Tag: Free

The Cottage – Part Twenty Eight – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for sigil of saturn
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six |Part Seven |Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen |Part Seventeen | Part Eighteen |Part Nineteen | Part Twenty | Part Twenty One | Part Twenty Two | Part Twenty Three | Part Twenty Four | Part Twenty Five | Part Twenty Six | Part Twenty Seven

Jim was stuck again by the shift in atmosphere. With all these bodies luxuriating by the firelight it was indeed downright homey. The warmth was pleasant.

But it was also naseuting. Jim did not trust these fine feelings. He did not want comradarie with these soft strangers.

“I’ve heard you call these things the El more than once. What is that…?”

“It is an emanation of the Most High or rather an echo. Whose seal is Saturn.”

“I thought they were from Saggitarius.”

“The manifestation on this plane is mediated through the sixth planet from the sun.”

“Huh?”

“What do you suppose it means to be cast down?”

“Uh…”

“Which fate is grimmest for an angel?”

Jim rolled his eyes.

“To be clothed in limit. Girded in restricting loins of flesh. Mind you it is possible to be immeasurably powerful despite such division. They are clever and it was they that taught us to forge the rawness of the earth into sword and iron.”

“So gremlins…are aliens…who are angels….because….reasons?”

The old man chuckled hollowly.

It did make a certain sense. All these various takes on a single phenomenon. Strange little introductions in a history that only appeared in snippets to the attentive. But so what? That’s the thing that Jim didn’t undestand. That he never understood about all this religious sort of stuff. So what?

Fine people perished along with the wicked. And of what consequence is it that they dwelt in grand eternities?

Of what consequence is a principilaity of imps in a thing like eternity? A thing that nullifies. Time the great healer, the great eraser, stretched limitless across the canvas of forever…whatever its mechanism…so what?

“Just be mindful that they don’t entrace you. There is cause. I see their poison dancing in your eyes.”

Jim gulped. He was still indeed between worlds.

“Can’t knock me down.” He insisted.

“At this late hour, they are a part of us all.”

“I have no parts.”

Elsa giggled.

“You are as fragmented as a mosaic. This is the lot of man. To gahter himself tile by tile, till he beholds his place in the firmament, and his connexion to the Godhead.”

“Right on man.” Jim mocked.

“Listen boy, it is at great cost that I and those here assembled have gathered enough of ourselves to see you through.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. As they seperate the spirit from the flesh so must you seperate their flesh from their spirit. They must not be allowed to cross the threshold as corporeal till the appointed season.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to. No one expects a rotten tapestery to herald truth. You must follow for each faithful step will be be rewarded by increased sight.”

With this the adept clapped his hands and the cottage went dark.

Call Me An Idiot Here

http://www.minds.com/Weirmellow

Or Here

mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

Support This Here

http://www.subscribestar.com/TFJ

Or With PayPal

Support the Journal

Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.

$1.00

Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!

$5.00

 

 

The Cottage – Part Twenty Seven – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six |Part Seven |Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen |Part Seventeen | Part Eighteen |Part Nineteen | Part Twenty | Part Twenty One | Part Twenty Two | Part Twenty Three | Part Twenty Four | Part Twenty Five | Part Twenty Six

Jim could barely sit up. There had been gravy….with a side of gravy…dipped in venison and lard. He had to go outside with a mug of coffee to keep from falling asleep. The cool evening and the swaying trees were bracing. And each sip of the bold black liquid helped restore his verve.

Elsa and Germain were in the center of the meadow. The elder was gesturing heavenward with his arms in a slow methodical sort of way. Though he couldn’t hear them and they were blanketed in darkness Jim thought he saw Elsa nodding along.

His curiosity sufficiently peaked, he set off in their direction. The odd pair were further than he had guessed, and he was winded by the time he reached them. Neither  turned as the old man continued pointing and speaking in a low accented voice.

Elsa was indeed nodding along as she asked questions in what Jim guessed to be French. Now that he was close he followed the elder’s pointing up to the target.

A chill ran down his spine.

It was the very same cluster of stars he’d seen that night he got paralyzed on the granite. Though he didn’t know the name he’d remembered his boyhood visits to the cottage. Visits where Hant would point at this ‘the archer’ the ‘town hall of the galaxy.’

Jim was frightfully curious now. Both as to why everybody was so fixated with this southern cluster and as to how exactly Elsa had gotten that wheelchair so far over all this  thick tall grass.

“Stargazing?” He inquired.

She turned round lightly and blew him a kiss. “Yes, izn’t eet wanderful!”

“Meh, I guess,” Jim responded. “But, if I’m being completely honest I’ve kinda had it with stars out here. There’s too many and they seem too bright, too close. It’s like being stuck up heaven’s asshole.”

Elsa laughed good-naturedly.

German could not turn his wheelchair and opted to instead mutter something in French.

“I thought you were a kraut broad?”

“Dee French border iz not far frohm Hesse.”

“Don’t you Eurodorks know that the only language worth talkin’ is God’s own English.”

Elsa stuck out her tongue.

“I can speak the language of dogs perfectly.” The oldster retorted in cut-glass poshness. “I’d simply prefer not to contort such a noble instrument as the human tongue into such barbaric positions.”

“Another feisty Boomer?” Jim rolled his eyes.

“No, you arrogant little Anglo fool, I may well have sired your grandfather.”

“…uh…so we’re related?”

Elsa laughed. “Nein, at least I don’t dink so…” she said turning Germain’s chair to face them. “The doktor has been leeving very long and is very wize. You must heer heem. He will helf you.”

“Ok, so what’s up with these stars Doc? Hant was crazy about ’em.”

Germain nodded. “That is Saggitarius.”

“Afraid I don’t take much stock in that astrology shit.”

“This is astronomy you mealy-brained Paddy. Astronomy that will be your undoing unless you learn it.”

“Rather be a Mick than a Frog.”

Elsa shook her head.

“I’m about to let you on something that won’t be revealed for several decades. I have every right to tease you.”

“Fine by me, so long as I get to tease back.”

The elder ignored this repartee.

“Saggitarius is located near the center of our galaxy. Near the border of Saggitarius and Scorpius there is a black hole.”

“Ok. That’s pretty sci-fi.”

“The cliche is true. Fact is stranger than fiction. This currently theoretical construct is the highway by which your little friends travel. Or rather the mechanism…”

“Neat, so how does all this work and uh…more importantly what the fuck are they…?”

“That is a very long story and I am very cold. So we’ll have to continue this indoors.”

Elsa got behind the wheelchair-bound elder and began to push him effortlessly over the uneven ground.

Jim grabbed the back of the chair. “Hold on. How the hell…”

“Elsa get this baboon off my damned throne.”

He was completely disarmed by the sensation of soft fingers tickling his kneck and warm whispers caressing his ears. “Heel tell you soon…just letuz got noaw.”

“I’ll tell him now!” The old man exploded. “You have to dumb things down for his lot so it won’t take long. It’s coated in a polymer…o wait that’s a bit too difficult…I’m sorry….it’s magic WD-40!”

“See, that’s all I wanted.” Jim responded.

“Yes, now that this bog breathing alleycats base curiosity is sated CAN WE PLEASE GO INSIDE..”

Call Me An Idiot Here

http://www.minds.com/Weirmellow

Or Here

mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

Support This Here

http://www.subscribestar.com/TFJ

Or With PayPal

Support the Journal

Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.

$1.00

Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!

$5.00

The Cottage – Part Twenty Six – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for norman invasion
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six |Part Seven |Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen |Part Seventeen | Part Eighteen |Part Nineteen | Part Twenty | Part Twenty One | Part Twenty Two | Part Twenty Three | Part Twenty Four | Part Twenty Five

The fire was already blazing. Its warmth and the presence of people gave the austere cottage a homey feel. Jim was surprised by the party that had gathered. There were four guests. Which to his accustomed isolation qualified as a crowd.

Elsa was stoking the flame in front of the wheelchair bound cipher he’d glimpsed the other evening. The elder was as still and silent as before. Jim was annoyed by the familiarity with which Luckadoo folded his unwieldy frame into a recliner as Lizzy disappeared into the kitchen.

“So, should I get used to surprise parties?” He queried ruefully.

“You’re gonna start to miss us real soon.” Jonas replied.

“I’ve never been much of a social butterfly…”

“Good news is that you can go back to being an introvert. Since, we’re going to be leaving the valley in a matter of days. The bad news is you’re going to continue to have company.”

“As long as they knock…I’m not bothered.”

Jonas gave a low chuckle.

“I think you already know that your new friends aren’t much accustomed to such niceties.”

Jim was tempted to make a joke at Lizzy’s expense but he was cut off by the unpleasant recollection of those eyes.

There was a brief moment of uneasy silence. It felt like Jonas was letting the fear set in.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna get myself a drink.”

Luckadoo spread his arms in an expansive motion. It was annoying. Jim got the impression that he was being invited to his own home. He crossed the floor to the mantel with as masterful an air as he could muster and poured a tumbler full of Johnny Walker Red.

Plopping on the couch he shot his legs up on the coffee table. “So, ya got somethin’ to tell me?”

Jonas nodded.

“Well…?”

“I’m almost certain you’re hungry.”

It was true. Jim was hungry. It kept him from exploding in rage at the commandeering of his kitchen.

“Don’t worry,” Luckadoo grinned wryly. “Lizzy’s portions are heartier than Charlotte’s.”

“Well, good.” Was the pithy reply as Jim downed the whiskey and poured himself a second in a single motion.

In his efforts to establish dominance he hadn’t noticed that Elsa and the old man had taken their leave.

“So, who’s the old timer?”

Jonas exhaled smoke and allowed for a moment of silence.

“He’s an uncle of mine. Though I’m not sure he’s actually blood. His name is Germain and he is a Norman.”

“Ok…”

“I think that you’re going to be very interested in what he has to say.”

“He doesn’t seem to have very much to say at all.”

Jonas laughed. “As far as I understood that’s a habit he’s had since youth. He’s always been taciturn. It’s part of the reason you’re going to find his speech especially useful. Germain focuses most of his energies on inner work and thus is quite the adept at dealing with the El.”

“Now when you say the El…you mean those goblin things?”

“Yes…after a manner…that is to say…they are a manifestation of the El.”

“Uh…huh…” Jim’s eyes glazed over.

Jonas decided not to dignify that particular bit of snark with a response.

“So…since everybody and their uncle seems to know so much more about all this weird ass voodoo bullshit how come it’s all my fuckin’ responsibility.”

“You are bound by blood.”

“Well, that’s not very fucking fair is it. Had no part in any of these shenanigans.”

“If you understood it…which I’m hoping you very shortly will…you’d realize that it was indeed fair. You didn’t spring out of a vacuum Jimmy boy, none of this did.” The giant said outsretching his arms again to indicate the world.

“Ok…”

But, Jim didn’t have time for a witty repartee as Lizzy’s piercing voice penetrated every wall of the cottage. “Dinners reddy…kom n git it!”

Image Source –  http://www.normanconquest1066.org

Call Me An Idiot Here

http://www.minds.com/Weirmellow

Or Here

mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

Support This Here

http://www.subscribestar.com/TFJ

Or With PayPal

Support the Journal

Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.

$1.00

Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!

$5.00

 

 

The Cottage – Part Twenty Five – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird Fiction1 Comment
Image result for cigar in the dark
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six |Part Seven |Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen |Part Seventeen | Part Eighteen |Part Nineteen | Part Twenty | Part Twenty One | Part Twenty Two | Part Twenty Three | Part Twenty Four

It took awhile for Jim to regain his senses. The dusk had settled. There was nothing left to do but head for shelter. The thought that terrified him most was that anything was possible.

He kept feeling himself pulled along by strange tides. All those insane suggestions he’d just drunk from a firehose, were threatening to hypnotize him, to leave him tethered gawking and exposed in the strange wilderness.

It was odd how quickly the pleasure of the mountains turned to terror. The fear that Jim felt was not corporeal. Bodily harm was the least of his troubles.

The thing that worried him was that there was no safety. There were no absolutes. The only reality was flux, self-referential, unoriginate, and eternal. He bit his lip.

This steadied him somewhat. Awareness shifted from yawning abysses to the delightfully familiar cicada song. The approaching evening was cool. The change in temperature helped orient him to reality and he trudged homeward.

Something seemed amiss upon approach. Caution seeped into his limbs as the anomaly was slowly drawn from his subconscious.

The door was slightly ajar. All traces of wonder vanished in an instant as the sobering caution of self-preservation took hold. Jim’s footfalls became stealthy as his ears grew keen.

While memory proved foggy the probability that he’d left the cottage permeable was low. The reptile brain had complete mastery now, and he treated the situation like one of his burglaries. Flanking the wall, he soon found his suspicion well founded.

Audible but unintelligible, faint traces of conversation reached his ears. There was also an odor. A familiar odor. The odor of a peculiar cigar.

Broad footfalls resounded as the door swung inward and a giant with a hot cherry emerged.

“For Gods sake, boy, would you get inside. You just walked across several thousand yards of open meadow. And now you think you’re Seal Team Ten.”

The voice was as unmistakable as the commanding height from which it came.

The sardonic profile of Jonas Luckadoo was revealed by the waxing glow of a cigar puff. Jim was too astonished to speak.

But not for long.

Annoyance found his tongue for him. “How the hell did ya get in my house?”

“Is that any way to greet a friend?”

“Friends don’t usually break into friend’s houses.”

Jim shook his head and grimaced his displeasure with the banter.

Just as he was about to speak another body, comically small in contrast to that of Luckadoo, energetically crossed the threshold.

“If it isn’t the fool.” Came another unmistakable voice.

Lizzy seemed to have made a full recovery. He could feel the strange wizened energy that radiated from the crane-necked crone even at a distance.

“To what do I owe this displeasure?” Jim inquired as he realized how Luckadoo had gained access to the cottage.

“We thought you could use some company.”

“Couldn’t you wait on the porch like normal people?”

“This is my house.” Lizzy answered defiantly.

“Then how come I live here?”

“Cause you got the blood. But I’m tellin’ ya, I got the deed.”

“Well, there does seem to be a reason I’m here. So as far as I see it I live here. And while I live here I’d appreciate it if you didn’t just traipse through my living room.”

“Don’t you have questions?”

“Yeah…I already asked them.”

“So, you want to know why we’re here?”

Jim nodded.

“After all that you’ve seen, the question you have to ask is why your friends popped round? You’re an odd sort aren’t you?”

Jim nodded again.

“Well, I just don kir whether you’re curious or not. Fools gotta be forcefed at times.” Lizzy said as she shot down the stairs and dragged Jim inside by the ear.

Header Image Source – https://www.videoblocks.com/video/man-in-a-dark-room-smoking-a-cigar-rk7-j4bimrsdie0

Call Me An Idiot Here

http://www.minds.com/Weirmellow

Or Here

mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

Support This Here

http://www.subscribestar.com/TFJ

Or With PayPal

Support the Journal

Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.

$1.00

Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!

$5.00

The Cottage – Part Twenty Three – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for special agent moustache
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six |Part Seven |Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen |Part Seventeen | Part Eighteen |Part Nineteen | Part Twenty | Part Twenty One | Part Twenty Two

Three loud knocks raised him. Groggy and cursing Jim trudged past the glare of midday windows. The rude awakening nullified caution and he swung wide the door.

“What the fuck do you want?” He demanded of the strange mustachioed face that greeted him.

“Are you always this charming?” A soft midwestern accent questioned in return.

The guy was middle-aged and looked like a lineman turned high school principal.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Sir Luckadoo informed us that you may be having some trouble.”

“Sir…? What is this renaissance fair shit?”

“Well, I suppose he is a bit too modest to have informed you of his knighthood.”

“Look…buddy…I’m getting’ real tired of this goblin, knight, wizard bullshit. I’d love nothing more than to send those little fuckers straight to hell with the rest of ya. Why can’t everybody just leave me the fuck alone?”

“Still an adolescent I see.”

Jim slammed the door in his face.

The three knocks again resounded.

“Fuck off.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”

“I’m armed asshole.”

“Threatening a federal agent is a bad idea, son.”

Jim swung open the door.

“A fuckin’ fed…thank Christ…I was wondering when you guys would bust these assholes.”

The strangers face was blank.

“I think you’re confused.”

“You bet.”

“What is it that you think is going on here, son?”

“A drug ring…ain’t it obvious.”

The principal shook his head.

“Well…what then?”

“You are responsible for the Western gate.”

“Pfft…more of this hick gibberish…you’re not a fed…” Jim said backing his way towards the Mossberg.

The stranger flashed a badge.

“I’m special Agent Thornton.”

“You’re special alright.”

“Come on kid. Don’t be stupid. I know what went on here the past couple of nights.”

“O yea…cause I certainly don’t.”

“Well, that’s your own doing.”

“Are ya fuckin’ kidding me? I’m supposed to make sense of this voodoo shit?”

“Well, you were given a manual.” Thornton shot a thick finger at Hant’s letter.

“Can’t make heads or tails of that shit. Waste of time…”

“Yes…I’m afraid you have wasted a lot of time.”

Jim rolled his eyes.

“So why are you here again?”

“To inform you that distracting them can only work for so long.”

Jim felt a chill. So, he really was being observed, if they knew about his recent deployment of Dutch’s trick…what else did they know?

“O?”

“Yes, you have to pass the threshold.”

“The threshold?”

“Of perception.”

Jim laughed. “You mean like the fucking Doors?”

Thornton smirked. “Something like that.”

“Well…uh…alrighty then…and how exactly do I do that.”

Thornton sighed. “Unfortunately, you have to work that out on your own. Though I can point you in the right direction.”

“Uh-huh…?”

“Do you suppose the sky is filled with nothing but death?”

“I have no idea. Nor do I care. I can barely find a reason for living down here much less guess at otherworldly horseshit.” Jim said lighting a cigarette.

Thornton sighed again. “Well, unfortunately otherworldly horseshit is your job.”

“O?”

“Yes. I know you’re very much inculcated in the new fashion. That you chose your path. That your profession is something that you can pick from a menu. I’m afraid that it isn’t so.”

“Hmm…my ma warned me about you protestants…”

Thornton chuckled.

“I don’t believe in a thing old man. Much less Calvinist horseshit.”

“I don’t think belief is necessary after all that you have witnessed.”

“See, there it is. That Baptist talk…witnessed…I’m tellin’ you I don’t buy it. And if I did, I’d go to the true Church like Ma wanted.”

“Well, my one task here is to leave you with a suggestion, with a key.”

“Uh-huh…”

“All men return to the earth from which they sprang. But the earth from which they sprang is full of wisdom. For it was not a folly that the Most High fashioned us from her dust. The light of stars spiritual and physical far beyond the Gnostic lie of duality. Matter is spirit, and spirit is matter, and any confusion about this is a trick of the devil. His armies have many tactics the chief of which is to trap spirit within matter through illusion. It is this that the El sell to Kings in exchange for temporal power. But this is a will-o-the-wisp. One that you must surpass to guard the gate aright. To stay the division till the appointed day when its revelation will strain the wheat from the chaff.”

“Jesus Christ dude.”

“Christ helps those who help themselves.” Thornton said and turned to go.

Call Me An Idiot Here

http://www.minds.com/Weirmellow

Or Here

mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

Support This Here

http://www.subscribestar.com/TFJ

Or With PayPal

Support the Journal

Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.

$1.00

Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!

$5.00

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Cottage – Part Twenty – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for kentucky forest at night
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six |Part Seven |Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen | Part Sixteen | Part Seventeen | Part Eighteen | Part Nineteen

It was quiet for a spell. Jim had a week free of chirping and stealthy footfalls. He wondered if Dutch’s weird remedy had actually worked.

The thought made him laugh.

‘Of course they stopped stalking round. They’re part of the same Scooby Doo schtick. I dunno why they don’t just fess up and offer a deal.’

Jim was a stubborn man and held to the drug ring hypothesis with an almost religious zeal.

He’d considered calling the police. But, out here ‘…they’re probably in on it.’ He was no stranger to dirty cops. There were plenty of reasons to arrest him. But, the couple of times he’d actually been busted was a setup.

‘Luck of the Irish, my ass.’ He mused ruefully.

‘No use getting the feds involved either. This is way too boondocks for the suits.’

Besides, he didn’t want to be a rat. It must be hard to scrape out a living here.

Jim sighed and stretched himself out on the couch.

“This shit will figure itself out. It always does.”

He phased in and out of conscienceness as the fire crackled. Soon that pleasant sound was joined by the pitter patter of rain.

It was the perfect ambience for a blissfull sleep.

Except there was something off putting in the rhythm. Rain did not fall like that.

Jim’s eyes shot open and he listened.

‘Yea…rain generally doesn’t fall specifically on the windows.’ The realization sent a chill up his spine.

It wasn’t rain at all. It was tapping. Like dozens of fingers tap, tap, tapping at the window.

‘Do I fuckin’ look like Edgar Allan Poe.’

Slowly, gingerly, Jim sinewed his way snakelike onto the floor and shimmied to the window.

He lay just beneath it listening, considering his next step, and cursing the missed opportunity to take the shotgun.

Pitter…patter..pitter…patter…it was naseauting….he could almost feel the strange rustic fingers on his skin.

‘Gettin goosebumpy…’ Jim smirked at his cowardice in the darkness.

‘Sounds like more than one. Substantially more…’

‘Jesus, how long can they keep this up for?’ The sound had continued for at least an hour.

‘Do they know what room I’m in or they just trying some kinda general purpose fuckery….’

Then it occured to him to seek higher ground.

In the same slow, silent, serpentine fashion, he crept to the staircase and gingerly carefully tried to silence his crackling alcoholic joints.

After an agonizing aeon he found himself on the landing, then turning the knob with Chameleon circumspection he was in Hant’s bedroom.

Pitter…patter…pitter…patter….

‘How the fuck…’ Jim was incredolous.

There were no footholds in the harsh autistic symmetry of Hant’s cottage. The hybrid roof was to awkward for purchase.

The chill in his spine doubled.

He was frozen at the foot of the bed.

Jim didn’t know how long he lay there listening before his temper got the better of him and he shot up to his feet.

It was a brashness he instantly regreted.

Strange grey shapes with inky black eyes, strafed across his window, their impish passage revealing a bluish glow from the meadow beyond.

Whitish sparks, and glowing orbs, flitted in a void where a field had once been.

Jim scuttled away from the window like an overturned crab. Having secreted himself in Hant’s closet he promptly passed out.

Call Me An Idiot Here

http://www.minds.com/Weirmellow

Or Here

mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

Support This Here

http://www.subscribestar.com/TFJ

Or With PayPal

Support the Journal

Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.

$1.00

Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!

$5.00

The Cottage – Part Sixteen – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for potsdam giants
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen | Part Fifteen

“How the hell did you get this boat here?” Jim wondered out loud as the lake’s utter seclusion fully registered.

“I didn’t.”

“Ok…so your family did?”

“No.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I had it built here.”

“Oh!” Jim said smacking his head. Despite being a simple enough thing to guess the economic disparity between him and the giant was as great as the ratio of their height. Making it hard to see eye to eye on several levels at once.

Jonas Luckadoo was taller than Dutch. Jim guessed he must be pretty close to seven feet.

“Did you ever consider playing basketball?”

“Now that wouldn’t be very fair would it?”

“Guess not,” Jim said as he recalled that even Lizzy was atypically tall. She stood just below Jim’s nose. This was a feature he rarely encountered in women.

Elsa, the young woman who was piloting the boat as Jim and his host shared a pipe was the first person of average height he’d encountered. She had chestnut brown hair and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. He figured she was a lot closer in age to him than her apparent lover.

But he had no time for romance. Much less rivalry. He was curious. Never had he seen a man of these dimensions. Let alone one from the leisure classes.

“Say, Mr. Luckadoo, why is everybody round here so god-damned tall?”

His host shrugged and grinned wryly, “Must be the mountain air.”

“Nah.” Jim said letting his intuition guide him. “There’s something real weird going on out here.”

“Says the man washing up barefoot on private property.”

“Ach, komm off it Jonas, tell heem…it is such a interesting story.” Elsa interjected.

“Quiet whore.”

“HEY!” Jim exploded rising to his feet.

Elsa laughed.

“I see you have the famous Celtic temper.” Jonas said coolly as he ruffled Jim’s hair.

“Do not mind heem. It is joke between us.”

“Some joke.” Jim muttered as he attempted to hold his chin aloft through the embarrassment.

Luckadoo chuckled. “I’m afraid I have a threefold advantage. Don’t let it sting your pride. I did not earn it. Neither this wealth, nor this body, nor the strength within it are to my credit. It is all utterly hereditary.”

“Ja, Jonas tell heem. He knows much now. Already seen dem.”

“Them?”

Jonas shook his head.

“That is for another time. I suppose I must apologize for baring a familiarity that you weren’t prepared for. Elsa is a whore…or rather was.”

“So, it’s not a joke.”

“It is a fact. Facts can be funny.”

“I don’t find it funny at all.”

“My mother was a whore.” Jonas stated matter of factly. “I collected Elsa from the same Bavarian brothel in which I was conceived. She is my third cousin.”

“Luckadoo don’t sound like a kraut name to me.”

“My father was Scottish. Though I’m not entirely certain as to the actual origin of the name.”

“So, you’re a literal bastard as well as a metaphorical?” Jim ventured a liberty.

“No. My parents were lawfully married before my birth.”

“Isn’t that taboo with ya rich folk?”

“The marriage was arranged.” Jonas answered as they came to rest at a dock.

“An arranged marriage to a whore?”

“Yes, my family has always been eccentric. Now, you asked about height. The early 20th century had a fascination with eugenics. It especially effected aristocrats who were already accustomed to obsessing over lineage…I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the Potsdam giants?”

Jim shook his head.

“When King Frederick the first was prince of Prussia he formed a peculiar unit. A taller man could more easily operate a muzzleloader. Being German old Freddy took everything to the extreme and founded a regiment of giants. It included tall men from many countries. Some like my maternal ancestor James Kirkland came from Ireland.”

“So, you’re not a kraut at all.”

“My father is Hessian.” Elsa said with wounded pride.

Kirkland’s heir chuckled. “Yes, Hessian. Notice how you didn’t say German. It is small wonder that they succumbed to Rome. The fireworks of the Reich were the consequence of overcrowding. The Teutonic will has a profound dispassion for unity. A nation of warring princes as Lord Russell put it.”

Elsa stuck out here tongue.

“That’s how we the posterity of the forcefully conscripted came to be. Through three violent centuries much of honor fell by the wayside in favor of survival. The sons and daughters of Kirkland were scattered throughout the continent. That is until my father’s clan began collecting them.”

“I see.” Jim said as his head spun from the sheer madness of it all.

“That, my boy, is why despite our common national origin I could toss you like a hammer at the games.”

“And you plan to do that nasty upper crust thing and bang your cousin? Keep them freak genes goin?”

Elsa laughed.

“I doubt my wife would be very happy about that.” Jonas grinned.

Jim’s heart thrilled at the news. “O.”

“Yes and speaking of Charlotte…let’s get of this damned boat. I do believe I smell duck à l’orange.”

Call Me An Idiot Here

http://www.minds.com/Weirmellow

Or Here

mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

Support This Here

http://www.subscribestar.com/TFJ

Or With PayPal

Support the Journal

Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.

$1.00

Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!

$5.00

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Cottage – Part Fifteen – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Related image
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve | Part Thirteen | Part Fourteen

Shock was the first sensation that greeted Jim, followed closely by nausea. He blinked stupidly in the harsh noonday sun, choking now and again on some cool unidentified liquid that rolled down his face.

The strong smell of rich tobacco caused Jim to cough.

“That’s done it then. Cough it up. Didn’t mean to choke you, boy.” Said a cool peculiar voice.

Jim rose slowly. Only to collapse again immediately as the pain in his mutilated feet was registered by his gradually waking brain.

“That’s unwise.”

Jim propped himself up by the elbow to behold a tall, stern, middle-aged man bearing a rifle. Clad in tweed and smoking a pipe the guy would have been a comical anachronism anywhere except the woodlands that surrounded Reed.

“Why did you decide to go native?”

Jim stared in confusion.

“Your shoes, where are they?”

“..huh…ho…home.” Jim replied stupidly.

“Now there’s a fool idea if I’ve ever heard one. Where pray tell is home?”

Jim shot a lackadaisical thumb backward towards the fall.

The stranger shook his head.

“You probably need drinking more than bathing.” The cool voice said as a long limb dangled a canteen in front of Jim’s face.

He drank greedily.

A lengthy silence followed.

“How long have you been out here?” The stranger asked.

“…I…I don’t know…a day…two days…”

“Romping about the wood unshod for two days is a bizarre hobby, young man.”

Jim had no defense.

“Did you come from town or were you dropped from the sky?”

It was a strange question.

“Tow..town…sss..sort of.” Jim said amid fits of coughing.

“Sort of?”

“My uncle…his cabin…near that hick shithole…Reed.” Jim’s caustic tongue returned.

“Reed is thirty miles west of my lake.”

“Your…lake.”

“Yes, you happen to be trespassing.” The stranger stated matter of factly.

Again Jim had no defense.

“Though, it by no means seems intentional. Which is why you’re still alive. Most poachers don’t go bare-foot.”

Jim was still grappling with the idea that this vast patch of water belonged to a single man.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Luckadoo. I have a lodge here.”

“A lodge..?”

“Yes, I come here on holidays to hunt.”

“At your lake…?”

“My family’s to be more precise. This was all appropriated before statehood. The Luckadoos have been here before Kentucky was Kentucky.”

“So you’re one o dem Brahmins.”

A thin lipped smile played across the stoic angles of the aristocrat’s face.

“I figured you were a Boston boy.”

“Let’s go Bruins!” Jim chanted with fatigue-drenched bravado.

The stranger laughed coldly. And Jim thought he noted a glint of curiosity flicker through the icy blue eyes. Eyes that seemed so very familiar.

“Well, I must say that you’ve certainly intrigued me. What’s a street urchin doing in Appalachia?”

The question and the manner in which it was asked was too direct for Jim to take offense.

“…caring for the cabin…”

“The cabin?”

“Yea, like I said. My uncle’s cabin.” Jim said covetously eyeing the thistle bearing flask on the strangers hip.

“Uncle?”

“Yea…uncle Hant…lived bout fifteen miles from Reed…has some tumblers…with that weird weed on it…” Jim said pointing to the strangers flask.

Luckadoo inclined his head slightly leftward, a motion that coupled with his hunter’s cap, gave the impression of a curious bloodhound.

“Does your uncle have a surname?”

“Cronin.”

The strangers eyes narrowed and he turned.

“Elsa!” He cried.

“Jonas!” A voice responded from somewhere beyond the shore.

“Be a dear and bring the boat round!”

“Heez naught dehd?” The Elsa voice inquired.

“Close…but no cigar.”

“Tak heem hom den. You sadist swine.”

“That’s exactly what I intend, dear.” Luckadoo retorted lifting Jim’s six four frame like a ragdoll.

“Hey..!”

“Sorry lad. I don’t have much in the way of stretchers.”

Jim fumed. He was unaccustomed to being outclassed in the physique department. But on the bright side, the guy probably had some whiskey.

Call Me An Idiot Here

http://www.minds.com/Weirmellow

Or Here

mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

Support This Here

http://www.subscribestar.com/TFJ

Or With PayPal

Support the Journal

Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.

$1.00

Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!

$5.00

 

The Cottage – Part Thirteen – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for granite boulders
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven | Part Twelve

Pain, fatigue, and cold screamed through every sinew. He raised himself by the elbow wincing at the sensation of rough stone on that tender joint. It was absolutely pitch black.

If he were any less than completely exhausted, he would have panicked.

Holding his hand mere inches from his eyes, he saw nothing. He fumbled through his jeans. And he praised God for his addiction. For there in his right pocket was the more than half spent pack of Pall Mall’s and within the comforting smoothness of metal.

The Zippo was a small comfort. But it was comfort enough.

The dimensions of where-ever the hell he was were impressive. He walked forward cross stony dust littered ground and found no wall. He walked backward and got the same result.

His feet screamed.

‘Where the hell are my shoes…’

He slumped down and laughed as a sharp pain shot through his ass.

He brought the Zippo down. It was a stalagmite.

“Great. I’m lost in a fucking cave in Frog Balls, Kentucky.”

There had to have been something more than whiskey in those bottles.

‘Probably all part of their little plan. Clever fucks.’

Jim was never one to feel sorry for himself. He’d done too much sinning for self-pity.

‘Well, I got in here somehow. So, I’ll get out of here somehow.’

He tried to recall how he’d gotten here. But to no avail. It was that same chasm of ignorance that always followed a night of getting black-out drunk.

He absent-mindedly picked up a stone and chucked it into the yawning depths that drowned him.

To his great surprise he heard it splash.

Slowly, painfully, he rose to his raw-worn feet and advanced in the direction of the invisible oasis. Though he heard no stream, where there was a pond, there was a chance of one.

He walked forward for what seemed like eternity. It was good that he was a stubborn proud son of a bitch. Because a meeker man may well have wasted precious time repenting for ending up in hell.

“Oh, fuck yea.” He said dipping his feet into cold water. The smooth silt was such welcome relief from the rough and recent passage to this haven.  He lingered there for a bit at the shore of some great subterranean indoor pool.

‘Might as well head left.’ He gambled and began to trace the shoreline with his feet as he ambled awkwardly along.

Tracking time was impossible, so he tracked footfalls. Though this too proved futile after the first few hundred. So, he walked, and he walked.

At first, he thought he was hallucinating.

“What in the fuck is that…”

Far from the shore where the depths of the lake should be, he perceived a strange blue shimmer.

Yes. It was unmistakable. There in the path of his current direction and outward past the shore was a light that grew brighter as he advanced.

He stopped when the brightness reached what he guessed was peak luminescence. After taking a few moments to ponder he said, “Fuck it.”

Jim waded till the water reached his waist and began to swim. Stopping just above the brightest shimmer he could see clear down to the bottom. Though the source itself was nowhere to be seen.

Curiosity overtook him and Jim dove.

He opened his eyes and thanked God that the liquid didn’t sting them The water was clear so very clear. It was uncanny. It stirred some vague memory.

And slowly he recollected the contents of that recent dream. Though he couldn’t breathe the water, everything else, was the same. There were the myriad submerged islands bearing stones with strange reliefs.

He surfaced and rested.

‘Well, I guess swimming is easier than walking.’ And he continued his leftward course.

After some time, he began to hear a gurgle. A sound for which he was grateful because the light had dissipated long ago. He swam towards it blindly.

It grew louder.

‘Fuck. Which way is the shore?’

He guessed and swam. But it was too long.

‘Fuck.’

He was beginning to feel the first stages of panic.

He had no clue which direction to take. He was surrounded on all sides by pitch black water. The strange blue light was long gone, and he was utterly alone without a thing to guide him.

‘Well, I can sit here like a bitch and drown, or I can drown trying to get to a tumbler of whiskey.’

He chose the latter.

And after three unsuccessful forays he finally reached the shore. Plodding along where the water met silt, he advanced towards the gurgling sound.

When it was as loud as daytime TV he inclined towards the sound with his Zippo.

Sure enough there was a small brisk stream flowing into the lake.

Jim followed it up a gradual incline.

Hope began its cautious return. And its return wasn’t in vain.

Because soon he beheld a greying in the blackness.

And then something far more beautiful than anything he had ever beheld.

There just a few hundred yards ahead was an aperture. Bright daylight revealed the verdant Kentucky green just beyond the man-sized opening through which the streamlet flowed.

Jim howled in glee.

Call Me An Idiot Here

http://www.minds.com/Weirmellow

Or Here

mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

Support This Here

http://www.subscribestar.com/TFJ

Or With PayPal

Support the Journal

Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.

$1.00

Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!

$5.00

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Cottage – Part Twelve – (Short Story)

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

 

Saturn
Part One | Part Two |Part Three |  Part Four |Part Five |  Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Part Eleven

Why must they be so cryptic? There was too much room for interpretation. Nothing fell into place. Or rather the places that it fell were too fantastic to be seriously entertained.

Maybe he should read after all.

But what would he read?

More cryptic hints at the illimitable…

Towards what end?

He watched the drops gather and slide. Such a natural symbiosis with gravity. Yes, it was such a simple thing. And Jim wished very much, o so very much, to be as simple.

But it was not possible.

So, he opened the envelope.

He read. Or rather he tried to read.

His eye was draw to a thin column a quarter way down the seventh page.

“They dance and play,

They with silver skin,

Sleek in the twilight,

Far from the day,

Children of the black sun,

Spirits so bright,

See how they run,

In rings,

Round,

Though without wings,

Flit overhead,

Above all kings,

Twilight world,

That sprang all this,

Symmetry unfurled,

By a distant kiss,

Apollo, o Apollo, appeal, to the maze of Saturn’s weal,

And send them as a dance

To heal

From this morbid trance

For mid-summer,

For mid-summer,

Give a root,

For the runner,

For the runner,

Dangerous,

Just so,

But just so,

Be sure to do,

Only if you know,

The black sun,

O the black sun…”

“See,” Jim mused aloud. “That…that is not helpful at all.”

He tossed the stack onto the coffee table and poured another whiskey.

Staring into the fire he found that it offered no comfort.

He felt colder than he had ever felt before. The world was old.

Before, he felt himself separate from it.

Yet now he too felt old.

Hanging there in the abyss by a slowly dying star.

A fire whose fuel was as febrile and dwindling as that which crumpled so steady before his gaze.

“Where would we go?” He muttered.

How would he keep the warmth from sapping out his bones into the inky night? How would they? How would we?

He removed his shoes, then his socks.

He let the cold wood panel seep into the balls of his feet, up his ankles, femurs and find its rest in the base of his spine.

He began to dance. Frantic and drunk he hooped and he hollered in the isolation.

Placing the revolver by his head he pondered.

Faint suggestions flickered through his conscious.

Jim felt very small. He imagined that he was the proportion of the reflection in the brass of the poker. He felt himself to be his own homunculus.

He dropped the gun and ventured unshod into the black old night.

Standing in the middle of the meadow he beheld a heaven so close and bright that he could taste it. Again, he began to dance. He twirled among the rings. He danced in rings among rings within rings.

And with each step a strange awareness took hold. It was as if his feet were eyes and he were reading things writ long ago. So long ago that were he not in motion to counteract…the dizziness of age…of dimension he would surely fall.

It was narcosis. It was rapture. It was a deep read.

For he beheld the passage of odd teardrops towards a green-blue orb.

“We are locusts.” He said and began to eat the grass.

Yes, this sudden Nebuchadnezzar was profound aware of the vanity of kingship.

But why?

He was drunk on abandon. Absolutely floored by possibility, utterly drowned by eternity, he could do nothing but dance.

His feet bled. Yet he danced on heedless of the pain of prickling grasses and wild litter.

The fire, that very fire of mortal displeasure, sent him forward, launched him like an arrow towards the granite arcade.

Call Me An Idiot Here

http://www.minds.com/Weirmellow

Or Here

mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

Support This Here

http://www.subscribestar.com/TFJ

Or With PayPal

Support the Journal

Make a donation via PayPal to help zazz things up.

$1.00

Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz

Too high class for regular Zazz? Help Pizzaz up TFJ!

$5.00