Blog

Posted in Books

Untitled Bigfoot Project Announcement

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

Hello Commons, I have a new book for ya. It’s called Untitled Bigfoot Project, it’s a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot, and it’s dedicated to a series of books called the Dark Tower, plus their author.

Untitled Bigfoot Project takes place in Logger’s Pond, NJ, the hometown of a young ‘man named Sidney Blake. Sidney, who went away to college in Colorado to pursue a passion for poetry, burned through his general education courses and then promptly flunked out when he hit the poetry classes. On his first night back in town, before even stopping home, Sidney meets up with a few childhood friends for a powwow of intoxication and merriment around a campfire; during this reunion, Sidney and one of his friends get to talking about the fantasy world they would make up stories about when they were children, and the idea of Sidney making a novel out of that other world gets tossed around with the empty bottles and cached bowlpacks. Over the course of the following few months, Sidney Blake goes on something of a journey during which he writes his novel, titled The Face of Fear, and battles his demons (plus whatever the hell it is making all that noise in the woods), and before the end of the year, he successfully publishes his work.

There are seven chapters of Untitled Bigfoot Project, each one preceded and followed by journal entries Sidney makes during the story, aside from the last one, which is followed by an article from the local Logger’s Pond newspaper, the LogPond Gazette. What follows is an extremely detailed breakdown of the seven chapters:

  1. Sunday: First Night – Sidney reunites with his friends and gets intoxicated around a campfire. When he gets home, he hears some noises in the woods.
  2. Monday: Noises – Sidney goes for a walk in the woods during which he experiences a kind of delusion where he thinks his favorite book series, the Dark Tower, is something of a prophecy of his life. He also hears some noises in the woods.
  3. Wednesday: Research – Sidney goes to the library to start work on his novel.
  4. Saturday: An Encounter – Sidney finds out what’s been making all the noise in the woods.
  5. Thursday: Findings – Sidney has a very interesting day.
  6. Tuesday: Conclusion – Sidney has a very interesting night.
  7. Friday: Last Night – With his novel all published and whatnot, Sidney decides to celebrate.

I know, the whole goddamned thing is spoiled now. At the end of this post is everything the hypothetical reader needs to know regarding the availability of the novel, and between here and there is some stuff the hypothetical reader might want to know about the novel.

First things first: I am downright excited to share this piece of work with you, Commons, and with any hypothetical readers who might check it out. UBP is the tenth book I’ve put together, and it’s also the longest, coming in at just under 250,000 words. The idea came to me in a sort of mundane way; I was sitting on the back porch smoking some herbs and I heard some noises in the woods, which freaked me out. To ease the paranoia, I asked myself, “What are you afraid of, fucking bigfoot?” and then the lightbulb went off. At first I didn’t think the project would be anything big, but over time the idea kept on evolving until it became the tome it is today, and now it’s here. Now it really exists!

Next, the dedication. I planned on Sidney being a Dark Tower junkie from the beginning, and his fantasy world is inspired by King’s other worlds than these, too, but then I got to the second chapter. The second chapter of UBP is the length of a straight-up novella, by far the longest chapter in the book, and each of its eight subchapters are named after the titles of the eight Dark Tower books. I went ham with it, in other words, and because of this, I decided to dedicate the book to Stephen King and his magnum opus. I don’t know the guy, obviously, but this book wouldn’t be the same without his books, and dedicating it to him and his work seemed like the right thing to do. So, I did it. That’s just what it is.

Now, a question: “If the book is about a dude who writes a book, does the book the dude writes in the book exist?”

To answer this question I was never asked by another human being, I’ll say this: “There are smaller books hidden in the back of a third of the nine other books I’ve written. Also, the LogPond Gazette article starts on page 519 of UBP, and UBP is 717 pages long. So uh… what do you think?”

Lastly, something of a revelation. Originally I wasn’t going to make mention of this, but we’re pretty deep into this post now, and I don’t know if this part’s ever go’n’a be read; might as well put it out there, right? So like I said, Untitled Bigfoot Project is the longest book I’ve ever written, coming in at just under 250,000 words. This puts my total published word count over the 1,000,000 mark, but that’s not the crazy part. Throughout those 1,000,000+ words, guess how many times the words “people” and “person” were used. Go on, guess. GUESS, I SAY!!!

Not once. Across my ten books I’ve written over 1,000,000 words, and “people” and “person” are not among those 1,000,000 words. Not once, Commons. Not a single time have I used the words “people” or “person” in my writing. There are a few reasons behind this, one of which I’d like to share with you: in my mind, a “person” and a “human” are not the same thing; as for what the difference is, well, you’ll have to figure that one out for yourself. If you can. You’re just a website, after all.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is scheduled to be shared over the course of 224 blog posts starting tomorrow, January 1st, and ending on August 12th. Each post will contain one subchapter of the book and will go up at 5:00 PM eastern time every day. Below is the information tile for Untitled Bigfoot Project ripped straight from the Books page of The Hillside Commons, which includes applicable links and book stats.

Universe W-428
Untitled Bigfoot Project

From this day on, we move forever forward. Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Messages – Convenient Incidents (40/84)

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

The Incense Salesman
And the Wind Continues to Blow

Messages

Gill is about to close out Buyify when a little red circle in the top left corner of the screen catches his eye. In addition to being an ecommerce platform, Buyify is also a social networking website; moguls (that’s what the users are called) have profiles where they can post status updates and advertisements for new products or sales, a friends and competitors list to keep tabs on their close and closer ones, and, perhaps most importantly of all, a virtual mailbox for sending and receiving private messages. This morning, Gill has two messages clogging up his inbox. His pulse picks up just looking at them, and he begins to salivate.

The first message is from his Father. It reads:

Child,
I just wanted to thank you for being so, so helpful in the police investigation last night. In case you forgot – or, in your specifically delusional case, you thought you were dreaming – my house was broken into and robbed, and you slept through the entire thing. Fortunately, the bastard didn’t steal anything of real value, just a bunch of toys and knickknacks from your childhood, but still, that doesn’t make it right. Because you were asleep, the guy got away and the cops had no leads to go on, so I’m assigning the project to you. I want you to investigate my house and find evidence: a strand of hair, a dried pile of spittle, a clue of any kind, and if you can’t? Well, I won’t be surprised in the slightest.
You know what? Don’t even fucking bother, you’d probably just fall asleep during your search or turn in one of your own hairs, because that’s the kind of man you are. A failure of a man, one who will never have success no matter how hard he tries. I’ve tried with you, Gill, I really have – the fact that I even referred to you by your name just now should tell you exactly how hard I’ve tried – but you’re a lost cause. There’s not even hope that you’ll become someone’s trophy husband one day, because you’re not a trophy. All you are, Gill, is a Goddamned consolation ribbon given to the untalented kids who still have the guts to perform at their talent shows. Untalented kids just like you, that is, except you don’t even have any guts, you only performed because I fucking made you. You’re a fucking disgrace.
By the way, your rack of consolation ribbons was among the things stolen. No great loss, in my opinion, and as far as you’re concerned, my opinion is fact. No; my opinion is LAW.
You disappoint me,
Bill Milligan

After wiping the tears from his eyes with the neck of his white tee, Gill presses the blue save button and stores his Father’s latest correspondence with all the rest so he can go back and read them one day. On the inside, Gill doesn’t think he’s a total lost cause, he still has some semblance of hope about his future, but he also knows how smart his Father Bill is. Not just anyone could have developed Buyify, and the fact that Mister Bill Milligan was able to singlehandedly swindle the software’s sole developer out of the company without paying a cent in lawyer fees just speaks on the man’s intelligence; if and when the day comes where Gill realizes how much of a failure he really is, he wants to have this archive of emails to remind him why he is the way he is, to keep him anchored in reality, to give him a way to know that it’s not all just a bad dream.

The second message is from a Buyify user named Smells, of the firm Smells Inc. It reads:

Jil1,
Hrll0 they’re, iMsitr Gi1l Bootless! Mi nmae is Sm3llz, amd I an am djincense salismen. I wuz luokngi ay tuor syte nad its perty guud! Du yoo wnat two trie s3lli7g my djincense butnres? I cn synd yew a fr3e s4mp1e! Jsut rpley me yur adres nd I wi l l s3nd i+ 3 yiu.
Live,
Smlels

Although the message is hard to read because of the apparent learning defect of its sender, Gill doesn’t waste a single second – like Father always said: When an opportunity presents itself, you better as hell jump onto it, because they’re quick like a jackalope and, in your case, Gill, a lot smarter than you are. A lot smarter than you’ll ever be. He types up a quick reply to this Smells, taking care to proofread his writing so Smells can maybe learn from his example, and then hits the send button. The whoosh sound brings a smile to Gill’s face, the first in days, and within seconds he gets another message in his inbox. It’s from his Father, and it reads:

P.S. I will not be coming home for a few days, as the rage I feel towards you has convinced me to stay out of the state. You don’t need to know where I am, and I doubt the burglar will come back – hitting homes twice in a row is not part of his pattern.
Unless he makes it so, starting with my house. If he comes, try not to sleep through it this time, hm?

Gill’s smile widens. He debates pulling up an adult video site to treat himself to something special this morning, to celebrate his Father’s absence and his upcoming success as a seller of incense products, but ultimately decides against it. Once the money starts rolling in, Gill will be able to hire his own actors and actresses to make videos just for him, videos that won’t be seen by anybody else. It’ll be worth the wait.

After opening the adult video website anyway – just to look at the thumbnails; don’t worry, Gill isn’t that depraved – Gill’s smile widens to the droopy lobes of his ears. With the cuffs of his pants pulled up around his mid-calves, Gill walks downstairs to get himself some breakfast.

Hello Commons, this has been the fourth subchapter of the eighth 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

Aug the Eleventh – Untitled Bigfoot Project (19/224)

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

Aug the Eleventh

Howdy Journal, news from the forest! Construction on The True Commons has officially begun!

It was a hard day of work, but a good day nonetheless – I accidentally woke up before the sunrise, but instead of getting back in bed and oversleeping myself a few hours, I just went with it. Took a quick morning walk to The Foothill, just because there wasn’t really anywhere else to go, had breakfast, then set off. I decided not to drive because the whole |contraband| thing, but I won’t make that mistake again. The walk was excruciating, I mean just really painful. My legs are gelatinous, it’s not good.

But it’s cool, because I gathered myself a big ol’ pile of rocks today. I made solid progress on a real project, it feels good. Almost as good as smoking all those joints, heh. Tomorrow I’m go’n’a gather more rocks, and then the day after that… ah, never mind. Time isn’t even real, the now is eternal. Peace, love, and hip-hop/rap. That’s all, Journal. That’s all.

…                                     …                                    …

Yeah, I think that’s actually all. Albey the Mad Poet is tired, but he wishes to get high before he sleeps. Off he goes~

…                                     …                                    …

Thank you, 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

Dreaming – Convenient Incidents (39/84)

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

The Incense Salesman
And the Wind Continues to Blow

Dreaming

Hazy vision and a dull pounding inside his head bring Gill to a waking state. He didn’t sleep very well last night – well, that’s not true. He was sleeping deeply for quite a few hours before the lights and sirens woke him up, and even then Gill was half convinced he was still dreaming. It’s sometimes hard for the Milligan heir to differentiate between waking reality and his own dreaming reality, no matter how dreamy the dream may be; one time, Gill dreamed he and his nonexistent family were all out on Monksville on his Father’s ocean boat, and when he woke, he mistook the sweat he was coated in for the residual spray from the waves. Of course, when Gill asked his Father what time they got in last night, he was made perfectly aware of how ridiculous he was to even so much as think it was real – ocean vessels aren’t allowed on Monksville, of course he it happened in a dream.

“Do you think I’m dreaming right now, Father?” Gill asked, and was answered with a heartfelt, “If you were dreaming you’d be a lot more successful, now wouldn’t you?”

But last night, when his bedroom filled with flashing red and blue lights and the siren pierced his ears like an arrow through thin metal, that was no dream. At first Gill thought he had imagined himself some sort of twisted disco party; the only thing missing was all the females from his old high school he never got a chance to dance with. They almost always show up in Gill’s dreams, disco or not, and rarely are they wearing anything but parka coats.

Had Gill asked them to dance way back when, they probably would have obliged, but he was always too afraid. Gill has never exactly been a lady’s man – when Gill got the talk, it was delivered in drunken slurs from his first Stepmom on the night before her and Gill’s Father’s divorce. She told Gill it was wrong for men to look at women, that if a man so much as thinks about a woman’s (and I quote), “… luscious, supple breasts, her firm, tight ass, her delicious, glistening [you get the idea], then he is headed straight to Hell, and with each further dirty thought he allows himself to entertain he shaves off another minute of his life and another two centimeters of his dirty, filthy Peter!” She was a troubled woman; in her suicide note, mailed to Bill Milligan half a decade following their divorce, it was revealed that she was raised by a questionable band of Gypsy nuns who gave her a similar treatment that Catholic priests give to choir boys. She also thanked him (sincerely thanked him) for never touching her, even when she begged him to. That’s about all you need to know about Bill Milligan, although it’s more than Gill himself knows.

Sitting up on the edge of his bed, Gill reaches out blindly for the water bottle he left on his nightstand last night. He finds it by way of knocking it down, and the sound of the glugging reminds Gill that he didn’t replace the cap. ‘You need to replace the cap, Gill. You’re stupid. So unsuccessful and stupid.’ He waddles out of his room and down the hall to the bathroom to grab a towel. On the way back, Gill momentarily stops at the door and closes his eyes, as to focus his ears.

The air is still; nobody is walking around downstairs, nobody is watching the television. That’s good.

Gill returns to his room and throws the towel on the wet spot in his carpet, stomping it down with his feet to soak up all the water. That done, he moseys on over to his desk and turns on his computer to check if he had any sales last night.

As the son of Bill Milligan, Gill was one of the first mogul-to-bes to start a business and open up his own store on Buyify. His company is called Gill Bottles, and through it, Gill sells old glass bottles – beer, soda, milk, you name it – that he finds buried in the leaves while out exploring the woods behind the pond on Fricker. According to the owner of the auction hall across the dam, there’s a big market out there for antique glass bottles (so long as they’re in good condition), and Gill’s bottles are pristine – no scratches, no unsightly cracks or chips, and every time he finds a new one, he always takes it into the bath with him and scrubs all the dirt off by hand. He puts all of his effort, all the effort in the world into selling his bottles; but yet, like all the other days since he opened this store back in high school, Gill has no sales. Zip, zero, zilch. On the upside, Gill knows that this can’t possibly be a dream. Like his Father said: if he was dreaming, he’d be a lot more successful, now wouldn’t he?

Hello Commons, this has been the third subchapter of the eighth 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

Aug the Tenth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (18/224)

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

Aug the Tenth

Journal, I think it’s safe to say I had a lot of energy last night.

Where to begin… well, I read that long entry I made yesterday. Not just the story, either, but the whole entry. I do like the story, not go’n’a lie. I know the writing isn’t the greatest because I did it when I was high, but I like it all the same. A line after the story caught my eye, too, it made me start to think. “Imagine… If all of life was just a novel in some other universe.” What an intrinsically human thought that is, Journal. How so perfectly human.

I mean, it’s got all the required ingredients. Laughter in the face of death – so long as someone opens the novel again, life will go on; narcissism – all of life’s a story and I am the main character, bitch; creativity – bound between these leather slabs is the recording of events which transpired in an alternate plane of reality, one as similar to ours as it is different; I mean seriously, a novel is about as human as human art gets. Nothing else on Earth writes – other species can paint if given the paint, make noise in a repetitive pattern that might be recognized as music, they’d probably be capable of piling rocks into something vaguely statuesque, but nothing else is quite mad enough to sit still for hours on end and draw row upon row upon row of these tiny little symbols that mean whatever we say they mean. Humans are the only thing out there that writes, barring extraterrestrials of course, if they exist (I don’t know, not really my thing) and what else do we do with our writing but play pretend over long periods of time? Some humans even feel the need to do it; like, I’m sure some writers just do it for fun, they don’t feel Cthulhu’s call so to speak, but some of us feel like we have to. Could you imagine that, Journal? Feeling the compulsion to sit and scrawl all day?

You can’t. You couldn’t even if you were a human, unless you were a writer. Writers are weird, ‘man. We’re special. We’re special in a “special” way…

What I’m getting at is we’re all legitimately insane far beyond the reach of hope, ‘tis what ‘tis, movin’ on.

…                                     …                                    …

Truth be told there’s not all that much to say from me tonight. I didn’t want to drive with weed because of my police-induced heart attack yesterday so I rolled a bunch of joints and stuffed ‘em in a few makeshift doobtubes and walked up Sawblade Lane to the trailhead, and Journal, the fucking grade of that road is the work of the devil himself. “Strenuous” pales in comparison. “Exhausting” is pillow talk. Ugh, I’m so tired. It’s hardly even nine o’clock and I’m already falling asleep here. So, so so tired, Journal. So, so so tired.

But yeah, I went back to the spot where The True Commons shall be incarnated into this plane of reality and sat down and smoked to some lofi, and then it was suddenly getting dark out and I got no work done and I wanted to get home, so I went home. I walked all the way down Sawblade, which wasn’t nearly as bad as walking up it. Obviously. Now here I am, and The True Commons is nowhere closer to being realized.

Uhh… I don’t know, Journal. I’ll get on it tomorrow, I guess? All I need to do is find rocks for the border. And dig out a firepit; digging it out wouldn’t be a bad idea at all, especially with all the flammable woods around. I’m probably not supposed to be having fires back there in the first place, but having one in a pit must be better than having one on flat ground.

As for the spot, well… I don’t know when I’m going to finish it. Like I said, all I need to do is find rocks, so it shouldn’t take me more than a day. Probably. We’ll see. Collecting rocks isn’t the hardest thing to do, I’m’a lift with my legs like a bawss.

…                                     …                                    …

Here’s a wild question: if novels contain universes, then what’s a journal for? Are journals like caskets, do they retain souls who’ve passed on from the mortal coil? Maybe. Or maybe they’re just meant to be a prop in the novels… it is odd, though. Like, I’m putting all of this work into all of these symbols I’ve drawn on all of these pages, but nobody’s going to read this. I’d be mortified if anybody ever read my journal, this is my journal for Christ’s sake.

So… do I do it for me, then? Like, yeah, I feel the inherent desire to write, but I’m a poet at heart, I could just do poetry to quell my oddball desire to scribble… but no, I journal. I journal like a madman, in fact; these things take up so many pages, use so much ink. They just fill so fast, I don’t know what else to say.

Well, anyway. I’m pretty sleepy. Tomorrow I’m going to actually start “building” the campsite, and I’m’a need lots of energy for that. I’m thankful I can tuck in early tonight, I don’t do this very often.

Thank you, 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 Pattern – Convenient Incidents (38/84)

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

The Incense Salesman
And the Wind Continues to Blow

The Pattern

The first robbery occurred on White Road. It targeted the smallest house, the one owned by a single man and his twentysomething son who weren’t at home at the time of the robbery because they were out doing this or that – they wouldn’t specify exactly where they were, partly because they wanted to see if the local police force would accuse them of robbing their own house, which they did, probably just because the men in question were both African American. Treeburg is a very Caucasian town, you see; hell, one neighborhood off the back end of Stonetown Road was colonized by a gaggle of German families who flocked to the states around the 1950s, and if that doesn’t do some explaining for you, then you need to get your head checked.

Nothing of any real value was stolen, mostly just knickknacks, artsy decor pieces, and action figures from the twentysomething’s collection in the basement – unboxed action figures specifically, the ones of lower value. At first the dad and son wished they had been home so they could have dealt with the robber themselves, but after the second robbery, they changed their tune and decided to be thankful.

The second robbery occurred in a house on Fricker Drive a few weeks after the first robbery went down. There was just one guy living there at the time, a man in his mid-twenties who took care of the house for his parents in exchange for room and board. The parents – and the guy’s little brother – all moved to Boca a few years back, and when their Treeburg boy wouldn’t answer their phone calls, they started calling the neighbors. Only one guy answered their calls – that guy being Mister Williamson, the one who owns the majority of the houses on Fricker Drive – and when he went over to check on the boy, Mister Williamson found that he had been deceased for quite a few days. Or weeks, but probably days; Williamson is a head doctor, and even though the boy died from blunt force trauma to his head, Williamson couldn’t make an accurate analysis. Williamson is a very sensitive human, you see, and the smell inside the house made him wish the robber got him instead. He couldn’t bear to spend much time wafting it in.

On the bright side, the victim likely didn’t feel any pain, as (according to the certified examiners) he was taking a dip in a deep brown bottle when he had his run-in with the robber; but, it was still a tragedy, a tragedy only made more uncomfortable by Mister Williamson’s subsequent attempts to buy up that house over the phone. The family did end up selling it to him – they couldn’t bear to come back to the place where their son died (along with his lack of ambition), plus they didn’t want to spontaneously interrupt their lives just to come clean out whatever junk their failure of a son left behind. But I’m beginning to digress.

Again, nothing of any real value was stolen during the second robbery (aside from the young man’s life); only decor pieces and the random mancave stuff the guy had scattered around the house. At the time of the second robbery, this detail was seen as a simple string of coincidences, a string which the detectives assigned to the case adamantly refused to weave into a pattern because of the inconsistencies prevalent in the cases, namely that one robbery involved a murder and the other didn’t – the burglars were clearly different perpetrators with different motives. However, when the pattern was seemingly repeated in the third robbery, the one that happened tonight in the first house on Barnstatter Path where all the police officers are gathered, they decided it couldn’t hurt to look at all the potential possibilities.

Normally such a police presence isn’t called for in Treeburg no matter what crime is committed, especially for a simple break and entry, but this is the Milligan household that was broken into and entered, home to Bill Milligan, the founder and proprietor of Buyify, the world’s leading ecommerce/social network platform. Moguls from all over the world set up profiles with Buyify to keep tabs on one another and run businesses which they all buy and sell from each other, and Bill Milligan gets a cut of every transaction, no matter how many zeroes are involved – and there are often a lot of zeroes involved. Stated simply, Bill Milligan has pull in this small town, and now that the robber’s existence has affected him directly, he wants the perp bagged, tagged, and roasted in an oven like the turkey he is. This means the police want the robber bagged and tagged as soon as possible; unfortunately, that’s not going to happen tonight because they only have one witness to question: Gill Milligan, the only Milligan offspring and the legal heir to the Buyify throne, and he slept right through the invasion. That means he had nothing to offer the officers but disappointment, and so the robber got off free again.

Now, with all that said and out of the way, the actual story can begin.

Hello Commons, this has been the second subchapter of the eighth 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

Aug the Ninth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (17/224)

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

Aug the Ninth

This is not the first time I’ve started an entry midway through the page, but it is the first time I’ll say this: doing so makes me somewhat uncomfortable. THERE, I SAID IT!! But that much is understandable, Journal. If you were in the car with me earlier and you were somehow given consciousness and perception, you’d be lowkey shaken up too. I… well, I don’t even want to hint at it. I’m ‘bout’a writing this just for you, Jou-Jou. Nobody else gets to read this, and even if they do, it will be in rhyming form a few years down the road.

Here we go.

…                                     …                                    …

A shining sun, a bumpin’ sound system, a passenger window slightly cracked to let the pot smoke dissipate a bit in the car’s air pocket before being sucked out into the open world, and the open world all around me just flyin’ on by: this was my reality. I spent the day on the road, as wanderers shall whether they be lost or found; I toured through Dantez Furnace, followed a family of deer up into Iiron Heights, went to bomb on Bogspekti Park but of course the gate was closed, the gate is always closed, the Bogspekti clan is far too wealthy to so much as entertain the idea of allowing the rest of the hillbilly townsfolk with their nasty dirty shoes to crunch the leaves littering the floor of their forests just waiting to catch a spark off some friction and burst into flames, no sir no how no way, I say! So I’m turning around, I’m getting ready to light up another joint, this will have been my eighth one of the day – that’s right, I had smoked and converted to ashes not even half of the drive’s weed ration by the time I got finished seeing all of what Logger’s Pond has to offer, which ain’t very much – when I pass by what else but the Logger’s Pond Public Library, a facility in which my friend Harry runs a newspaper. I pass the driveway completely, slam on the brakes, kick my ride into reverse, and back into that bitch half-sideways. Boom, kapow, and you’re damn skippy I did. Don’t even trip, dawg.

Looking back, I’m very lucky there were no other cars on the road at the time. That could have been tragic.

So I drive in reverse down the driveway and into a spot in the parking lot. I’m not alone here – I see Harry’s BMW with no less than two electric sedans huddled around it like… like… I don’t know. I’m so high I can’t describe things well, so just be grateful I’m transcribing this story at all! In alternate timelines I lit up instead of writing this entry out. Yeesh, could you imagine not just doing both?

Anyway, so there are other cars in the parking lot, which tells me there are folks inside the library. So I get out, I walk across the parking lot, and I can hear the music before I even get to the door, the bass is thumping like a kangaroo kick-boxing class. The place looked empty through the glass of the front doors, all the lights out and whatnot. I knocked anyway.

Do you want to know what happened when I knocked? The music stopped. They heard me knocking, Journal, and they shut off the music. So I knocked again. And again. And again. Still nothing.

So then I decided to shoot Harry a text and let him know it’s me come a’knockin’ on his library door, because I get it, this is Logger’s Pond, the townsfolk are strange. Odd birds for sure, no doubt about it; if I was try’n’a have some fun at work on a weekend and a local yokel came try’n’a barge my door down I’d pretend I wasn’t there too. So I send the text, I do, and I get the read receipt, I see that he opened and saw my message, but there was nothing by way of a response. So I reread my message and tried to simulate his reaction in my mind, as I infrequently do sometimes, and how funny is it that as soon as I finish reading my own message in Harry’s voice in my thoughts, the music turns back on. Louder than it was when I was coming up to the door, too, I can feel it in the center of my brain, so I lock’n’pocket my phone, I start knocking again, and then I feel my phone go off. It’s Harry, says he’s not at the library, must be his coworkers. I ask about his car – Journal, I sent the ‘man a picture of his car sitting surrounded in the library parking lot – and he told me that he sometimes lets the coworkers borrow his car, especially on the weekends, probably because it makes him feel good about himself to lend his flashy shit out to us poor hick folks.

ANYWAY, so I decide fine, I get it, the universe is speaking to me, and I decided to listen. I got back in the car, rolled down Mane Road with a lit joint clouding up my interior to neutralize the concussive confusion I was just beat upside the head with by one Harrington Bogspekti Whose Father Runs the Town of Logger’s Pond, and just as I was about to crack that passenger window and let some of the stank out, a cop pulls up behind me. No flashing lights, no siren, but it’s a police car with two officers sitting in it. As I’m staring at them through my rearview, another cop car pulls out of the parking lot of the seedier of the two secondhand shops in town – the two that I remember, at least; there’s no telling how many of them were opened during my collegiate hiatus, the shits pop up like gophers out of burrows in small towns like Logger’s Pond where the folks spend money out of a lack of other shit to do, but it’s dark in here, I’d like to get out of the soapbox and get back to my tale – and tails the first one. So now there’s a goddamned conga line of coppers led by none other than Albey the Mad Poet driving some poorly maintained sedan, and trust me ladies and gentlemen, the Poet was about as Mad as he could be at that moment.

So I take my little convoy for a nice little tour down little ol’ Mane Road under the assumption that they’d fuck off before Sawblade Lane, because everyone fucks off before Sawblade Lane. Sawblade Lane was the first paved road in this town, the rest of the folk are mountain but us Sawbladers are deep mountain, the kind you don’t want to sip tea with, the kind where ambulances require a police escort to even think about taking that last turn off Mane. Christ in a barrel of crackers I am BAKED right now.

Somehow they’re still hangin’ with me after I pass the last storefront; at this point I’m panicking so hard that I don’t even see it when I pass it. I swear, one day before I inevitably move out of Logger’s Pond to pursue my dreams and secure me a bag, word to Joey Cool, I will find out what that last store on the left is, and I will make a purchase there.

Right before the Sawblade Lane turnoff point there’s a big dirt shoulder with a college degree in Parking Lot that works as an unpaved cul-de-sac for the bumbling townsfolk of Logger’s Pond who are so lost in their own bumbling that they DAREto mistakenly drive down to where their town allegedly started, OH THE HORROR.

THE HORROR OF IT ALL!!!

I turn onto Sawblade Lane with a foggy back windshield and air vents on a mission to ensure my continued inhalation of smoked pot. The cops turn in behind me. I lower my music so I can see better and try my very best not to grind the brake pedal into the floor of my car, but I can almost guarantee my back reds were on the entire drive. Journal, I can almost g u a r a n t e e.

So we cruise for a quarter mile. He’s at least one car length behind me, the one in front. We tackle another quarter mile. Suddenly, I can no longer read his license plate because, like my teeth, it is in my mouth, but unlike my teeth, the nose of his car is shoved so far up my ass that it’s smushing my uvula against the back of my throat, and it feels just lovely. It is at this point, when the cops are close enough to my behind that there’s no reason to doubt their ability to perceive the fact that my car is full of smoke, that they turn their lights on.

Journal, I lost feeling in my legs for a couple seconds. All pins and needles all up and down my shit, it was horrific. Total anxiety, that’s what police officers do to me. I just don’t trust ‘em, ‘man, I just do not trust those boys in blue, not when my town government pays them to patrol around with guns on their hips. Sorry, guys, I truly am, but there’s no need to have an armed security force actively patrolling the streets of Logger’s Pond, like, come on. Fucking ridiculous. And don’t even get me started on the fetidly corrupt town government, don’t even get me started…

Huh, why’d it get so dark all of the sudden? Did I wander into the soapbox again?

Well I can’t pull over, if they can see that I’m driving a cloud wrapped in a car then they can see there’s nowhere for me to pull that cloud over on the side of the road, so I keep on cruisin’ and their sirens – both of the cops have their red’n’blues on now, it’s a regular goddamn parade down Sawblade Lane today folks – keep on blarin’ for another quarter of a mile. Then I see that hidden driveway I mentioned the other day and totally forgot about until this particular moment which I’m struggling to describe, and across the street from that is a little dirt shoulder, just like the one at the end of Mane Road except much, much smaller.

“I could turn into the driveway, see if they’ll follow me into the woods,” I said aloud to myself, or perhaps I thought it, it was very hard to tell at the moment and it’s even harder to remember now because the smoke’s so thick you could pop it into an oven and easybake it into an edible. “If they do and I hop out I could probably outrun them.”

I won’t front, I’m not an athlete. I haven’t gone running since the last time we took a family vacation to the beach and that was over a decade ago, but these cops following me? These are Logger’s Pond cops, these aren’t real, respectable cops. Hell no, fuck no, these are pissants who have nowhere to go in life now that they’ve graduated high school so they figure HEY, YOU KNOW WHAT SOUNDS GOOD? MINDING EVERYONE ELSE’S BUSINESS FOR TWO DECADES AND THEN RETIRING WITH A WEEKLY PENSION PAYCHECK!!

I don’t like irresponsible policing, nor the misspent funding that goes with it, nor the adequate training which it fails to administer. Thank you for coming to my TED talk. Eat a dick, you shouldn’t be reading my journal anyway.

Fortunately for the officers, I wasn’t feeling a run at the moment as my lungs had more tar in them than the asphalt road down which I was taking this police chase, so I take a deep breath – quite possibly the last deep breath of pot I’ll ever get to take because I’m about to get thrown in jail for driving under the influence of an intoxicant which, I’ll admit, not my greatest decision, and I pull over onto the shoulder. Put her in park. Close my eyes. Take another breath of that sweet, smoky pot smoke, and lower my window to let the fumes out and save the police officer the trouble of asking me if I’ve been smoking the devil’s lettuce today, and… there’s nobody there.

JOURNAL, THERE WAS NOBODY THERE!!!

Neither of the cops pulled in behind me, Journal! They were still driving down the road – cops in general, not the ones who were following me – but instead of pulling over and surrounding me like the plant-smoking criminal mastermind and/or terrorist I obviously am, they all turned down that hidden dirt driveway and disappeared into the impenetrable wood. Could you imagine if I decided to try to escape down that way? Jesus, that would have been game over for Albey, not another poem to be written. That would have… I literally would have been arrested, my life would have been over. I was that close, Journal. That close to losing it all. It was like the incident with The Peace Piece all over again, except the stakes were, just like me then and me now, all the much higher.

But I didn’t try to take them down the hidden dirt driveway. I did the responsible thing, the thing any other citizen of these great United States would allegedly have done if they’re all as flawless as their rash and flagrant judgment of everyone around them would suggest they are: I pulled over on the side of the road with every intention of cooperating with the law and allowing myself to be imprisoned because I enjoy a habit that makes the guys in charge shit their geriatric diapers.

And how funny is it that, as I’m opening my window and watching the humongous cloud of pot smoke waft up and dissipate into the air, I notice a little hole in the treeline. The forest is still pretty thick up there where I was parked, it doesn’t start to really thin out until about a mile in, but all the same there it was, a tiny little hole in the treeline, a game trail if ever I have seen one, and Journal? Trust me, I have.

So, as the police cars fly by me and my monumental cloud of pot smoke, I get out and walk down the trail with all the rest of my joints damn near falling out of my pocket. It was a long hike, at least twenty-five minutes, maybe half an hour, but then I got there. Then I got there, Journal. Then I finally got there.

The game trail took me to a clearing. No, not just a clearing – a clearing at the end of a path. An arboreal oasis.

The leaves on the trees were a brighter, more youthful green – the green of springtime rather than that of evergreens in the winter – than the other trees in the wood. There were these floating orbs of yellow light as if by the bulbs of fireflies, but they didn’t blink on and off like fireflies will do. There was a faint mist as well, and these orbs seemed to walk across the mist, to flit betwixt the knotty, rugged bark of the oak and maple trees, to kiss the tips of the blades of tall grass as they swooped low to the leafless forest floor…

Okay, there were no ethereal lights or mist or anything, and the grass looks more like the shoulder I parked in than the Routes in the Pokémon games (meaning it was leaves and dirt), but that’s the vibe the spot gave off. It was… it’s absolutely beautiful. It’s almost a perfect circle, too, and the area around it is wealthy in purple puddingstones, which I prefer over the alternative. The pink ones are nice, the color is great, but the pink ones very rarely, if ever, have the white quartz studs that the purple ones have. But anyway, my obsession with north Jersey’s wacky rocks aside, do you smell what I’m stepping in here? Do you feel me, Journal?

I found the spot for my campsite (:

It’s a mile drive from my house, so I won’t feel like I’m in my backyard. It’s about a half hour off the road, so I won’t even hear it if a car drives along Sawblade while I’m back there. It’s totally immersive, it has the feeling of being hopelessly stranded deep in the forest with the convenience of being able to go in and out in under an hour if I really hustle! It’s perfect, Journal! It’s perfect!

Oh, and the ground may be leafen and woodsy, but it’s H E L L A comfortable to lay on while smoking joints. I would know, I smoked at least seven of them out there. For sure at least seven.

So that’s my story. I was L-riding, I got involved in a many-car police chase, and I found Shangri La off the side of Sawblade Lane. Tomorrow the process of building my campsite begins. I shall call it: “The True Commons.” Because fuck Harrington Bogspekti, I don’t know if he was lying or truthing me about lending his car to a coworker, but he doesn’t deserve to have The Hillside Commons, he was never really part of that. He was hardly even a part of it when he was a part of it, but whatever! I’m only being petty because I’m high, maybe I won’t call it The True Commons. Maybe I’ll call it something else. We’ll see.

…                                     …                                    …

There we went. That was fun! Like, woah! I wrote hella words and I didn’t even mean to, that shit just flew by! Damn… you know, maybe Keaton wasn’t totally offbeat with the THC book idea… but I’m still not going to tell you about that, Journal. Sorry. Telling you about it would make it real, y’know? It would make it real in my own little world, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for the THC book idea to be real in my own little world yet. Matt’a’fact, considering how I don’t even know if I’m ready for the THC book idea to be real, I’m definitely not ready. Ho-ho, hey-hey, a story for another day. Literally!

But no lie, writing that story back there was kind of fun. I’m not one to read my own journal entries back to myself, but that story? I might read that back. We’ll see. The writing is probably atrocious, but it’s a funny story. If nothing else, I’ll just bank it for telling during the next campfire sesh, whenever that will be.

Hah, maybe it’ll be when I finish the book… if the book is even real in the first place. For all you know I’m making it all up… for all I know I misremember that night and Keaton never even brought it up.

For all I know, I’m in a book right now…!

Lmao, imagine how fucking stupid that would be. If all of life was just a novel in some other universe. I’d be so mad.

But anyway… yeah ‘man. That all happened today. I’m definitely going back to that spot tomorrow, fuck Harry and the boys. The Pact boys, almost forgot about that dumb culty nonsense. A blood oath, what the fuck? Yeesh. I can’t wait to have this camping spot, I need my own place to go where I can feel truly, truly at home. At home in a way that I can’t feel at my parents’ house, y’know?

…

No, I suppose you don’t, because you’re a journal. And I’m a human, a human named Sidney “Albey” Blake. And it is excruciatingly late right now, and I scrawled so many symbols, and my hand is in so much pain.

And I have a yet unburned party favor left over from the day’s festivities to remedy that pain. Ho-Ho. Hey-hey.

…                                     …                                    …

Thank you, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Good sleeps and greatest 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

Barnstatter Path – Convenient Incidents (37/84)

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

The Incense Salesman
And the Wind Continues to Blow

Barnstatter Path

Barnstatter Path, the last old-fashioned unpaved dirt road in all of Treeburg, is normally a quiet stretch of woodlands. Located at the midpoint of a steep hill that’ll make a half-marathon runner feel crippled with exhaustion just driving up it, it’s neighbored above by one White Road – home to a slew of unimaginably wealthy and successful African American families and a single token house of Native Americans who hit the jackpot when they bought the local watering hole and renovated the basement speakeasy into a casino – and below by one Fricker Drive, a pond-butted stretch of bumpy asphalt along which more than half the houses are owned by one dude because all the families keep moving away.

Across the street from the pond, asphalt gives way to dirt and Fricker’s end becomes Barnstatter’s halfway point. This junction is far wider than the rest of either road and rarely traveled, so the locals like to use it as a parking lot of sorts. At one point, Fricker’s pond was the local hotspot and block parties were held there every weekend, but these days it’s more the forest beyond the pond that attracts the foot traffic. One dude – the older son of the first family to evacuate Fricker Drive – was just crazy enough to carve out an absolute snake’s nest of trailways through the whole forest around Fricker Drive before he mysteriously disappeared one day while hiking alone back there, and now that he’s gone, everyone else in the area feels comfortable enough to walk on his trails. Normally there’s plenty of room to park by the pond without worrying about getting your paintjob scraped by the swinging open of someone else’s car door; normally, it’s the perfect place to hike because the only sounds are birds chirping and tree frogs meeping right back; normally, the first neighborhoods on the left after crossing over the Monksville Dam are a beautifully pleasant place to live, laugh, love, and if you’re fortunate enough, to do all three.

Normally, that is, but not as of late, and especially not tonight. Lately there’s been a flagrant string of break-ins on this side of the Monksville Dam, the latest of which went down just now. Half the town’s police cars are currently parked beside the pond at the end of Fricker; the other half of them are parked along the front half of Barnstatter Path in a long single file line leading to the Milligan house, the home of the wealthiest family in all of Treeburg.

Hello Commons, this has been the first subchapter of the eighth 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

Aug the Eighth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (16/224)

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

Aug the Eighth

Hello, Journal ol’ chap ol’ friend ol’ pal’a’mine! How are you doing today? I see you’re here with a blank page for me to fill, that feels pretty good. How am I? Well, I had a spectacular day driving around town high off my hairy ass, thanks for asking!

So I followed my plan and went through Dantez Furnace looking for woods, but The Furnace has changed. There are a lot more houses down there now, like, a whole lot more houses. There are so many houses, so many god forsaken houses, Journal, there’s hardly any woods left! There’s woods on the outside of the neighborhood, you know, bordering the backyards and whatnot, but there are no places to park where I wouldn’t come back to find my car in a different condition than I left it. I’m not saying the Furnies would steal my hubcaps and tires, no way. Maybe it would just get towed, I’m not asserting anything.

…                                     …                                    …

Okay, I apologize. To both the Furnies and you. There’s nothing wrong with them and I was being weird about it. I’m just upset because I hit Ca Karl up to see if he wanted to smoke or hike or just drive around or something but he said he was at the school, but today is a Saturday, the school should be closed. So, since I was out there, I took a harmless little cruise down the road where the high school is (freshening the air with pot smoke the whole way, ho-ho hey-hey) and, lo and behold, his LIFTED truck was not in the parking lot. Granted, it wasn’t at his house either, but driving by his house is what inspired me to text him in the first place, so that doesn’t count as creeping. Checking out the school? Well…

Anywho, I didn’t even bother with The Foothill today. I just feel like the walk isn’t worth it, and putting up the hammock just to take it back down is annoying as all hell. It reeks of stale sweat (among other bodily fluids, ho-ho hey-hey) anyway, I don’t know how I’m going to get those stains out. Problem for another day for sure, but tomorrow is not going to be that day, for I have plans for tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I am going to L-ride from dawn until dusk. Hey’ya!

Thank you, 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

Last Wishes – Convenient Incidents (36/84)

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

The Incense Salesman
Being Liam

Last Wishes

At the end of a wonderful day off spent mingling with his beloved wife, who was only a girlfriend when he first got hired by Liam, Marty returns to the last house on Thisroad Street – number 123, the one at the end of the cul-de-sac – to find the air inside icy and chilled, as if old boy Liam turned the air conditioner too low. But that’s impossible, Liam can hardly get out of bed (thank God for the winning combo of a catheter and a colostomy bag, thank Him and praise Him), he couldn’t have reached the thermostat.

It’s at this moment that Marty realizes he forgot to give Liam his pills. He nearly trips over the stair chair on his way upstairs.

The door to Liam’s bedroom – the same bedroom with the same bed he slept in as a kid, because that’s what he insisted on, the old kook – is cracked open. Marty busts in with enough force to almost knock the door off its hinges, and he finds exactly what he was afraid he would, that very thing which he’s been expecting for years: Liam somehow managed to get himself into his scooter, probably in an attempt to get out into the bathroom where Marty keeps the pills, possibly so he could make a new video, and passed away on the way there. Then Marty notices the camera on the old man’s lap, and he can’t help but spare a sad smile – even after all these years, Liam was still doing the one thing he loved: Being Liam. Liam got to keep Being Liam all the way until the end.

Letting the camcorder fall to the floor, Marty lifts the eighty-pound cadaver, which is stuck in an awful slump because of the rigor mortis, out of the scooter and carries him downstairs, sitting him down on the dusty living room couch Marty took the liberty of covering with plastic about five years ago. He gets on the phone and calls the myriad of doctors Liam would occasionally see, then the funeral home, and lastly, the accountant. He arranges for a car to come in one hour, which should give him plenty of time to get Liam all cleaned up. After the body’s gone, Marty will pack up his stuff and probably head straight for his own house – after taking a shower, that is – and let the accountant settle the rest.

Marty draws a warm bath in the master bathroom, then goes upstairs to fetch Liam’s camcorder. Liam wasn’t a man of many last wishes; in fact, he only had one: to be buried with the tool of his trade, that which allowed him to keep on Being Liam. It fell under the desk, and as he stands back up, Marty notices a curious scorch mark next to Liam’s keyboard. There’s a box of matches in the top drawer, too… it appears as if Liam had tried to start a fire.

‘Maybe he was trying to make a smoke signal,’ Marty thinks to himself with a slightly guilty smile as he runs a finger through the soot. Curiously enough, it comes up without leaving a trace. ‘Huh, that’s weird.’ Marty brushes the black dust into the garbage (and throws the box of matches in there too, just for the hell of it) and then takes out the trash. By then the bath is full, and as Marty carries Liam in through the door, the white light of the bathroom engulfs their form like sunlight on an old camcorder’s viewfinder.

Hello Commons, this has been the last subchapter of the seventh 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

Aug the Seventh – Untitled Bigfoot Project (15/224)

Posted on by Hunter A. Wallace

Aug the Seventh

Hey there Journal, hope you’re doing well today. I’m… a bit disappointed, to be honest with ya. I spent the first half of my day cruisin’ through Iiron Heights looking for a shoulder to pull over on, but there were none. It’s just as well, the woods over there didn’t really speak to me. Too rocky, too hillish. Is what it is. I hit Keaton up before I left, too, and he never got back to me. Not even a no, just a lapse of answer. He’s probably just busy, I’m not taking offense or anything. Just a little disappointed.

I got back from The Heights a few hours ago, spent those hours on The Foothill. I overreacted a little bit yesterday in saying that the only good thing about being out there was the nostalgia factor, I think, because today was pretty chill once I got out there and continued smoking. I still want to find a new spot though. Mayb–

Oh, Keaton just got back to me. Yeah, he was busy.

Anyway, maybe Dantez Furnace will prove more worthwhile. Driving around town in and of itself wasn’t too horrible – I rolled up a few joints, brought a few Strange Music CDs out with me, plus a R.A. the Rugged Man album from almost a decade ago, the one with the Tech N9ne/Krizz Kaliko feature. Driving around high is the next great American pastime, I swear. Oh, and on the way back on Sawblade I saw what looked like a dirt road going off into the woods. It was off one of the bends about… three quarters of a mile in? You don’t notice it unless you’re lookin’ directly at it, one’a those bad boys. If I think of it I’m go’n’a check it out tomorrow, but that’s if I think of it. I’m so high all the time I can hardly think at all.

Which isn’t a bad thing. Trust me.

Thank you, 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~