The Cottage – Chapter Thirty – (Short Story)

Image result for whiskey tumbler falling
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 |Part Twenty Eight | Part Twenty Nine

The cottage seemed even emptier than before. Luckadoo’s party had pressing matters across the pond. They did not tarry long.

It was annoying. Everything was always open ended. Just left there laying vague and cryptic.

It felt like trying to get a direct answer from a Sunday School class.

Jim pushed an empty tumbler across the wooden floor with his boot. Watching as geometry and gravity drew it along in a lazy semi-circle.

It was just so.

Drawn along by necessity.

Jim did not like the idea of fate. His heart sank as he meditated on the inevitable sound of glass on wood.

It was a thought that made the twilight even gloomier.

He stopped the arc.

Slowly but surely it dawned on him. Slowly but surely his mood brightened.

He wasn’t just so.

The arc had stopped. It had stopped not by some mechanical necessity but by something wispy and wild. It was a variable. A very peculiar one. One that had neither weight, shape, nor volume, but occupied all those dimensions on a whim. It was the ultimate unknown.

The thing, the x, was will, and it belonged to him. It empowered him to solve, to balance the equation.

Ok, so he had pep. But he didn’t know what to do with it.

The gloom returned.

Again the thought of the tumbler depressed him, how it was drawn along by whims as cryptic as his uncles ravings.

But it did roll…didn’t it…

That’s all it could do given the situation…but it did something…

‘Maybe that’s all I can do…just roll with it.’

And so he burst forth from the cabin, in the direction of the caves, to do something till something…somethinged…

Of course he didn’t get far.

‘I’m not a fucking tumbler.’

He plopped down into the tall grass by the border of the wood. The uneven prickly surface and cool air quickly reminding him of his limitations.

He’d have to wing it. But he needed wings.

As sense returned he trudged towards the cottage to read, gather a pack, and nap.


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