The Last Jötunn: A Tale of the Unexpected
Categories: Fantasy | Gay | Mythology
Word Count: 12,435 Heat Rating: 2 Price: $ .99 Available here:
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Jack is fifty, recently dumped and at a crossroads, wondering just what the devil he is meant to do with the rest of his life. He agrees to house-sit the farm and the dog for his best friends in the mountains of The Vosges. He meets the mysterious Monsieur Gilbert Mutare ... and nothing after that is quite what it seems.
This story was inspired by a moonlit, snow-covered mountain (the one I am perched on) and a love affair with the poetic Edda, which only began very recently and was sparked by the works of Phetra K. Novak. The Last Jötunn is the first story in the second series of The Tales of the Unexpected, a series of short unrelated stories which allow me to experiment with different voices and ideas, many of which get translated into other stories. I hope you enjoy reading them just as much as I enjoy writing them. I am always very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: [email protected]. Visit the website, www.alpmortal.weebly.com, for updates on the next gay romantic story or crime thriller which I am working on. Thank you, Alp Mortal |
Chapter One - White Out
I don’t think you can truly appreciate the beauty of snow in direct sunlight - too dazzling. I think it can only be truly appreciated under a clear sky and by the light of a full moon. Then it takes on a magical, ethereal quality that is honestly out of this world. I think the same would be true of standing on the ocean floor or on the surface of the Moon, looking back at the Earth.
I am trying - vainly - to convince myself that agreeing to house-sit for Sean and Chloe was a good idea, now that I’m snowed in. As I recall, their parting words were, “forecast is for a cold spell and maybe a flurry or two - it’ll be fine. Bye!”
Two of my closest friends, who epitomise the fight like cat and dog couple, have, after twenty-three years, decided that getting married on Hawaii is the cure all, the final furlong, the Rubicon, and fucking good luck to them. Cunts!
The reason I am marvelling at the crisp, glittering, alien landscape that is both their home and business is due to the fact that I cannot smoke in the house and stepping outside to puff under the creaking roof of the lean-to is my only succour. Archimedes, a dog of mixed origin (I hate the word mongrel), knows better than to stir himself from the basket unless the biscuit tin makes an appearance. At 3 a.m. in the morning - hardly likely, ol’ fruit.
“Bollocks ...”
I’m averse to physical exercise with a snow shuffler - I checked, and it is the correct word for the implement - and therefore, the prospect of hiking these amazing, post-glacial mountains and valleys with my trusty mutt and some cheddar cheese and pickle sandwiches in my knapsack look pretty remote. I can see a light in the distance - the old house on the col, which I’m told belongs to a retired school teacher.
“Can’t sleep either, huh?”
Stubbing out my cigarette, using the soup can from dinner as a makeshift ashtray, I turn and grab the door handle, only to discover that I have locked myself out.
“I hope Mount Kilauea erupts and covers you in lava three metres deep ...”
The note had said ‘spare key for the side door in seed bin store’. And the note was accurate but obviously no one had anticipated the need to retrieve the spare key while wearing nothing but pyjamas, an old towelling robe and slippers.
My balls would have frozen off had they not ascended into my chest. My cock is the size of my small toe, which itself is blue. Wrapped up in the duvet by the fire, I thaw and it’s agony as feeling returns to my extremities, of which the cock is the last to recover.
The dog farts and rolls over ... and now I know not to feed him cheese and pickle.
oOo
Like I said, snow under the light of the full sun is too dazzling to be fully appreciated. However, the clearest blue sky that I can ever remember is a source of joy as I clear a path for the dog so that he can do his business somewhere other than under the lean-to.
Checking the local public service authority’s website - they have a Twitter feed no less - informs me that the snowplough will not make it up to the mountain today. I have food, fuel and an endless supply of books. As long as the power and the phone lines don’t get cut by falling trees, I’ll be fine for a week.
“The power lines and the landline have been cut by falling trees; when will they be repaired?” I ask the lady at the office of Le Mairie, using the mobile phone that Sean provided for emergencies.
“After the worst of the snow has cleared; the trucks can’t get up the mountain road.”
“What about the plough?”
“Waiting for a new blade to come ... another few days.”
“If I freeze or starve to death, I’m leaving you everything.”
Seriously? If I was on the Isle of Wight and this happened, I could understand it - but wouldn’t be complaining any less. Here, in the mountains of The Vosges? I expected better. I dig out my survival kit - a bottle of Johnny Walker, my MP3 player with its compilation of Desert Island Discs selections from the 60s and 70s ... and a carton of Dunhill International.
“Archimedes!”
The scrappy hund lollops to my side.
“You can’t just talk the talk; you gotta walk the walk ... In your fucking dreams am I putting those snow shoes on ...”
Doleful, pitiful eyes - don’t let him fool you, he’s four years old and perfectly healthy; it’s just that he likes the attention.
Something akin to a mutant Rodger Federer emerges from the shed and performs a Grand Slam around the yard. There’s an art to walking in snowshoes ... an art I am yet to perfect. Archimedes runs around for five minutes, delivers a steaming pile of do-do, and runs back inside before I’ve done up the straps.
“Get out here, you fucking cunt!”
Feeling the urge to stretch my legs, I walk to the end of the driveway, if only to see the same snow from a different angle. There’s a house - cottage - a little further down the road which is empty and neglected. From my vantage point, it’s evident that in the past it was the communal bakery. You can still see the framework of the door, which must have been the oven door, located in the back wall of the property, beside which something that can best be described as a stone table, which I imagine was used to cool the loaves as they were taken out.
“Ah ... the simple life ... don’t even go there ...”
Returning to the house, I do have to wonder what the future has in store for me. David left - hate you, you cunt; no bad feelings - and with him, the company ... twenty grand in my account but not a fucking clue.
Chloe, being a yoga instructor, has a large number of spiritual CDs. I load one into my trusty Walkman - always be prepared - and listen to a vapid, Californian hippy guide me to mindfulness - she’s probably never seen snow.
I don’t think you can truly appreciate the beauty of snow in direct sunlight - too dazzling. I think it can only be truly appreciated under a clear sky and by the light of a full moon. Then it takes on a magical, ethereal quality that is honestly out of this world. I think the same would be true of standing on the ocean floor or on the surface of the Moon, looking back at the Earth.
I am trying - vainly - to convince myself that agreeing to house-sit for Sean and Chloe was a good idea, now that I’m snowed in. As I recall, their parting words were, “forecast is for a cold spell and maybe a flurry or two - it’ll be fine. Bye!”
Two of my closest friends, who epitomise the fight like cat and dog couple, have, after twenty-three years, decided that getting married on Hawaii is the cure all, the final furlong, the Rubicon, and fucking good luck to them. Cunts!
The reason I am marvelling at the crisp, glittering, alien landscape that is both their home and business is due to the fact that I cannot smoke in the house and stepping outside to puff under the creaking roof of the lean-to is my only succour. Archimedes, a dog of mixed origin (I hate the word mongrel), knows better than to stir himself from the basket unless the biscuit tin makes an appearance. At 3 a.m. in the morning - hardly likely, ol’ fruit.
“Bollocks ...”
I’m averse to physical exercise with a snow shuffler - I checked, and it is the correct word for the implement - and therefore, the prospect of hiking these amazing, post-glacial mountains and valleys with my trusty mutt and some cheddar cheese and pickle sandwiches in my knapsack look pretty remote. I can see a light in the distance - the old house on the col, which I’m told belongs to a retired school teacher.
“Can’t sleep either, huh?”
Stubbing out my cigarette, using the soup can from dinner as a makeshift ashtray, I turn and grab the door handle, only to discover that I have locked myself out.
“I hope Mount Kilauea erupts and covers you in lava three metres deep ...”
The note had said ‘spare key for the side door in seed bin store’. And the note was accurate but obviously no one had anticipated the need to retrieve the spare key while wearing nothing but pyjamas, an old towelling robe and slippers.
My balls would have frozen off had they not ascended into my chest. My cock is the size of my small toe, which itself is blue. Wrapped up in the duvet by the fire, I thaw and it’s agony as feeling returns to my extremities, of which the cock is the last to recover.
The dog farts and rolls over ... and now I know not to feed him cheese and pickle.
oOo
Like I said, snow under the light of the full sun is too dazzling to be fully appreciated. However, the clearest blue sky that I can ever remember is a source of joy as I clear a path for the dog so that he can do his business somewhere other than under the lean-to.
Checking the local public service authority’s website - they have a Twitter feed no less - informs me that the snowplough will not make it up to the mountain today. I have food, fuel and an endless supply of books. As long as the power and the phone lines don’t get cut by falling trees, I’ll be fine for a week.
“The power lines and the landline have been cut by falling trees; when will they be repaired?” I ask the lady at the office of Le Mairie, using the mobile phone that Sean provided for emergencies.
“After the worst of the snow has cleared; the trucks can’t get up the mountain road.”
“What about the plough?”
“Waiting for a new blade to come ... another few days.”
“If I freeze or starve to death, I’m leaving you everything.”
Seriously? If I was on the Isle of Wight and this happened, I could understand it - but wouldn’t be complaining any less. Here, in the mountains of The Vosges? I expected better. I dig out my survival kit - a bottle of Johnny Walker, my MP3 player with its compilation of Desert Island Discs selections from the 60s and 70s ... and a carton of Dunhill International.
“Archimedes!”
The scrappy hund lollops to my side.
“You can’t just talk the talk; you gotta walk the walk ... In your fucking dreams am I putting those snow shoes on ...”
Doleful, pitiful eyes - don’t let him fool you, he’s four years old and perfectly healthy; it’s just that he likes the attention.
Something akin to a mutant Rodger Federer emerges from the shed and performs a Grand Slam around the yard. There’s an art to walking in snowshoes ... an art I am yet to perfect. Archimedes runs around for five minutes, delivers a steaming pile of do-do, and runs back inside before I’ve done up the straps.
“Get out here, you fucking cunt!”
Feeling the urge to stretch my legs, I walk to the end of the driveway, if only to see the same snow from a different angle. There’s a house - cottage - a little further down the road which is empty and neglected. From my vantage point, it’s evident that in the past it was the communal bakery. You can still see the framework of the door, which must have been the oven door, located in the back wall of the property, beside which something that can best be described as a stone table, which I imagine was used to cool the loaves as they were taken out.
“Ah ... the simple life ... don’t even go there ...”
Returning to the house, I do have to wonder what the future has in store for me. David left - hate you, you cunt; no bad feelings - and with him, the company ... twenty grand in my account but not a fucking clue.
Chloe, being a yoga instructor, has a large number of spiritual CDs. I load one into my trusty Walkman - always be prepared - and listen to a vapid, Californian hippy guide me to mindfulness - she’s probably never seen snow.
