Posted in Writings

Inspiration – Untitled Bigfoot Project (65/224)

Wednesday
Research


Inspiration

“All right big guy, what’s the word? You comin’ with me or not?”

Albey’s journal, a three subject notebook of college ruled looseleaf with a solid green cover (aside from the blocky white text explaining all that) stares back up at him without saying a word. He decided he should definitely take his pen – it’s always a good idea to carry a pen, a lesson he learned from his old college roommate Nicholas – but the journal is decidedly less necessary.

“Well, the pen’s not technically necessary either,” Sidney reminds himself. “I’ve done all my notetaking in pencil so far, like any rational writer should, so I guess I don’t really need to take the pen.”

The pen comes out of the pocket to be scrutinized by a ‘man with more stubble on the left side of his face than on the right to ultimately be shoved back into the pocket. It’s always a good idea to carry a pen.

“But what about you, Journal?” Sidney asks himself more than he does the green notebook. “What about you?”

Journal, of course, does not give an answer. Not a verbal one, at least; despite its owner’s many assertions to the contrary, the green notebook named Journal does have feelings, and thoughts, and even a consciousness. It’s a very limited form of consciousness compared to beings like Sidney Blake who have a biological body with a brain spinning around inside its skull, but it’s a consciousness nonetheless, and a consciousness Sidney once got the chance to explore back in college. He pretends not to remember now – boy, does he ever pretend to have never experienced this wacky shit – but one night during the Jocelyn subchapter of the college chapter of Sidney’s life, the Jocelyn in question decided it would be funny to spike her beneficial friend’s bowl with something a little more minty than the standard cannabis they’d get from the on-campus dispensary. It didn’t take much, only a small pinch of the stuff, and despite the fact that Albey had no idea he was dealt a joker along with the jacks and queens, he played his hand perfectly. Dude killed the bowl in one big toke, held onto it like a friend with benefits who doesn’t quite understand his role in the arrangement, and then exhaled in pace with his falling back onto the bed. Jocelyn, after wiping the mirthful tears from her bright crystal blue eyes, proceeded to undo Albey’s pants and go about waking him in a way he’ll never be woken up in again for as long as he lives, he’s very sorry to be sure of, but Albey didn’t know it at first. Albey slipped out of his body, you see, as some folks who take a tiny pinch of salvia divinorum to the face often do, and his spirit went barreling through that strange dimension of reality lurking behind what one sees with eyes wide open like a bustling stagehand prancing around behind the scenes whilst the play is going on, and when he finally landed, he touched down in his notebook.

For a brief span of however many moments which felt more like endless eternities passing in cosmic insomnia, Sidney Blake became his journal named Journal. He did not think, he did not feel, and he was only aware as far as knowing he had incarnated into the form of a notebook he had not yet acquired for five dollars and ninety-nine cents from the school’s book store, but it happened. The diviner’s sage slapped Sidney “Albey” Blake across the back of the head so hard he got tossed out of it, hurled through time, and trapped in his notebook in the moment when it sat on the little writer’s desk in his bedroom back home being asked whether or not it was coming with its owner to the local library. And in that moment, he answered Nah.

Then he woke up to muffled giggling around the feeling of hot, slippery suction and forgot all about the out of body experience some folks would literally kill to have for themselves. Until now, that is, but he’ll be damned if he’ll admit it to himself. Thinking he’s being stalked in the woods by a goddamned bigfoot is one thing; thinking a famous author’s magnum opus is the prophecy of his life is one thing; smoking himself into a psychotic break after slugging through a day composed of the above two things and sprinting off into the woods at night is one thing, but believing an herb could make him incarnate as a notebook? Come on, that’s just ridiculous.

“So you’re not coming, then,” Albey decides, hastily scooting back from the desk and springing to his feet. “That’s fine, ‘man, no skin off my sack. Be well, Journal. Long days and pleasant nights.”

He slings his backpack on his back, then takes it back off to make sure he has everything he needs. Plain white binder, check. Manual pencil sharpener with little baggie to store the shavings until he has a fire and he can dispose of them properly, check. Pen and pencil in his pocket, check. Phone in his other pocket, check.

“Yep,” as Sidney slings the backpack back onto his shoulder, “got everything I need. Out the door I go.”

Out the door he goes.

Both of his parents are at work, but that’s neither fortunate nor unfortunate. That’s just kind’a what it is. Ashley and Jeremy were all sorts of worried about their troubled son during the days immediately following the forest episode/incident, but things have mellowed out considerably since then. They haven’t once smelled the aroma of pot smoke (aside from the couple times they went into Sidney’s room to check on him in the middle of the night, but there’s a very noticeable difference between the smell of a fresh powwow and the stink which resides from a session of days past, a difference Ashley and Jeremy Blake know all too well) in their house, nor have they come home to their little poet’s car missing from the driveway. As bass ackwards as it may seem, sometimes all a guy needs is a good clapping to the cranium to straighten him out.

“Yeah, great,” as Sidney hops’n’bops down the front steps to the driveway. “Now all I need is an income, a girlfriend, a place to live, friends… but hey, at least I don’t smoke weed all the time.”

At least Albey doesn’t smoke weed all the time. At least there’s no joy left in the worl–

“Nope. Not even go’n’a go there,” he decrees to himself as he lets his practically empty backpack flop to the passenger seat and climbs in after it. There are many ways to make things real, it seems, BUT, since he’s not even go’n’a go there, Sidney presses the ignition button and allows himself to be pleasantly surprised when the car comes to life. “Wait, what? I thought my parents took the keys so I couldn’t drive!”

Uh-huh, sure. That’s why he went to start the car, right?

As it turns out, Sidney’s parents didn’t sneak into his car which they are still paying for to steal the keys so he couldn’t drive it whilst reeling from his head injury he doesn’t clearly remember the details of. Sidney simply put (read: tossed and slammed) the key fob into the center console on his spastic drive home from The True Commons and totally forgot about it. This whole past week he’s been acting like he was stuck at home; Albey had himself convinced his folks were gaslighting him by refusing to acknowledge his missing keys (he never asked about them, of course, but that’s beside the point), a very out of character move for the elder Blakes but not something their adopted son would put past them. After the little powwow they had in his bedroom the other night, Sidney Blake wouldn’t put anything past Ashley and Jeremy Blake.

But they didn’t steal the keys, they’ve been here the whole time, and Albey was able to use the self-imposed period of house arrest to plan out not only the novel he’s going to write, but also the process he’s to follow in the writing of that novel. Everything worked out just as it needed to, as things always do. Everything happens for a reason after all.

Doubting this last sentiment, Albey backs out of his driveway and starts his crawl towards the top of Sawblade Lane. The seasons are beginning to change in Logger’s Pond and the trees are starting to change right along with ‘em, but only ever so slightly. To an outsider whose GPS had them take a wrong turn into Logger’s Pond for one horrifically unfortunate reason or another, it would look like prime summertime; it takes a seasoned backwoods veteran like one Sidney Blake to notice such a nuance in the leaves of the many trees. There are no browns, no oranges, no reds, and even describing the color as yellow would be overstating it, but not all the leaves are that pure hue of emerald green they were born with in the spring. Some of them have faded slightly, they’ve gone dim in a way, into a specific shade that’s almost green but not quite. It’s so, it’s so… chartreuse.

“Hell yeah,” as Sidney locks his phone and drops it back into the cupholder. “That’s the perfect name for it, too. Just fancy enough to come off as pretentious, I love it.”

Not sure whether he’s being sarcastic or not, Sidney puts his car back into drive and looks both ways before pulling out of the dirt shoulder across from the driveway where all those cops went that day he was taking a highride through town and thought he was going to be pulled over, but his foot doesn’t leave the break.

“What the hell is down there, anyway?” he wonders to himself, scratching the sparse patch of stubble on his right cheek. “I could just go, see for myself. I’ve asked, all I must do is receive.”

But yet he doesn’t, because Sidney knows himself too well to fall for some nonsense like that. He knows this is just an asinine ploy to procrastinate his arriving at the Logger’s Pond Public Library and further put off his transition between step one and step two of his patented novelwriting process.

“I don’t even know why I’m so anxious about it,” as his car climbs up onto the road. “Like, honestly, the inspiration is the hardest part, and I got that shit down like a clown in a storm drain, yo. I’m halfway done with step two, too, so like… what’s the problem, dude?”

Dude doesn’t tell himself what the problem is, and by the time he comes to the end of Sawblade Lane he forgets about his novelwriting anxiety altogether. Now this may sound good, but it’s not. Sometimes getting rid of a bully is a great thing, but sometimes it’s just an omen. Sometimes, the reason a bully decides to grow up and scram is not because (s)he decided to grow up at all, but because an even bigger, even homelier bully came to steal the crown.

Sidney Blake is going to the public library to do some research on bigfoot and finish taking notes in preparation for the novel he’s going to write. To get there, he has to drive up Mane Road all the way to the end where the turnoff for Bogspekti Park is, and that means he has to suffer through the vat of carcinogenic and hideously toxic energy of Logger’s Pond during the day. Logger’s Pond is the apotheosis of backwoods small towns, as Stephen King almost definitely wouldn’t say because a ‘man of his caliber wouldn’t be caught in Logger’s Pond unless he was murdered and buried here where nobody would find the body because such would involve coming here and getting out of the car – now that’s one hell of a thought, Jesus Christ, Sidney – and outsiders are not welcomed.

There’s no faking it, either; the pretense is so real Albey can feel it clotting the blood in his veins. He doesn’t come into town often, as he has everything he needs at home on Sawblade Lane (the two Ws, my good ‘man: weed and wilderness), and thus his car is not one the townsfolk often see driving through. This means that the townsfolk have to blatantly stare at him, you know, to acclimate themselves to this strange vehicle trespassing through their territory. They have to stop what they’re doing, pause mid-stride, even walk off the sidewalk and step so close to the stream of traffic the tips of their Timberland boots get scuffed by the rolling tires to stare at this strange young hoodlum with his shameful sort’a long hair menacingly rolling by in his awful sedan which he probably uses to smuggle drugs and child prostitutes.

“Okay,” as Sidney takes his cell phone into his hand and starts scrolling through his contacts in search of somebody to call. “If I act like they’re not there then maybe they’ll stop staring.”

They won’t, and he knows it, and he’s sure both of his parents are going to come home with stories about some evil gayboy with mud-colored hair that covers his ears lurking around town trying to abduct the eighth graders before they get too old to fit in with the rest of the trafficked goods, but that’s out of Albey’s control. They’re just haters, damn near every single smitten soul cursed to wallow in this towny embodiment of societal entropy and stagnation of the human race is so good at hating that they hate themselves without even knowing it, but there are a select few who rise above, a very small percentage who don’t wake up with the intention of making everybody around them’s lives as utterly miserable as possible, and it just so happens that Sidney is very good pals with the best of the best of ‘em.

Albey’s phone, speaker mode engaged, rings from the little pocket in the armrest on the driver’s side door. It rings again. Rings a third time. Starts to ring a fourth, then goes answered.

“Hello?”

“Keaton! Hey ‘man, what’s good?!”

“Albey the Mad Poet, what a nice surprise. What’s crackin’?”

“Not a whole lot, my ‘man. How are you doin’?”

“I’m doing well, walkin’ home. Just got finished helping my little cousin move some weight at the pet store.”

“There’s a pet store in town?”

“Yeah ‘man, right on Mane Road. She just started working there, said she got the gig as a present for her birthday. Homegirl just turned sixteen last week.”

“Wow, that might be the worst present I’ve ever not received. Was she furious?”

“Nah, not at all. Her folks run a secondhand shop across the street and down a few treks, they wanted her to get some cashier training away from home before they make her a manager. Folks sometimes come through with their dogs, she likes it well enough.”

“Huh, well that’s awesome then. You said you were helping her move some weight?”

“Yeah,” Keaton chuckles, stretching the arm that’s not holding his phone to his ear. “Her bossguy couldn’t come in today and they got a delivery of dog food, like, fifty-pound bags. Tiny little thing couldn’t manage to get them off the ground, so she called me.”

“Damn, that’s freakin’… you’re a good dude, Keaton Quinn. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“They don’t! Hey, so what’s goin’ on? I love hearin’ from ya, but what’s the occasion, buddy?”

“Oh uh, I was just coming up Mane and the Loggers were shooting me with all sorts of stinkin’ eyes.” Sidney glances into his rearview mirror and sees the driver behind him picking his fat nose with his middle finger, obviously to flip Sidney off. “I got your text the other day and thought I’d call ya, chat a little bit.”

“Well that’s mighty kind, Sai Blake. I’m glad to hear you decided to leave your house. What are you gettin’ into?”

“Hittin’ the library to do a little research. I decided to write that Tee’acHe’Cee book after all, wouldn’t you know it.”

“No shit!” Keaton says incredulously, garnering stares of shock which melt into Ah, good ol’ Keaton Quinn smiles when the Loggers around him realize who just bleated the shit word in broad daylight. “That’s absolutely fantastic, Sidney. I’m not go’n’a lie, I probably won’t read it, but that’s only because I haven’t touched a book since we got out of high school. I’ll support ya any other way I can, broth’a.”

“Aw shit, Keaton, that’s so cool of you. Listen, you said you were walking home, right? Do you need a ride? I’m just about to pull into the library now but I can turn around real quick.”

“Nah it’s all good, sun’s shining too bright to not bask in the glow. I appreciate you, though.”

“You sure?” as Albey drives in a circle through the library’s tiny parking lot, preventing an especially crotchety librarian from pulling out and going home after a most repugnant morning shift that lasted a half-hour longer than it should have because the new hire decided to show up late for her first day, the nerve of the spoiled little snot-nosed kids of this awful millennial generation, it’s reprehensible, it’s incorrigible, it’s downright heinous!They all deserve to total their cars in automotive accidents and get flattened into screaming bloody pulps on the cold pavement whilst crawling away from the burning wreckage! May God strike down every last one of them with burning bolts of rapturous lightning!! “It’s really no trouble at all.”

“Yeah ‘man, I’m sure. I like walkin’ up The Heights, makes me feel like I can do anything.”

“That’s why I love ya, Keaton. A’ight buddy, I won’t keep ya any longer, I just parked. Y’boy’s got some notetaking to do.”

“That’s my boy. Good talkin’ to ya, Albey.”

“You too, Keaton. Peace, homie.”

“Peace.”

click

“Well that was just downright pleasant.”

Albey slides his cell phone into his pocket, then unbuckles his seatbelt, then turns the sedan off. A rusty gray oldsmobile carrying a miserably old croon who’s waving her fists like she was screaming at her windshield passes so close to Sidney’s back bumper that he fears for the safety of her mirrors, but there is no collision. That’s just how folks in Logger’s Pond are – all bark and no bite. When the croon, ‘Lookin’ a bit like Rhea of the Coos, come to think of it,’ safely escorts herself out of the parking lot, Sidney opens the door and climbs out, hauling his backpack with him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a lighter backpack in my life,” as he closes his door with his butt. “What a scam that college bullshit was. Fuck you, Louberg yoU. Fuck you very little.”

For the first time in a long while, Sidney Blake is feeling himself. It feels so good to be alive, baby! The air tastes clean in his nose, the sun feels warm on his skin, and the breeze is just cool enough to pull it all together with a chilling line of gooseflesh sent a’racing down his spine. There are five steps in the novelwriting process and five steps to climb to reach the glass doors of the Logger’s Pond Public Library, and Albey’s got all the inspiration he needs. He bounds to the platform two steps at a time and patiently waits for the glass doors to open in front of him.


Hello Commons, this has been the first subchapter of the third chapter of Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Untitled Bigfoot Project and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

250+ Followers Thank You/Update Post

First and foremost, thank you; you are my hypothetical readers, and I appreciate all of you.

The Hillside Commons recently crossed the 250 followers milestone and Convenient Incidents came to its conclusion yesterday, so I thought I would make a thank you/update post to let y’all know what’s going down on the other side of the screen. And now I’m doing it. And the wind continues to blow.

After putting out Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox however long ago that was, I wrote up a pair of novellas-


Sidebar

I’m not sure if I’ve formally mentioned this yet, but all of my writing takes place within a fictional reality called Existence. Existence is comprised of four Astral Planes, one of which is called The Void. Inside The Void float the infinite universes, and I think y’all know what a universe is.


-which are unconnected to the point that they take place in different Astral Planes. I took one of these novellas to the third draft, the other to the first, but ultimately decided not to publish either of them. It wasn’t an issue of quality or insecurity, I just wrote them more to leap over certain hurdles in my life I was having trouble getting past by myself without banging my knee and toppling over and eating shit in the process, and I felt like making them public wasn’t the move. So the good news: I got over the hurdles without eating shit! The bad news: about 2 months’ worth of fresh content is now sealed in the vault, blind to the light of day. Que sera sera.

That’s not to say I’m sitting around with a thumb in my ass, though. There is a new project in the works; I have no concept of a timeline for this project, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to be a novel and I’m thinking it’s going to take place in the same universe as Untitled Bigfoot Project, Universe W-428. I also have a bunch of stuff planned for Universe W-2222 (that’s Flowers and Under the Hood), but the W-2222 books are the books I make in between books, you catch my drift? You smell what I’m stepping in, here? You toke what I’m blowin’, bucc?

Either way, that’s what happening. I also wanted to give a huge thank you [read: THANK YOU!!!] to the hypothetical reader who bought a copy of Untitled Bigfoot Project on Amazon however long ago that was, January maybe? Whoever you are, I’m pretty sure you’re the first one from the blog to buy one of my books, which is absolutely a big deal. I hope you’re diggin’ it, and I’d love it if you wrote me a review. I’ve heard those help and I’ll take all the help I can get, as I am 25 and making these books is the only thing I know how to do in life. To everyone else: the floodgates are officially open, you won’t have to be the first! I’m only going to make more books, so you might as well hop on now 😉

Thanks again, hypothetical readers. I appreciate y’all, and I’ll see you again at 500. From this day on, we move forever forward. Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Disturbed Clock – Under the Hood: TIoJK (8/44)

The Preacherman

Think of this facility as a place to be when there’s nowhere else to go.


Disturbed Clock

Like the other houses on Madison Avenue, the house at the end of the road has a short driveway; unlike the other houses on Madison Avenue, the house at the end of the road isn’t a house. At least, it doesn’t seem to be a house; most houses don’t have parking lots.

Jonathan Knox pulls into the parking lot and finds a nice spot for himself somewhere in the middle. He turns to face the light shining from above the building’s door and squints, then turns back away from it to scan the area basked in its faint glow. There are no other vehicles in the parking lot tonight. The lot itself is bordered by grass held in place by concrete curbs. There are trees of some sort – maples, perhaps – growing from the grass, but not close enough together to act as a wall. Jonathan turns back to the building and tries not to squint.

“I don’t think anybody’s home,” Jonathan says as his hand subconsciously kills the engine. “They must have left in a rush, whoever they were. Leaving the lights on like that.”

The metal brain under the smart car’s hood ticks like a disturbed clock as it cools ever so slightly against the night. Jonathan pushes the glasses up his nose with one finger. They slide right back down into place.

“I bet they didn’t mean to. Leave the lights on, I mean,” Jonathan says and then clarifies for himself. “Bet they’d be grateful if they came back in the morning and found that someone turned the lights off.”

Not a single hair of stubble tickles Jonathan Knox’s knuckles as he absentmindedly brushes his right cheek.

“Bet they wouldn’t even remember leaving them on.”

Jonathan Knox opens his car door a crack and then grabs himself by the wrist to slam it back shut.

“No! It’s a bad idea, I have no plan! I’m getting myself all worked up over the light and I don’t have a plan, I’m going to goose it up.” He puts his hand on the keys as if he was about to turn his smart car back on and leave the lot, but… but the lights are on. Someone left the lights on. WHY?!  “Maybe they did it on purpose… maybe someone’s in there. Or someones are in there. Maybe…”

Jonathan’s hand finds the doorhandle again.

“Maybe I could just walk up, press my ear to the door… if I hear anything I’ll turn around and leave, easy peasy. I’m not eavesdropping, I’m… I’m a concerned neighbor, is all. Just a concerned neighbor.”

Yes, a concerned neighbor. Who doesn’t live on this street.

“You shouldn’t leave the lights on when you’re not home,” Jonathan explains to nobody as he creeps across the parking lot. “Unless you are home, then it’s okay. But there are no other cars in the parking lot except mine. I’m just go’n’a turn the lights off is all. Easy peasy.”

Jonathan skulks up the steps with his hands buried deeply in his pockets. The back of his neck is level with his shoulders. His breathing is erratic, heart beating like a drum roll. The wooden door is smooth and cold against his ear, but Jonathan doesn’t mind. Jonathan is listening too intently, and he doesn’t hear a thing.

“Nobody’s home,” Jonathan whispers to himself, then licks his lips without meaning to. “I bet they left the door unlocked, too.”

They did indeed, the door pulls right open. No knob to turn, no lever to depress, only a cool metal handle. The door just pulls right open.

Jonathan looks over his shoulder again. The parking lot is still empty aside from his smart car, the disturbed clock still ticking under the hood, but slower now. The metal is cooling off. Straightening up as though he was supposed to be here all along, Jonathan Knox walks into the building.


Hello Commons, this has been the second subchapter of the second chapter of Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox, a novel about a man who likes to eavesdrop on his neighbors.

Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox is the second book in the W-2222 series, a series of books which take place in Universe W-2222.

Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Sept the Ninth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (64/224)

Sept the Ninth

Keeping this one short, because I have a place to be today.

After completely forgetting about it, I remembered that I have a cell phone this morning, and I turned it on. And guess what? There weren’t zero messages. There weren’t 19 either, but there weren’t zero. There were two, one from Harry inviting me to a house party the day I lost my shit (kind’a wish I got that, but glad I missed it all the same) and one from Keaton a few days later saying Harry mentioned he never heard from me and he wanted Keaton to check in.

These texts gave me an idea, Journal: I’m going to go to the library today. Not only will it get me out of my parents’ house, but I’ll be able to surprise Harry and show him that I’m totally fine. Besides, I vaguely remember telling him I’d go to the library so he could give me a tour or whatever, I think he works there or something. Whatever, I’ll find out today!

I already ate my licorice oatmeal and brushed my teeth and showered (first time in about a week, feels so good!!), I just wanted to touch base with you before I left. I’m a little anxious, to be honest, and writing always helps calm me down.

But you already knew that. Oh Journal, what would I do without you?

…                                     …                                    …

Say thankya, good buddy. ‘Preciate ya. Long days and pleasant nights~


Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Untitled Bigfoot Project and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

A Procession of Headlights – Under the Hood: TIoJK (7/44)

The Preacherman

Think of this facility as a place to be when there’s nowhere else to go.


A Procession of Headlights

“Get off Cannonball Road, get off Cannonball Road, get off Cannonbal–”

Jonathan jerks the steering wheel with both hands, lifting his smart car up on the left wheels as he bangs a violent left onto the first turn off Cannonball. An eyeless smiley face of skid marks is left in his wake. He shrieks when the right wheels touch back down, then slams on the breaks and comes to a dead stop in the middle of the road. Clinging to the windshield his hot breath becomes fog, then returns to air as the glass releases its hold.

“Okay,” Jonathan says in a gasp as he tears the slimy gloves off his hands. “I’m off Cannonball Road.”

Jonathan Knox has gotten off Cannonball Road. Yes. Now, within just a few fleeting seconds, a procession of headlights capped with flashing red’n’blues will charge down Cannonball headed toward the center of town, but not all the cruisers will make it there. No, there will be one police officer who notices the fresh rubber bonded to the pavement, one officer who looks down the first side street and sees Jonathan’s smart car sitting idly in the middle of the road, loitering there like a school skipper in the parking lot of a supermarket. That one police cruiser will turn and roll slowly towards the mysterious smart car, then another will join in behind it, then another, then all the go-getting police officers who barreled on past this… this Madison Avenue, according to the green street sign basked in the red glow of Jonathan’s taillights, they will all turn around and the entire police force of Wuester, New Jersey will surround Jonathan Knox’s defenseless little smart car in the middle of this sleepy street, all the residents will wake up and trek out to their lawns and stare with wide eyes and gibbering mouths and who else but the local chief of police himself Daniel Maxwell will step out, will trollop over, will knock on Jonathan Knox’s window, will ask for his license and registration and then, just as he’s about to ask Jonathan Knox what he’s doing out here idling in the middle of the street so late at night, he’ll notice the can of gas. And he’ll ask Jonathan what the gasoline is for, because smart cars don’t take gasoline, smart cars are all electric, smart cars have no use for the highly flammable base fluid of the molotov cocktail, and he will ask Jonathan to step out of the car, and Jonathan will because Jonathan doesn’t want to be shot with an audience and as Jonathan is stepping out of his smart car Police Chief Daniel Maxwell, who will have changed into his police blues and out of his red sweater and blue denim pants, The Police Chief of Wuester Daniel Maxwell will hear the rattling of the matches stashed in Jonathan Knox’s pocket, he will grab Jonathan Knox by the back of his sweaty neck and slam him on the grisly pavement, he will put a knee into his back and an elbow on his throat and he’ll get the other officers to step on Jonathan and spit on Jonathan and pummel Jonathan when he’s down, Kick him when he’s down, Fellers; this domestic terrorist slammed the front door of my house, he doesn’t deserve to get back up after the evil he meant to bring unto our good Wuester. Praise Thee, Rock! Praise Thee and fell unto our poisoned town! and then Maxwell will take out his revolver – a five-shooter, with no serial number – and he’ll press the cold barrel into Jonathan’s temple and it’ll feel icy, cold and metal and icy on this blasted March night, and then he’ll ask Jonathan Knox if he has any last words, and just as Jonathan is about to open his mouth to spit out all the blood pooling up in there from being kicked over and over and over when he’s down, Maxwell will pull the trigger. Then, it’ll all go dark, but it won’t be the cold darkness of the night. Not anymore. It’ll be a nice darkness, a warm and tranquil and welcoming darkness. The darkness of Jonathan’s basement, where he should be sitting right now.

But he’s not. Jonathan Knox got himself all worked up, he acted too fast and got himself way too worked up and grabbed a can of gasoline and drove all the way to the bend at the end of Cannonball Road and he was going to burn the chief of police’s house down. So what that the chief of police is going to abduct and sacrifice a child based on the color of that child’s skin? The chief of police isn’t the villain. Jonathan Knox is clearly the villain in this situation, in this life, Jonathan Knox got all worked up, Jonathan Knox went too fast and got ahead of himself and he’s not perfect so he deserves to die. And he will die. In just a few fleeting seconds, Jonathan Knox will finally get what’s been coming to him ever since he was a nosy little dirty little eavesdropper as a kid with the drinking glass on the inside garage door. Jonathan Knox is going to die tonight, and it’ll happen very soon. He just has to wait for the procession of headlights capped in flashing red’n’blues, and then it’ll all be over.

It’ll finally all be over.

And so Jonathan Knox, his face redder than a beet, his cheeks slimy with tears, his entire body trembling like the wimpy little whelp that he’s always been, waits for the unavoidable procession of headlights capped in flashing red’n’blues. And he waits. And he waits.

Finally Jonathan Knox breathes again, realizing he’s not waiting for anything. A fresh batch of tears and sobs escape him then, for Jonathan Knox is having a difficult time tonight, and what’s worse he knows he’s having a difficult time tonight. He knows that things aren’t going according to plan because he had no plan, he got himself all worked up and went too fast and now he’s sitting here in the middle of this side street, in the middle of Madison Avenue in his warm smart car with a can of gasoline and a pocket full of matches and the dirty cops are still going to sacrifice the Earthen child and and an

Jonathan Knox lashes out, striking the center of his steering wheel with a limp fist. The horn does not honk. Jonathan honks instead. The punch hurt his knuckles.

After a few more cycles of… whatever it is that’s going on in Jonathan Knox’s head right now, Jonathan takes a few deep breaths and checks his rearview again. Nothing but the cold darkness of the early spring night and the faint red glow of his taillights. He looks out his window and sees a dark house. Looks out his passenger window and sees another house, just as dark. Up the road there’s a little bit of light spilling into the street.

“Could that be a house too…?” Jonathan asks himself, hands in his lap. He looks around again, sees all the dark houses. “Everyone else is asleep right now, why did those folks leave their lights on?”

It’s none of Jonathan’s business. He already messed up once tonight, he doesn’t need to go and mess up some more… but… but yet he’s so curious. Why did they leave their lights on? It’s so late and all the other houses are so dark, so why does that one have its lights on?

“I could drive up the road,” as he places both hands on the steering wheel. “There’s no harm in that. I have to turn around anyway.”

He does have to turn around anyway; better to go down the road and do it right than make another illegal U-turn. Jonathan Knox is on thin ice with the local law enforcement as it is, best not to test them further. They would forgive him for trying to burn down the chief of police’s house, sure – it’s not like he went through with it – but making another illegal U-turn would be pushing it. Anybody with eyes could see that, even if their glasses had lenses as thick as Jonathan’s.

Slowly, biting his bottom lip gently between his teeth in anticipation, Jonathan Knox lifts his heavy foot from the break pedal. The smart car begins a slow roll down Madison Avenue.


Hello Commons, this has been the first subchapter of the second chapter of Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox, a novel about a man who likes to eavesdrop on his neighbors.

Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox is the second book in the W-2222 series, a series of books which take place in Universe W-2222.

Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Truth – Convenient Incidents (84/84)

Convenient Incidents
The Father

The Truth

Hilter Odolf Williamson wakes up from a sound, dreamless sleep to find his nightstand empty. Before he went to bed last night, he placed the crystal that called to him in the ratty wooden shack on that nightstand, but now it’s gone. And for some reason, he knows exactly where he’ll find it.

“No…” Hilter says to himself as he gets dressed in his best slacks and button-down. “That’s not possible, Hilter. She’s hardly even alive, the woman doesn’t have the strength to get out of bed. I had to hire a hospice nurse for God’s sake, it’s not possible.”

But he knows it is, and so Hilter walks down the road to what used to be the Johnson’s house, the very first house he bought on Fricker Drive, the same house Daisy grew up in, not that Hilter knew that when he bought it – it simply spoke to him, called out to him in a metaphysical sort of way – nor does he know it now. He goes in through the garage and walks through the basement, then pauses at the door to his Mother’s apartment.

“Hilter, do you really believe your catatonic Mother got up in the middle of the night, broke into the one house on this road you happened to be sleeping in – a detail she would never be able to know or guess, regardless of the elevated state of consciousness her schizophrenia allows her to access, because I mentally blocked the information from her and her specifically – and stole that big quartz crystal off your nightstand? Without waking you? Come on Hilter, you must be fucking daft.”

And he almost walks away. But then he doesn’t. Hilter opens the door and sees the crystal lying on his mother’s stomach, slowly rising and falling as she breathes.

“How in the hell did you manage it, you evil woman?” Hilter demands, storming into the gloomy apartment and slamming the door behind him. “How is it even possible?”

Daisy opens her tired eyes, then turns her head slightly to face Hilter. “Hello, my beautiful son.”

“Hello, Mother,” Hilter says through clenched teeth. “Answer my Goddamned question and answer it now. How did you get that rock off my nightstand last night?”

“I… well, I don’t remember, son. I wasn’t carried by my will alone.”

“What?!” Hilter shouts, exasperated.

“It was The Father of Existence, my child. The Father spoke to me last night, for the first time since I was a little girl… The Father told me what I need to do.”

“Oh? And what’s that?! Do you need to murder me like you did my father?! Do you need to have me locked up in an asylum again?! WHAT?!” Hilter screams, veins bursting from his throat.

Daisy only smiles. “I love you, Hilter Odolf, and I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. But I’m not long for this world, and I must ask you to listen.”

A scowl of rage and disgust makes itself perfectly present on Hilter’s face. “Fine. Fine, I’m listening. What do you have to say, you psychotic old witch? And make it quick, before I do you in myself.”

“If that’s how it’s meant to happen, that’s how it will go… but I do not think…” she trails off, then lets the air hang silent. Then, “I must tell you the truth, Hilter.”

“The truth?” Hilter barks. “I know the truth, Mother. You are a psychopath, you are a severely sick schizophrenic woman who decided to murder her husband. You stole the stuffed animals from your son’s bedroom, the only creatures your son had to talk to, the only ones who would listen to him! His Mother wouldn’t listen, his Mother was always too busy speaking to a voice in her head that didn’t even speak back! And his father, his father was always belligerently stressed out about his mentally ill wife, always too busy worrying to pay any attention to his son! The other kids at school made me an outcast because they knew my parents were crazy; I was alone! I was all alone as a child, I grew up and lived out my childhood alone because of you, all I had was my stuffed animals and you even took them from me! And you gutted them like you gutted my father and you stuffed my dead father with the plush from their bellies, and then you started killing pets. And then you started killing wild animals. AND THEN YOU BLAMED IT ALL ON ME!

“I know the truth perfectly well, Mother! The truth is that you are a witch, you are a horrid, abominable human being, you are a Goddamned fucking monstER AND YOU DESERVE TO BURN IN HELL FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME!” Hilter’s face is beet red, his hands are clenched into fists so tight his nails have pierced the skin of his palms. His arms are both trembling, his breathing is heavy and erratic, his teeth are clenched so tight that his molars are beginning to crack, but yet he is standing his ground. He has not leaped across the room and murdered his Mother, he has not broken her neck with his bare hands, he has not taken the crystal and used it to bash her skull in. Hilter is not like his Mother, Hilter is not a manifestation of pure evil, and so he simply stands there and feels the burn in his throat. And you know what? It feels good, like a long drag from a burning joint.

“There, that is the truth, Mother. I’ve finally said it, it’s all out in the open. Do you have anything to say for yourself?!”

A single tear falls down Daisy Williamson’s face, but she does not shed her tear for her son, nor does she shed her tear for herself. Daisy sheds this sole tear for The Father, for Daisy knows He has seen all that Hilter spoke of, that He was forced to watch it all, that He suffered through it just as much as Hilter did. More than Hilter did, even, for Hilter does not understand reality. Hilter only sees what is right in front of him. It is time for Hilter to learn the truth.

“Hilter…” Daisy says quietly. “You were supposed to have a baby brother, Hilter. When you were very young, your father and I went to the beach, and I lost the child on that beach. His soul was stolen from me by a terrible monster, and I was forced to give birth to his lifeless body six months later. That… that broke me, Hilter. That shattered my mind. Nothing was the same after I lost your brother, Hilter, and everything that I did I did because I lost him. I’m so sorry, Hilter. I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to you… but you must understand, it was not all my fault.”

“It… what?” Hilter sneers. She almost had him, she almost made him feel sorry for her. “It wasn’t your fault?! It was all your fault, you psychotic, deranged… you, you… FUCK YOU!

“Oh, Hilter…” Daisy weeps, the crystal heavy on her chest. “Oh Hilter, oh my son, you cannot imagine the pain He feels for you, Hilter. You cannot begin to know…”

“He?! Who the fuck is he? Are… have you disassociated? Are you here with me, Mother?”

Though she weeps waterfalls, Daisy Williamson manages to smile. “I am here, Hilter, and He is here, too. You now know my truth, Hilter; it is time for you to know the truth.”

“The truth of what?!” Hilter screams at the top of his lungs.

“The truth of reality.”

“The truth of…” Hilter starts, then lowers his head. He takes his glasses off his face and wipes the fog off the lenses with his shirt, then puts them back on, pushing the bridge tight against his nose. Then, Hilter looks up and says, “I know the truth of reality, Mother. I understand it perfectly well. The truth is that everything is conscious, everything vibrates at a certain level on the spectrum of consciousness. The truth is that some humans, humans like you and myself, are schizophrenic, that we select few are quite literally higher than the majority of those around us. We are special, our minds are more powerful. That’s how you so easily got away with killing my father and all those animals, that’s how you were able to convince everybody that it was me and not you. Because you’re psychic, because you can look into the mind of another human being and bend and twist it to your liking.”

Daisy smiles at her son. Her son hates her for that smile.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense! I’m the same way! I’m the world’s greatest expert on the schizophrenia spectrum! I have the disorder, I know firsthand how it works! How else can you explain my success, how else can all the conveniently coinciding incidents that happened to bring me here this morning? How else can you explain the fact that I was brought to that old ratty shack in the woods by the Universe itself, huh Mother?! How else can you explain anything that happens in this fucked up world?!”

Daisy can only smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be the one to show you my clubhouse, Hilter.”

The color drops out of Hilter’s face.

“Did you know I grew up in this house? And now I’m going to die here – it all comes around eventually, son. Unless it doesn’t, in which case… in which case it didn’t need to. Your theories are fun to think about Hilter, they’re fun thought experiments to run, but believing them will bring you no further in life. Can I tell you the truth now? The real truth of reality?”

Hilter says nothing; he cannot speak, for he’s too busy trying to understand how his Mother’s voice just changed like that, how she sounds so young and healthy all of the sudden. How her voice is so soothing to his ears.

“The truth of reality, Hilter, is that there is no the truth.” Daisy Williamson, holding the crystal in her hands now, levitates out of her bed, phasing through the blankets that once covered her while, at the same time, keeping her nightgown on. She floats in front of Hilter and stands on the air, meeting him at eye level. “Existence is a living thing, Hilter, and you’re right – some things are more conscious than others – but nothing living inside of Existence lives under its own free will. Everything that happens, everything from the formation of planets down to the thoughts which pop into your head, happens because that’s how Existence needs it to happen. There are no forces above Existence that directly alter Her course of action; well, none that dare to, at least. There are merely forces who help facilitate and guide Her creations as they embark on their wondrous journeys inside of Her. There are three of these outside forces, Hilter, and they are called The Mongrel, who gives life to the others; The Perception, who gives life to the I; and The Father of Existence, who speaks to all who will hear His voice, whether they’re capable of listening or not. And sometimes, my beautiful son, my brilliant Hilter Odolf Williamson, sometimes Existence doesn’t work like that. Sometimes Existence breaks the rules She sets up for Herself, if for no other reason than the fact that She’s capable of doing so. That’s just how Existence is, that’s how She’s always been. And that’s enough; for you, Hilter, and for Existence Herself, that’s enough. And so the wind continues to blow.

“You will never understand Existence, Hilter. You will never understand how consciousness truly works. You will never be able to grasp reality in your hands, Hilter Odolf Williamson, because it is not your purpose to do so.”

Hilter takes a step back, refusing to listen. “No, that’s… that’s bullshit, all of it! I am a psychologist, the world-renown–”

“Human psychology is a pseudoscience, a pattern picked out of the ordered chaos that is reality by the misguided, you arrogant fool,” says Daisy in the voice of The Father. “You are on this Earth to help those in need, those like Scotty Mells and Dallas Hinton and Gill Milligan, whose dream journal you still have yet to read. You’re here for those like the boy Cooper, the one with no last name, a fact you never once questioned during your interactions with him, and yet you question me, the closest thing to what you know as God. You own all the houses on this street so you can give troubled souls like your mother Daisy a safe place to rest so they can heal and move on, so you can talk to them and help their souls level out. That is your purpose; you are special, Hilter Odolf Williamson, but not for the reason you think.”

“Then why?!” Hilter shouts, although he doesn’t choose to do so. He merely feels the heated words fly out of his mouth, and in that moment, Hilter understands that none of his actions are his. None of his actions have ever been his and none of them ever will be his, because there is no him. There is merely Existence and all of Her creations, which are just reflections of Herself. Above Her are The Mongrel, The Perception, and The Father of Existence, and within her are many gears which all churn together, and Hilter Odolf Williamson is but one of those gears. And that’s enough.

“Because Existence decided you should be. Existence Herself decided that you have a very special role to play, my Hilter Odolf Williamson, and you shall play it until Existence Herself dies.”

A feeling of unadulterated bliss and love washes over Hilter Odolf Williamson. He forgets about his past, he forgets about his anger, his confusion, all the perplexingly convenient incidents that have brought him here to his Mother’s apartment in the basement of the first house he brought on Fricker Drive. He realizes where he is: Universe W-63, a special universe where troubled souls go to be incarnated and heal from past trauma so they may move on and spiral anew elsewhere in The Void. A simple universe. Hilter feels good about that. Hilter feels safe, secure with his role here, and when his Mother Daisy falls dead to the cold concrete floor in a heap of broken bones and shattered white quartz, Hilter can only smile, because that’s exactly what was supposed to happen.

Hilter turns around and goes to leave the apartment forever, not worrying about his dead Mother because Existence will sort that out without having Hilter play a part. Then, he hears a voice whispering to him from inside his head. The voice wants Hilter to turn around, and so he does.

Daisy is floating again, but her arms and legs aren’t attached to her body – they’re all linked together, hand to hand, foot to foot, stump to stump in the shape of a circle, a horrifically bloody circle of dismembered limbs embedded with sharp shards of shattered white quartz spinning faster than the tires of the police’s cars on their way to arrest the true murderer of the neighborhood pets. In the middle of the circle is Daisy Williamson’s torso, her legless, armless, headless torso, the nightgown which covers it soaked in blood which leaks onto the spinning wheel of dismembered limbs, and as this wheel of limbs spins ‘round and ‘round, it paints the cinderblock walls, the rafters in the ceiling, the concrete floor, the bed and the wheelchair between it and the wall, the flatlined life support equipment, the cushioned chair for the hospice nurse; the entire basement apartment is painted red with the sacred blood of Daisy Williamson. Her severed head is floating before the center of her torso. Her eyes are sunken in and pitch black. Thick streaks of glowing purple fluid flow down her cheeks and dribble out from her stump of a neck.

“One last thing before you go, Hilter,” Daisy’s severed head says in Her beautiful, loving, elated voice, the voice of The Father of Existence. No, this voice is different – this voice is the voice of Existence Herself.

“What’s that, Mother?” Hilter asks, not at all perturbed by the sight (nor the smell) of his Mother’s actively bleeding and grossly mutilated corpse.

“Existence will eventually end, Hilter. I will die one day.”

Then, in a deep, haunting voice that sounds like it should be speaking backwards, Existence says, “But not until I’m damn well ready. You shall continue to live here on the street called Fricker Drive, and you shall continue to save the souls who are sent to you. You shall forget all you’ve been shown here today, Hilter Odolf Williamson, but you shall hold the understanding in your heart and in the back of your mind. And that shall be enough. For you, Mister Williamson, that shall be enough.

“And the wind shall continue to blow.”


Hello Commons, this has been the last subchapter of the last story from Convenient Incidents, an anthology of fifteen interconnected short stories which revolve around a man by the name of Hilter Odolf Williamson.

Convenient Incidents is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.

Convenient Incidents is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Convenient Incidents and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Sept the Eighth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (63/224)

Sept the Eighth

Didn’t get much done again, but I’m not mad. I realized that there are no days of the week in The Hillside Commons, at least not to The Triad. They measure time by the cycles of the moon, and the shortest measurement (outside of sunrise/sunset) is a “strate” which is one week (half of the time between a full moon/Halla and a new moon/Calla). But I have a solution.

Remember how I said I wanted to do a pro/epilogue? Well, two things: they’re going to be called “Prelude” and “Envoi” because reasons, and they’re going to be titled “The Lodge” and “The Dirtbiker” respectively. And they’ll both be in present tense.

In “The Lodge,” Albey is going to be coming back home from burying the members of his broken Triad. He’s going to get to the cabin at The Hillside and, for the first time, explore the basement where Iuqon would always disappear to, the subterranean laboratory/lair that he was always super protective over to the point where he disallowed Albey and Ram’rl to enter it. He’s going to find a lot of stuff, and among that stuff is going to be a new system for keeping time: a strate is seven days, more or less, and these days will be named Monday, Tuesday, you get the idea. Each of the beginnings of the names (Mon, Tues, etc) will have a special meaning, I’m sure, but yeah. He’ll also find a bunch of magick stuff down there that he takes with him to help him find Gobon, and he’ll raid Ram’rl’s little shack out back for armor and weapons, and he will set off to find Gobon.

Then, in the Envoi, The Dirtbiker’s Trail will bring The Dirtbiker to the bigfoot cabin and he’ll see the aftermath of the battle between Albey and the bigfoots (who will probably be controlled by Gobon, not totally certain on that but it seems like a fine idea). I’m still not sure if Albey’s going to die or not, but honestly, I’m not going to find out until I get there anyway.

I have the dots, Journal, and they’re even somewhat connected. All I have to do is color in the picture they make, and I’ll have my novel. Not go’n’a lie, part of me feels like I’m having so much trouble taking the leap from the general to the specific because I’m cooping myself up at home and surrounding myself with the same… surroundings. Blegh. I hate repeating words like that. Anyway, yeah. That’s a thing I’ve been thinking about. Not sure what I can do about it, but that’s okay. It’s not a thing for right now. I’m tired, I’m’a sleep.

…                                     …                                    …

Say thankya, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Good sleeps and good dreams~


Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Untitled Bigfoot Project and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Ol’ Blowin’ Wind – Under the Hood: TIoJK (6/44)

Dirty Cops

Them movin’ in from the city… it’s poisoning our town.


The Ol’ Blowin’ Wind

Jonathan’s free hand hovers an inch above the knob of Maxwell’s front door. He feels a strange sense of déjà vu, as if he’s been here before, and then he remembers he has. Just a few months ago. He didn’t want to be there then and he doesn’t want to be here now, but just like back in November, he has to be here. There’s a racist plot to sacrifice a child to an imaginary deity, and Jonathan’s the only one who can make those damn dirty cops pay.

The front door swings open without making a sound. Jonathan steps into the house without taking his shoes off even though they’re dirty from the woods. Jonathan isn’t afraid of leaving footprints on Maxwell’s thin carpet tonight. When he’s done with this place, there’s not going to be any carpet left.

At least, that’s what he thinks before he hears heavy footsteps coming up the basement stairway. Fighting the urge to shriek, Jonathan whirls around and bolts from the house like a bat out of hell, slamming the front door behind him. Chief Maxwell, who’s coming up to fetch the jeans and sweaters for the rest of the Fellers, has a start at the sound of his front door slamming and almost falls backwards down the stairs, but he catches his balance.

“You all right there, Chief?” asks Jim Hubert, moving to come to the rescue.

“Yeah Jim, I’m just fine,” says the chief, putting Jim at ease. “Must not have closed the front door all the way; wind blew it shut.”

‘And then Jim would say, But Chief, how do you know we weren’t being surveilled? A bunch of damn dirty cops like us who spend all our time patrolling the streets, it would only make sense for us to be eavesdropped on, and then the chief would chuckle, saying, Oh Jim, I appreciate you, but I think it was just the wind. Just the ol’ blowin’ wind, Jim. Just the ol’ blowin’ wind.

The ol’ blowin’ wind sure is a’blowin’ tonight; tears streak down Jonathan Knox’s face as he sprints along Cannonball Road, the gas can clutched to his chest so he doesn’t throw out his wrist. That was close, that was too close, they almost found him out, almost took him down into that moldy ratty basement and had their way with him, whatever way that might have been. Maybe they’d sacrifice Jonathan to the imaginary meteor in the sky, maybe they’d lock Jonathan in a closet until he was nice and exhausted and then pull him out and smear dirt and mud and shit on his face until it soaked into his skin and he appeared to be colored, and then they would claim he was one of the Earthen folk and they would sacrifice him to fell the meteor down unto their poisoned town an–

Jonathan runs into his car, dropping the can on the narrow hood as he tumbles down to the cold pavement. There are scrapes on one of his ears now. Scrapes on his ear and his knees, and probably on his elbows too. Great. Just fucking great. Jonathan Knox sits himself up and leans bodily against his front bumper, then sighs.

“I’m getting all worked up,” he admits to himself. “I always get all worked up when there’s a job I have to do. I always goose it up, just like I goosed up tonight. Now that black kid’s go’n’a die.”

But the black kid doesn’t have to die. Aside from the ol’ blowin’ wind the night is silent; no cars are mobilizing, no police officers are storming the lack of sidewalks. The gas is still in the can and Jonathan Knox is still alive, still breathing, still a free American citizen. He can still do the job that only he can do, he can still stop the damn dirty racist cops from abducting and sacrificing the child. It’s not too late, Jonathan Knox, it’s not too late to make a difference!’

Jonathan Knox stands and lifts the gas can off his hood, ignoring the dent it made when it landed. He takes two steps down the road, the confidence and sense of duty flowing in his veins keeping him warm against the cold early-spring night. Then, a branch breaks off a tree deep in the woods and Jonathan mistakes it for a door slamming shut. Jonathan then reels and throws himself violently into his car, brings the engine back to life, and leaves skid marks in the road as he peels out and makes an extremely illegal U-turn, the least of his problems if he gets caught. Oh yes, the very least of Jonathan’s problems will be the extremely illegal U-turn he pulls in the middle of Cannonball Road; the breaking and entering, unlawful surveillance, conspiracy to commit arson – those are the most of his problems. Those, plus about a trillion other charges the damn dirty cops would pile up on top of him just to get him, just to kick him when he’s down and keep him there, just to make a sacrifice out of him and fell the meteor of martial law unto the small backwoods town of Wuester, New Jersey and succeed from the rest of the country and slaughter all the humans who have dirt in their skin, all the children of Earth who are not orphans of the stars.

No,” Jonathan growls, his teeth grinding themselves into dust. “They won’t catch me. They won’t. They won’t!” Tears continue to fall down his face, but they’re not from the cold anymore. Jonathan Knox has gotten all worked up. “They’ll never take me alive, and they won’t get the chance to kill me! You hear me, you damn dirty cops?! YOU WON’T GET THE CHANCE TO KILL ME!!”


Hello Commons, this has been the last subchapter of the first chapter of Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox, a novel about a man who likes to eavesdrop on his neighbors.

Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox is the second book in the W-2222 series, a series of books which take place in Universe W-2222.

Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Under the Hood: The Imprisonment of Jonathan Knox and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Crystal – Convenient Incidents (83/84)

Convenient Incidents
The Father

The Crystal

The Father speaks to His pretty Daisy Williamson for the last time on the night before she dies. This time, The Father speaks to her in that same soothing, feminine voice she heard when she was a little girl feeding the ducks at the pond at the end of Fricker Drive.

‘Hello, my pretty Daisy Williamson.’ Daisy’s eyes snap open. She sits bolt upright and her wispy gray hair flies in front of her eyes, blinding her.

“Hello?” she asks as she claws the locks away from her face. “The Father, is that you? Are you there?”

‘It is me indeed, Daisy Williamson. I have always been here.’ But The Father does not sound happy. The Father does not sound angry, nor does The Father sound disappointed; The Father sounds sad. The Father sounds so, so very sad. ‘I have been with you all along, my pretty Daisy Williamson, as I am for all my children.’

Daisy scoffs. Her voice sounds high and creaky like that of a witch when she speaks. “You were not there that day at the beach when I lost my second child. You would not have let that happen, you failed me! And you lie to me now!”

‘I do not lie to you, my pretty Daisy Williamson; I was there that day at the beach. I saved your soul, but I could not save your unborn child; you chose to listen to the Great Old One. You did not hear me, but you listened to Him.’

“What are you talking about?!”

‘I told you a long time ago, little one: not all those like me are quite the same as me. And you asked what I meant. And I answered that you may find out in due time, but only if you chose to listen.’

“And… I chose to… to listen…” whispers Daisy as her head falls back to her pillow. “I listened to Him… instead of believing in you…”

‘You were afraid, little one; I do not blame you, Daisy, and so you should not blame yourself. I shed a tear as I speak to you, my pretty Daisy Williamson, for it was all meant to happen just as it had.’

Daisy too sheds a tear, but it is not for herself. Daisy weeps for The Father, because she finally understands. The Father truly is The Father, The Father of Existence, the one who bears witness to all events, the one upon whose shoulders the weight of those events fall. The Father cannot control the events He must see, The Father cannot change their course; The Father can only speak as things transpire and hope His children change their ways, but they never do. The Father must watch as His children commit atrocities unto one another, The Father must sit by and allow it all to happen, for The Father has no other choice. The Father of Existence gave birth to Existence, and He must let Her spiral all on Her own, and so Daisy Williamson weeps for The Father, she weeps and weeps until her tear ducts are dry as dust and ash.

‘My child,’ The Father says in that sad, loving voice.

“Yes, The Father?”

‘You are going to die soon, my pretty Daisy Williamson, and there is something you must do before your time comes.’

“What must I do? Anything, The Father. Please, just speak the words.”

‘The crystal, my pretty Daisy Williamson. Your son has found the crystal you left in your clubhouse. You must take the crystal and come back here; in the morning he will come to find it, and you shall tell him the truth.’

“The truth?” Daisy asks. “But what truth shall I tell him, The Father?”

But The Father speaks no more.


Hello Commons, this has been the fourth subchapter of the last story from Convenient Incidents, an anthology of fifteen interconnected short stories which revolve around a man by the name of Hilter Odolf Williamson.

Convenient Incidents is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.

Convenient Incidents is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Convenient Incidents and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Sept the Seventh – Untitled Bigfoot Project (62/224)

Sept the Seventh

All right, I’ll be the first to admit it: today was not nearly as productive as yesterday and the day before were. Good news and bad news? Sure.

Actually, nah. I’m tired. I watched a whole lot of Samurai Jack today, then proceeded to run around through the woods swinging a stick around like a sword to burn off all my excess energy… I’m not proud, but I’m not embarrassed, either. I’m just a ‘man, Journal, a human, one eccentric enough to write a novel about a fantasy world I made up as a tyke. My imagination is very overactive. ‘Tis what ‘tis.

Thank the lord nobody will ever read this LMFAO.

I will say, though, that I have the skeleton of my novel planned out. I’m’a list it here, to help myself remember it. While my mind isn’t quite fuzzy from the head injury anymore, it is definitely hazy from all the pot smoking I’ve done over the years – speaking of which, I still have no cravings for the herb. I find it funny how getting hit in the head straightened me out of addiction, this is literally goddamn hilarious – and my memory is certainly not what it used to be… if it was ever anything. I don’t really remember!

So anyway, the story is going to take place over the course of one week, but the days are going to be out of order for… literate effect? For storytelling effect? I don’t know, it just came to me like this. Seems like a good idea right now, I might change it though.

Anyway, here is the [current] skeleton of The Face of Fear:

  1. Sunday: First Night – Albey comes to the bigfoot cabin (past tense)
  2. Monday: Noises – Albey hears loud noises in the woods while he’s hunting or something, gets spooked (past tense)
  3. Wednesday: Research – Albey goes out into shallow woods to search for sign, finds nothing. Also digs through stuff in basement and learns all about survival and local wildlife, including bigfoot (present tense)
  4. Saturday: An Encounter – Albey catches up with Gobon, who teleports him to the area with the bigfoot cabin (past)
  5. Thursday: Findings – Albey ventures out farther and finds a lot of bigfoot sign (present)
  6. Tuesday: Conclusion – Albey spends most of the day hiding in the cabin (maybe this is when he digs through the basement, idk yet). He is afraid of whatever’s out there and failing at the survival thing, but at the end of the day he decides to be brave (like Iuqon and Ram’rl at Jericho Tower) and go looking for the source of his fears so he can face them and start looking for Gobon again (past)
  7. Friday: Last Night – Albey prepares for a fight against the bigfoots, and he gets one (present)

And that’s that! I think it’s going to fucking awesome, I’m so excited to properly explore The Hillside Commons. I might let the wolves of the Calla/Halla play a role, too. Might even do a prologue and an epilogue, but I’m not sure what they’d be about yet. I’m not sure about a lot, honestly. Like, is Albey going to survive? Are the bigfoots going to gank him, or will he cull the hair’ed masses? I DON’T KNOW! AHHHH!

…                                     …                                    …

One of the most powerful things I’ve taken away from all my research in the creation of a novel is that, until it’s actually written, I will have no idea how it ends. Or how it begins, or how A leads to B, you feel me? Like, no matter how many notes I take and how much I plan this thing, nothing is certain until the actual work gets done. At first that discouraged me a little bit, made me doubt the necessity of step 2 of my patented novelwriting process, but the more I think about it the more it excites me. No matter how much I try to spoil the surprise for myself, the end will still surprise me. Because it’ll happen. A college flunky will actually put this awesome and original novel together, it’s going to be real, and I think that’ll be a surprise enough for everybody. Myself included.

Woah, that’s not to say I don’t believe in myself, but it’s like… it’s the same thing with not smoking weed all the time. I can talk all the shit I want, but as long as I’m still loading that pipe (rest in peace The Peace Piece, strictly joints from now on) I haven’t stopped smoking.

So let me take my notes, they can only help me. I’ve never had any formal training in fiction writing and this is my first long-form fiction project, it’s foolish to think I can just start typing and get all the way through it. Do I wish I got more done today? Sure. But there’s always tomorrow. Not like I have shit else to do, hah!

…                                     …                                    …

‘Man, these keep getting longer and longer. I sit down with the intention of writing like, ten lines total, and suddenly I’m staring down at a filled page. Definitely not a bad thing – when I’m finally ready to give The Face of Fear its second line, the words are going to pour like a torrential rainstorm. And I can’t fucking wait.

Say thankya, Journal. ‘Preciate ya, I really do. Good sleeps and good dreams~


Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Untitled Bigfoot Project and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~