The Cottage – Part Six – (Short Story)

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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 Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 9.6 – Elevenses

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Art by some hippie here’s the link.

I didn’t have much reason to hang around the dawning of Atlantis. So I cleared my mind and rejoined the expedition.

“Is it elevenses already?” Sam inquired.

“Huh?”

“What’s with the teaball man?”

“Oh..uh..I just had forgotten I’d put it in my pocket.”

“That’s pretty weird my dude. Heh..say what’s in that tea braheem…?”

I actually had no idea since I’d just gotten it from a Victorian ghost. But, I did know that now was not the time to consume it.

“Maybe I’ll let you try some later. And we’ll see if you can sit with elders of the gentle race.”

I stepped off the trail and let the expedition troop past me as I deposited the item into my ruck.

Doctor Cook came up on me after a bit.

“I have been talking to Senhor Hoyt.”

“O?”

“Si, and he says that the map merely leads to another map.”

“Jesus.”

“Yes, that’s what I said. I love the jungle. I love the ruins we are seeing but…even I have my limits.”

“I think I reached mine before this party started.”

“There are many limits to be broken.” Graham muttered melodramatically.

“So Ipsissimus…” I quipped. “Where the hell are we?”

“We are a hundred some miles northeast of the true coordinates of Dead Horse Camp.”

“Are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet….!” I taunted.

“We are within fifty miles of the location of the second map.”

“Please tell me that there are only two maps. Please….”

Graham merely smirked .

‘What a dick.’

“You’re not going to tell me where the second map is gonna take us are you?”

“Why do you assume I know.”

“Because you’re fucking demon possessed…”

“Am I?”

I was getting really tired of that statementesque question.

“Yep.”

“You know that they said the same thing to Jesus.”

“And Satan often dresses up like Jesus.”

“Isn’t it teatime?” Graham prodded.

“Um…” There was no way he had seen my recent acquisition. Though given all his newly acquired parlor tricks I took this as a sign that it was indeed time for elevenses.

We had been trooping since dawn and my suggestion was roundly accepted.

Graham, Cook, and I found a spot away from the expedition and sat down to tea.


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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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Strange Hours

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The forest is full of embers. The humid evening hums as glowing insects flit round phosphorescent moss. My boots sink into clay setting the meter against which the owl hoots and the boar grunts. It is an ancient place the swamp.

Primeval trees with their gnarled roots stand sentinel among the mist.

Carefully I launch the kayak in the shallows. With a few laps I begin to glide into strange hours.

When one is alone with the gentle current and some black Cavendish, they begin to speak. At first it is more like a suggestion. But slowly one becomes aware of a litany of voices.

Add an hour and a drop of whiskey and soon the murmur will have an elocution.

It will tell you of all those thing to which the bright stars above have given light. Of the dust that settled and became animate. Of the dust that continues to hum.

Once in a while a Spaniard will shout taunts from the shore. Or a Congaree chief will confuse you with riddles. Sometimes a fox winks and other times the owl does your thinking.

As three hours pass it is most dangerous to slumber.

For these are the strange hours. When the hum ceases to be a procession. When the river becomes a sea.

There amidst the caresses of a thousand vespers you are nullified. The gliding trees are gliding spheres.

You may well end on dry ground. In a portion of the wood which is wholly unfamiliar. You will know you have been. But where? And more alarmingly…with whom?

Thus is the passing of strange hours.


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𓇽. The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 9.5 – Nullification 𓇽.

𓇽. 𓇽. 𓇽. 𓇽. 𓇽.


“Well you’re certainly supposed to be dead.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“I am dead?”

“Yes.”

“And what are you?”

“This again…”

“Do you consider a period a sentence?”

I was tired of being riddled by ghosts.

“Well, sonny Jim I’ll answer for you. You are a period. I am a sentence.”

“More like a dime novel caricature.”

“Yes, much more.”

“So you’re just hanging out here in prehistory? All ethereal like? How’s that goin for ya?”

“Why can’t you divide by zero?”

“Because something being operated upon by nothing does not transform.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Yes, nothing happens.”

“How can nothing happen?”

“By not happening.”

“So, sonny Jim all this time you’ve been learning how to become undefined. Well, I am undefined. As such I am not dead. Nor am I strictly speaking alive.”

“Far out.”

‘Did Sam spritz some psilocybin onto my pork n beans again?’ I mused internally.

“This is far beyond psychedelics child.”

“That’s what all the mushrooms say.” Mind reading dead guys are a pretty strong indicator that your own brain is producing the experience.

“You will pass through the gate. Like me, you will pass through the gate as flesh. Death needs not be the mechanism of release if you pass through rightly.”

“I remember what happened to the last couple of assholes who thought they were Enoch.”

“You have not forced your way. So be as placid as a Zurich lake.”

“Poetic.”

“What is the ultimate sum?”

“Inifinity.”

“And what is infinity.”

“Forever.”

“No, what is the state of inifinity.”

“The ultimate sum.”

“Which is the addition of everything to everything, correct?”

“Sure.”

“And when you say that you have added everything to everything. Have you really transformed something?”

“You have done nothing.”

“So doing nothing is doing everything. Zero is the ultimate sum.”

“These games are amusing Colonel. But I’d much rather have coordinates.”

“You have a map. What you need is a key. Which I’ve just given you.”

“Ugh.” I sighed disdainfully.

“Digestion takes time with a zero sum game.” He said handing me a tea ball and vanished.


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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.


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