The Cottage – Part Twenty Seven – (Short Story)

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..”


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The Cottage – Part Twenty Five – (Short Story)

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.


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The Cottage – Part Twenty Three – (Short Story)

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.


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The Cottage – Part Sixteen – (Short Story)

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.”


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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 9.6 – Elevenses

Image result for elevenses
Art by some hippie here’s the link.

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

“Is it elevenses already?” Sam inquired.

“Huh?”

“What’s with the teaball man?”

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

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

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

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

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

Doctor Cook came up on me after a bit.

“I have been talking to Senhor Hoyt.”

“O?”

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

“Jesus.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Graham merely smirked .

‘What a dick.’

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

“Why do you assume I know.”

“Because you’re fucking demon possessed…”

“Am I?”

I was getting really tired of that statementesque question.

“Yep.”

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

“And Satan often dresses up like Jesus.”

“Isn’t it teatime?” Graham prodded.

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

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

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


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

𓇽. 𓇽. 𓇽. 𓇽. 𓇽.


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

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“I am dead?”

“Yes.”

“And what are you?”

“This again…”

“Do you consider a period a sentence?”

I was tired of being riddled by ghosts.

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

“More like a dime novel caricature.”

“Yes, much more.”

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

“Why can’t you divide by zero?”

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

“It doesn’t?”

“Yes, nothing happens.”

“How can nothing happen?”

“By not happening.”

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

“Far out.”

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

“This is far beyond psychedelics child.”

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

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

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

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

“Poetic.”

“What is the ultimate sum?”

“Inifinity.”

“And what is infinity.”

“Forever.”

“No, what is the state of inifinity.”

“The ultimate sum.”

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

“Sure.”

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

“You have done nothing.”

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

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

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

“Ugh.” I sighed disdainfully.

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


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Previous Chapter


The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.


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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 9.4 – Cameron

Related image


Stunned and speechless I wheeled around.

How familiar.

I knew this face. This face that smiled at me with thin lips.

“Gr…grah..am?” I stuttered.

The lanky tweed clad thing chuckled.

“Hardly.”

I just gawked.

“That fool nephew of mine has gotten you into quite the conundrum. But I suppose it was in the cards…”

“Nephew?”

“Yes, Graham Hoyt is my brother’s son.”

“But…you’re …dead.”

The smile grew more wry.

“So are you my lad.”

I checked my pulse.

“Didn’t you just announce the true philosophy?”

I was confused. “Zero?”

“Yes. That is the name for the shivering thing called now. The only thing that can be.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re all dead.”

“I was never one for Zen proverbs.”

“What is this unfolding?” The Hoyt scion spread his hereditarily prodigious wingspan to signify the surroundings.

“Death?” I ventured.

“Yes…life is the blossom of death..but how can such petals spread when the only soil is…” Cameron Hoyt stamped his wingtip clad foot on the ground.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“The Amazon of course. Mato Grosso region in the vicinity of the Xingu River. Or rather where it will flow.”

“Huh?”

“O come now…you don’t stll believe in accidents?”

“I don’t know…but I sure don’t take much stock in fate.”

“Fate has nothing to do with cause and effect.”

“I’m glad you aren’t a Calvinist.”

“And what are you Alan?”

“What am I in what way?”

“What are you?”

“If you mean what do I do? I’m a spook and propagandist. If you’re asking a metaphysical question. I neither know nor care to know.”

“Good. So you are aware that matter is spirit.”

“Sure thing buddy.”

“Assuredly celebrant. Assuredly.”

“Celebrant?”

“There is a reason you were able to enter. I do not for a second believe that you have forgotten that your mission here is a rite. Is a pilgrimage.”

“O.”

“O. O indeed. O I A D A. The rapture of the empty spaces. Great mother, great matter, pregnant now with another star.”

“That’s some serious hippy gaia shit my friend.” I chuckled.

“We do not shun the masculine.” Cameron smiled. “You did see your father’s seeding Eden?”

“Those dudes in the balloon.”

Hoyt nodded.

“So you’re saying that the Amazon is a community garden?”

Again he nodded but with a chuckle.

“Far out man.”

“Well, you know that I’m here on a mission. So why don’t you tell me how exactly I will find the city, how I will unlock Voynich?”

“You are making the mistake of addition.”

“Come on don’t give me that shit. We know it’s not a metaphysical fairy thing. It’s a real city, with real cool star galaxy hopping, star harnessing, gizmodoodads.”

“Yes, the city is real.”

“Ok…so where is it?”

“You have the map.”

“You know it’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?”

I leapt back. I leapt back because I was now speaking to a man I’d only seen in photographs.

“My but you are a ninny.”


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The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.


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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 9.3 – Marooned

Image result for amazon canopy


It had taken some time to locate the third tree. As I burst through the canopy I saw that the balloon had stopped.

The thing hovered over the thicket about a football-field away.

‘Shit.’ Had they seen me? How would they? There would be no reason to scour the treetops. Unless these were Saturn’s soldiers.

I doubted this hypothesis. Even if someone was scanning for interlopers; the chance of them spotting a beige clad idiot roosting in the branches was low.

‘Maybe they are having afternoon tea.’ I chuckled as I noted odd flashes of light from the gondola. I was pretty sure these flashes came from mirrors. Though I couldn’t for the life of me tell you why.

As I sat guessing the thing shot upward at astonishing speed. It was now no more than a mere speck in the sky. I suctioned the Nikon to my eyes. The mirrors no longer flashed and in the span of half a minute the balloon resumed its south-easterly course.

My heart sank. It was now moving at a much grater rate than I could follow. I felt marooned.

I took a sip from my dwindling flask. The refreshment did help steel my nerves. Though not by much. I guess I forgot to mention that my comm equipment was out of commission.

I reviewed the events leading to this conundrum. The act of reviewing made me remember Thornton’s recent pop-quiz and how abruptly it had ended.

I got an idea.

I retraced my steps. Once I was in the vicinity of my vanishing, a point I plotted with the improvised tree-top map…I let my mind go completely blank.

I heard Sam’s voice. I heard the lunchroom ambient polyglot chatter of Arawak, Portuguese, and god knows what.

“Holy shit it worked!” I cried out.

“Ah!” Sam screamed in surprise at the sudden noise.

“What the hell man…what worked?” He inquired.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I wheeled round to greet Graham’s enigmatic smirk.

“Good, and how will you get there?” He echoed Thornton’s last communication.

“Zero is the only true philosophy.” I answered. I again allowed my mind to empty and was once more marooned in the strange thicket.

“That’s a neat trick.” A voice came from behind me.


Full Text

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Previous Chapter


The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.


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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 9.1 – Rope

Image result for prehistoric hot air balloons


That’s not right.

That tree wasn’t there. None of this was there.

I’d looked down at the trail.

I’d looked for only a few seconds.

Schmidt was behind me. Lucas just ahead. The sounds of our over-encumbered out-sized expedition echoed all around.

Now there was an eerie silence. Now I was alone.

It wasn’t very long before I emerged from the far sparser jungle into what I can only describe as a savanna.

The field of burnt high grass spread away into the horizon like some great reedy shag rug. Trees and clusters of trees occasionally breaking the beige monotony.

It wasn’t long before my tactical side took over. I retraced my steps. I avoided calling out. I began to look for high ground.

There really wasn’t any. So I decided to improvise. My best bet seemed to be a tree whose lowest branch was about eight feet off the ground.

“You can never have enough rope.” I recalled my uncle saying on a hazy Appalachian evening. That trip was over a decade old, that uncle was dead, found floating in the Colorado river. Maybe he forgot his rope. But I didn’t.

I tied a tent peg to one end of the cord and tossed it over the branch caught it and looped it over again. I passed the peg through the knothole and yanked.

Climbing with eighty pounds of gear was something we hadn’t trained for. Because it’s fucking stupid. But so was leaving my kit unattended in the Twilight Zone.

I was glad for the wisdom of bringing gloves. Though their original utility was to soften the impact of a machete handle they now became an indispensable recon tool.

After what seemed like centuries I hooked an arm over the branch and hoisted myself up using my torso. As I surveyed the rope below my dangling boots I cursed myself. I could have just hoisted the damned pack up first.

Well, it’s not everyday I hop between dimensions. That’s what was dawning on me now. Maybe this is where those weird Saturn fuckers were coming from.

The air felt different. The sun felt different. I really was in the twilight zone.

‘What am I a theoretical physicist?’ I mocked myself as I realized that action was a higher priority than thought. I looked up.

Thankfully the next branch was within arms reach.

I shook my head at the realization that I’d only considered the first branch.

‘Dipshits luck…’ I chuckled at my good fortune.

The pack would be fine as long as it wasn’t on the ground. I hoisted up the rope and used it to secure the kit.

I reveled and rested for a bit in the sudden weightlessness of unencumberment. Then ascended.

I really had picked a good tree. It wasn’t very long before I burst above the canopy.

I gasped.

Where the fuck is the jungle?”

The ‘forest’ that I had just been in was nothing but the largest patch of the trees in a savanna. I blinked in disbelief and glued the Nikon’s to my peepers.

Jesus.

It just went on and on. 360 degrees of savanna interspersed here and there by plucky patches of rain forest. It was like the Pantanal but on a grand scale.

That however wasn’t the greatest shock.

As I continued to pan I noted an anomaly drifting in from the west. As I increased magnification and focused I gasped again.

There in the indigo distance was a brilliantly chromatic balloon.


Full Text

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Previous Chapter


The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.


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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 9.0 – Pop Quiz

Image result for portable geodesic dome


“I see that the test went swimmingly.”

Thornton’s corny dad joke landed dully in the comm tent.

He ignored the silence and our high-res grimaces.

“If these coordinates are to be believed you boys are less than a month’s trek from your destination.”

We groaned collectively.

The old spook was fond of subtle psychological torture. Likely cause he viewed it as practice.

Cold amusement flickered through slate blue eyes as he casually took a sip of my favorite beer.

“What’s the MO Baird?” He asked.

“A cold brew and a warm whore.” I considered aiming this joke at his mother but there’s something classic in his aura. Something of the high school principal or deacon that sealed my lips.

“Still a sophomore I see.”

“Better than a senior citizen.” I quipped. Surprised at the quickness of my own wits at such an early hour.

“I heard you were last in line for reveille. That’s why I’m picking you to help me reorient the team. So, once again Lieutenant Commander Baird…what is the mission objective?”

“Get high for Uncle Sam on the tax payers dime.”

“I see that you’re tired Lieutenant. Perhaps you’d like a change of occupation? This is a voluntary, privileged position, for which you applied. You are well compensated….but I hear maybe not enough. Your credit score seems to have slipped. Shelby’s cost a bit more than they did in my day. But, hey…you’re a smart guy… I’m sure America’s HR climate is highly hospitable to drunken seamen with dishonorable discharges.”

“No one else could do this job. We both know it.” I was too worn for threats.

“Your overconfidence may increase the probability of success. So, I’ll let your cocky bullshit slide. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want an answer. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want an answer, now.” He replied with steely vehemence.

Thornton never cussed. So I reluctantly turned on operation earnest boy-scout.

“PLATO – practical alchemy towards order – is a psychological and pharmacological project for which Captain Schmidt and I  successfully competed – and were placed in leadership of – because we were the best of the best candidates…”

“The objective Lieutenant….”

“The objective is to expand knowledge of and develop techniques for pacification. It is a less than lethal weapon on a mass scale. A hippy bomb if you will. That and the free acid is what I signed up for.”

“Narrow your scope.”

“We are in the Amazon for the dual purpose of researching the correlation between geomantic practices such as henges and traditional medicines. We are also in pursuit of a possible cache of high technology in the city of Z. A hypothetical remnant of a civilization which seems to have been confirmed by Hoyt’s map.”

“Good. And how will you get there?”

“….” Before I could reply, I was again witness to a classic Thornton idiosyncrasy as the screen went black.


Full Text

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Previous Chapter


The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.


Email | mellow.mission.productions@gmail.com

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