Tag: Free Fiction

The Cottage – Part Eight – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for faerie circle
Part One –Click Here | Part Two – Click Here Part Three – Click Here | Part Four – Click Here | Part Five – Click Here | Part Six – Click Here | Part Seven – Click Here

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 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for kentucky cave
Part One –Click Here | Part Two – Click Here Part Three – Click Here | Part Four – Click Here | Part Five – Click Here | Part Six – Click Here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So were his thoughts as he settled into slumber.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was keen on knowing the whole of the valley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was the air here cooler?

He walked well beyond the perimeter of the granite formation.

Yes. It was warmer there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How the hell does cool air rise?’

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The Cottage – Part Six – (Short Story)

On By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Stories, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment
Image result for kentucky deep forest
Part One –Click Here | Part Two – Click Here Part Three – Click Here | Part Four – Click Here | Part Five – Click Here

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

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

Thursday came and Thursday went and there were no consequences.

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

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

The giant paused and gave Jim a steady look over.

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

Jim shrugged.

“Have ye been lookin’ after da property?”

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

“That ain’t the whole of care.”

“Huh?”

“Ye’ve only dun a quarter.”

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

“Nah., I mean yea ain’t wise.”

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

Dutch shook his head slowly.

“I mean ye look like a fool.”

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

“Won’t here.”

“Huh?”

“Ya didn’t honor the ways.”

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

“Why did’n ya put out the Seng?”

“Cause it’s better as a garnish.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Crazy old bat…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Cottage – Part Five – (Short Story)

On 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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