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 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 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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Submitted by J.D. Newsman – Free Car! (Creepypasta Sorta) – Part II

On November 4, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Part I

The Alan character sounds a bit different because I finally figured out that my mic wasn’t plugged in all the way. I’m a noob audio wise bear with me. Hope ya’ll enjoy.

The music is free domain see the last videos description for details. Too lazy to look up the link again.

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She Sells Seahells – Part II (Original Story)

On September 14, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

301 best Ship of the line & other navy wessels images on ... — Part I

I was throbbing. Absolutely throbbing as a billion points of grain pressed into the exposed skin of my arm and face. Slowly the blinding light receded. It was replaced by a voice.

A gruff reeking voice. “Git up…eh…you git!”

I groaned.

“Halstead! retch’d derelict…up wit ya!”

I stirred. The sound of surf met my ears.

I raised myself up on an elbow as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light of the sun.

“Dis right… up with ye, noaw..”

I stumbled up and immediately started to laugh.

“Who…who…who the hell are you?”

“Poor layd wuts that damned merchants sold to ya….”

“What…” I really couldn’t contain my laughter…”What the fuck are you wearing…”

“Ewd tink the crown ken clad us better…” Now the stranger was laughing with me.

I examined him. This had to be some kind of joke. Buckled shoes, some kinda capris, and an oversized tunic covered in thick cascades of unkempt ginger beard.

“Who the fuck are you man…seriously..jokes is good and all but where’s Danny?”

“Yir wits gon! Is no danny mong us nor in town. Ir! Trink dis…”

He shoved a dirty bottle of clear liquid in my hand. I smelled it. Seemed like water. I was painfully thirsty and my body hurt something fierce.

Who the hell was this guy. ‘Oh shit.’ I looked down and realized I wasn’t shirtless…and where the hell were my trunks. I had some kind of coarse tunic and bedraggled leggings that itched and oppressed with coarseness. The thought of being disrobed by the likes of this guy didn’t sit well with me.

All right I yelled standing fully upright. “That’s a great prank and all but really who the hell are you where’s Danny…why did ya leave me here at night…I coulda drown…”

Danny’s bearded cohort shook his head. “Mi lord but wut were in diz ween! Names Yost…remember..I pulled ew from the waves diz how thenk me ken no remember me…Yost..Van Yost ye trink addled boi. Rememver you your own name o?!”

Something about all those vowels. Van Yost…

“Where’s Harris!”

“Gadverdamme…woke now r ya? Guid…Harris iz profound buzzi wit dayt geitenneuker Timurhan!”

“The artillery…!”

“Powder iz secure…Kapeetan Deaf vaunted to teech lesson to you.”

“I may well have drowned! And the powder!”

“Iz safe you fool boy…dat Castillian dogs run off when we a fired…why you let em drunk ya?”

“I had to enter into a confidence…I did…get the key to Harris…I MAY WELL HAVE DROWNED! LEAVE ME PON THE SHORE!”

I launched with fists. But the old salt was strong and large. I hadn’t realized how tall he was till his long arm held me at bay like a tantrauming child.

“Noaw I say to forgit me title iz pardonable but what gratitude iz this ye soaked rat…shoulda left you to the sharks…” He spit on me.

More and more I recollected things. I apologized profusely.

“Well…allz well noaw but do no take evrey chance for poison..ye liar…INTO A CONFIDENCE…INTO A CONFIDENCE…klerelijer!

“You say the Turk has loosed his tongue?”

“Aye.”

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She Sells Seahells – Part One – (Original Story)

On September 13, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Image result for vana katacic — Drink…Dr. Ink

I was breathless. I was ecstatic. The soft sand propelled me forward with a rhythmic dampened crunch. I was a little tipsy. My friend seven years my senior lagged far behind. Not only was he older, but the call center hadn’t exactly improved his stamina. I had run track in highschool and never stopped running.

My legs were thick and strong and the exhilaration of the liquid liberty of a 21^st birthday had rendered my companion a distant spec barely visible on the horizon. I jumped into the foaming waves.

It was dark. There weren’t many hotels here just a few snooty residential houses. The water was warm beneath a pallid moon and a billion brilliant stars. I sloshed about taking in all the sensations of dr

ink and the unparalleled joy of a young disciplined body.

“Listen you ocean…you great salty fuck…you’re mine…you don’t scare me! I’ll swim you. I’ll drown you with my motion.”

I treaded water as I watched the shore. It was so still so calm. I’d been high a couple of times more than a couple…but I had never felt this good. I’d fucked and it had never felt this good.

The combination of alkaline numbness, runners high, and the balmy air of an oceanside evening was the sublimest birthday gift that I could have received.

O but there was more!

I saw somebody else as my gaze fell to my left.

A girl. It was dark but I knew it was a girl. I could tell by the hips even though she was wearing a hoody. It was three twenty AM. What was she doing out here. Maybe she’d come from one of those rich dudes house. Rich girls always had the best grass.

…and the best ass…

I sprang to my feet and jogged in her direction.

I’d made quiet a lot of sound on the approach and she had doubtless heard my commotion in the waves. Yet I was within a foot and she stood perfectly still. In fact as I got closer I realized that she hadn’t moved at all.

‘Did someone lose their real doll?’ I laughed out loud. A boisterous laugh fed by the virility of young adulthood and the lingering whimsy of adolescence.

Despite my laughing she did not move.

“Hey girl…hey!” I said leaping in front of her.

Stock still.

I was beginning to feel odd.

“Hey are you alright…” I was facing her now. Her head was cast down the hoodie obscuring her features beneath the feeble aid of a waning moon.

Nothing. No motion. No sound.

Except…was…was she sobbing? If she was. It was the faintest sob that I had ever heard.

“Hey…” I said reaching out my hand…”it’s going to be ok…what is it bitchy friends…dick boyfriend…” just as my fingertips made contact with her shoulder…she fucking screamed.

I mean really screamed. It wasn’t just any scream it was a shriek.

“Great…” I muttered sarcastically as I nursed my ears. “It’s going to be even more annoying hearing the cops ask stupid questions and suggest rapey intentions now that I’m deaf.”

It had really hurt. It had hurt in more than one way. It took it a while to fully take hold. But I was suddenly…sad…just really really sad. I felt hot tears streak like lightning down my face…they were salty…so salty and so hot…I was choking on them. I let out a long low wail.

I felt an oppressive blackness. I could see nothing. And hear nothing…and feel nothing except grief…grief that dragged me further and further down down till it gave way to sympathy an overwhleming sense of sympathy and I opened my arms…

The blackness receded. She was no longer wearing a hood. My friend was nowhere in sight. She was beautiful…her hair a jetty shimmering black…her skin pale and smooth as porcelain…the eyes were such a deep pale blue. She regarded me with so much understanding in those depths and her arms outstretched.

We embraced and I felt the world begin to whirl. Her skin was soft, silky, warm…her breath was sweet…but I could feel the sadness return…I could feel it increase with every thump I felt emerge from beneath her breast. Our heartbeats were syncing…like my heart was slowly being taught to keep rhythm with hers…with each pulse…I felt strange primordial pain…and it increased…till all was bright…blindingly bright and bare and reeling.

To be continued.