild in these people. And so the wild here overwhelms them.”

“Ain’t nothin wilder than a Cleary.”

Dutch started. “That’s not Hant’s surname….” He looked really worked up.

“Well, yeah. He’s from my mom’s side. Cronin.”

Dutch seemed relieved. “As long as ya got the blood.”

“Um..look…could you really need to work on your bedside manner.”

“Huh?”

“Could ya please fukin stop sayin blood.”

“What’s wrong with blood. You got blood I got blood everything’s got blood.”

“I’m just worried that with all this blood talk there might be some things that won’t have no more by the end of the night.”

“Are ya yellow?”

“No, just street-smart.”

“Well, there ain’t no streets round here. And I need to be goin. I’ll help ya carry in your belongings’ then I gotta go.”

“Fine by me,” Jim said hoping that the blood-obsessed rustic got goin’ for good.

Jim was a light traveler. A case of whiskey, a hamper of clothes, a toothbrush, Hustler, and a carton of smokes were the sum of his belongings. So it wasn’t long before they’d stowed those belongings in the compulsively neat cabin.

Something didn’t feel right about the precision of the furniture. The way it was spaced. It didn’t seem to be done for entirely utilitarian reasons.

“This is some crazy Feng Shui shit right here…” Jim said trying to move a sharply cornered diamond shaped table away from the wall.

“Don’t do that.”

“Is that your favorite sayin?”

“I mean…ye can try. To do it…but it ain’t gonna do.”

He was right.

The table was affixed to the floor.

“O, what in the fuck…!” Jim exclaimed. “I need a god damned drink.”

Dutch chuckled. “Plenty o that here. Ye probably won’t even get to the stuff ya brought.” He said pointing to the large amply stocked mantelpiece.

“Well…I knew old Hant was a drunk.” Jim said wryly. “But I didn’t know he was gay.”

“He ain’t.”

“Then why is every lamp a god damned Tiffany?”

“Beliefs.”

“Uh huh.”

“Look boy. There’s ways round here. And ye had best learn them. If not out of respect, then so as to get your pay.”

“Now you’re speaking a language I can understand.”

“Gud.” Said the giant as he turned to leave. “I was told that ye can read. Yer uncle had Doc type up the caring of this place. So, make sure that ye do.” He opened the door.

“O…and boy…you will hear things. It’s best to not let them bother you. And they won’t bother you. So long as ye follow the rules. Best take heed o old Lizzy. Do not forget to leave the root. On the stump. Towards the side that grows the moss. Ye do not want it to be missed.”

And with that the cabin resounded with a slammed door.

“What in the actual fuck…” Jim said as he listened to the disappearing roar of the ATV.

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The Cottage – Part One – (Short Story)

On July 14, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for kentucky mountain

Appalachia spreads itself in grey and green a few hundred miles inland of the Atlantic. Its mountains, caves, lakes, and fields are a delight. It is a garden. It is a temple.

It is where Jim found himself that summer.

His uncle who went by the name of Hant had got a blood clot in the lung. His modest dwelling on the opposite side of a miniscule Kentucky township was always immaculate. And it was in his untrained hand that Jim had received the instruction to keep it that way.

Jim Cleary was a bit of a layabout. Not even committed enough to be a drunk. And though he knew next to nothing about country living the small stipend and the opportunity to daydream made him keen on fulfilling his relatives desire.

If this wasn’t enough to seal his fate. Then the nagging of his equally indigent roommates certainly drove the last nail into the coffin of his urban malaise.

“Where da hell ya goin again Jim?” Tony inquired in his brusque Boston brogue.

“Kentucky.”

“And what the hell for?”

“Family shit…changea pace..ya dig?”

“Hell no, I don’t dig how’s me ‘n Harry gonna keep up with the rent.”

“I already told ya I’d be sendin my share.”

“I dunno Jim you’re always late with that shit.”

“Yea…cause that rat fuck boss o mine thinks it’s cute to take my tips cause of a coupla late deliveries.”

“That old song ain’t gonna help here…So lateness is a habit…how the hell am I supposed to trust ya? We still have four months till the lease is up.”

“Cause my Uncle squirreled away a fortune getting black lung and sellin ginseng. And he’s gonna share so long as I keep the house his dad built from turning back into woods.”

“Hmm…I don’ know man….”

“You’re just gonna have to deal cause there’s no way ya can keep me here anyway.”

“Whatever man….do what ya want…but if we don’t get that rent…I’m gonna tell old Barragan ya flew the coop. And you know his IRA ass is crazy enough to find ya in whatever kind of deliverance style backwoods hollow ya hidin in . YA DIG?”

“Yea, man what the fuck ever.” Cleary said exiting the door.

“Fuck you Jim.” Tony said with a grin.

“Fuck you too Tony.”

And with a double bird salute, Jim Cleary set of for Logan International.

He was unaccustomed to the luxury of flight. He distrusted the cleanliness of first class. Nor did he like the look of the silent burly tour guide that his uncle had sent along.

The guy had a beard that would make Euripides jealous. Went by the name of Dutch and had a pensive air like a wild dog that had found its way into the city.

Made it damned hard to flirt with the stewardess.

After a half hour, Jim gave up on making small talk. A guy that talked less than Hant was a lost cause. He didn’t know why he’d even bothered.

It wasn’t gonna be too long of a flight so Jim just sank into the mind-numbing arms of an inflight movie.

It wasn’t long before Rob Schneider forced his brain to shut down.

It was switched back on by the deep thundering simplicity of. “Wehere, let’s go.”

And indeed everybody was busily extracting luggage and making their exit in that leisurely, orderly, upper middle-class way.

‘Yuppie schmucks.’ Jim couldn’t help but chuckle at the collection of khakis and polos mixing with folk who should also be wearing khakis and polos but were trying their hardest to appear like a Bluegrass revival.

A battered pickup pulled up to them outside the parking lot. It was driven by a spry old bat with icy blue eyes that went by the name of Lizzy Jennings. Said she was a Viking and that Jim had better watch his manners.

“Don’t got any.”

“Well learn ya sum. Hant told me ya were a thick one.”

Jim ignored the insult and wen to light a cigarette. Only to have it smacked out of his hand.

“Don’t ya bring dat filth in my car.”

“Jesus Christ! I just got off the flight lady…”

The steely angular framed gaze never changed as a wiry freckled arm shot forward and twisted his ear hard.

“Don’t ya be blaspheming in here neither!”

“Ahh…god damn you old bitch…”

This only made her tug harder.

She stopped just shy of tearing his ear off.

“Fuck I shoulda stayed in Boston.” He muttered under his breath.

The drive from Louisville to Reed was five long hours.

Five long hours with two rustic sentinels whose eerie silence was only matched by the eerier economy of motion in their smooth efficient movements.

‘At least it’s pretty.’ Jim mused as he gazed down into the sleepy verdant valleys that flitted beneath the fluctuating elevation.

It was dusk by the time they arrived at the half dozen or so buildings that comprised the township of Reed, Kentucky. He guessed the thing with the spire was a church, the square thing was a post office, the colonial thing was the town hall, and everything else was shops.

‘Where the hell are the houses?’ He mused.

“Ya ever been on a horse ‘fore?” Asked the sun-dried Valkerie.

‘O fuck…’

The old bat laughed in an innocent girlish sort of way that threw Jim off even more than the prospect of riding a horse.

What was even more disturbing was the perfect, gleaming white, set of teeth that laugh revealed.

‘This crazy crone has better choppers than me…’

“I’m pullin’ at yer leg. I know a fool like you ain’t got no useful habits. You gonna wish you had a horse tho. Cause that four wheeler is a sight more likely to flip than my Sadie.”

Cleary heard a roar from the building that Dutch had disappeared to.

“Don’ be lookin so down. It’s only fifteen miles afore a warm bed and some whiskey.”

“FIFTEEN!”

She laughed that weird coquettish laugh again that was so at odds with her appearance and behavior.

He didn’t have too much time to puzzle over it though cause his carriage was already by his side.

Jim reluctantly took a seat behind Dutch wrapping his fingers tight around the luggage mount.

He was surprised by the rough feel of an old rope round his kneck.

He looked down to see a sack swinging down to his solar plexus.

“Now lemme tell ye bout Thursdays.” Lizzy Jennings said.

“Aha..”

“That’s ginseng in that pouch there.”

“Ok…”

“Today is Thursday and I put some out on the stump. Dutch will show you the stump. Startin next Thursday you’re gonna have to put some seng down afore dusk.”

“Umm…ok.”

“I suggest ya follow what I tell ye. Cause ye don’ wanna learn it from another.”

“What…?”

“Just put the root down on the stump. Or else there’s gonna be trouble. ALRIGHT BOY?” She stated with vehemence.

“Put the ginseng on the stump…on Thursday…before dusk…I get it.”

She smiled oddly and whistled.

Jim barely had time to get a fresh hold on the luggage rack before he and the giant roared into the inky mountain.

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