Posted in Writings

Oct the Second (Log) – Untitled Bigfoot Project (104/224)

Oct the Second (Log)

Words written: 1,691

Total progress: 20,648 words {16 subc} [3 ch]


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 OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.

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

Posted in The Bookmaker's Note

Spring Cleaning | The Bookmaker’s Note 4/13/21

Progress log: completed preliminary backend rerelease work for The Monksville Chronicles


So I did this like this today.

[8:54 am] Good morning! The Shopify stalker stared at my running book at 4 am today, the pattern is tightening back up. In other news, I’ve been up for an hour and a half and I’m about to shit for the third time today! I’m not even sick, either! My bowels are movin’ you sons of bitches, hee-yah! The rain is over and all the leaves are opening up, I’m’a call this post Spring Cleaning and I’m’a take my third shit of the day and then I’m’a get movin’!

[9:58 am] The Monksville Chronicles is published in paperback and the ebook is submitted! This isn’t me announcing it, I’m going to do the normal book announcement post I do when I have a physical copy, which I will order as soon as the page on Amazon updates with the correct price and cover art. I raised the price from $9 to $10 for the paperback. The new paperback has a higher printing cost, it felt appropriate. eBook is staying the same, as I didn’t add more than 10,000 words. The autographed copy cost might go up a dollar, I’m not sure. I have a whole Excel spreadsheet dedicated to pricing out the autographed copies, I have to plug in the new numbers. Anyway, so I write with Scrivener, right? It’s a writing program, really great stuff. Up until now I’ve had all of my writing in one single Scrivener file. Like, all of it. I don’t know why I was doing it like that, the shit took 5 minutes to back itself up every time I closed it. So now all the books have their own files. Been meaning to do that for a while. Spring cleaning.

[11:56 am] Finished prepping the blog posts for the second chapter. I’m trying out a new post strategy for this one, see? In the past I would put one subchapter up per post, but sometimes the subchapters are long. One of UBP’s subchapters was literally 12,000 words long. That’s too long for a blog post. So for TMC (and probsibly going forward) I’m going to cap out at around 1,200ish words per post. If the subchapter is longer than that, I break the shit into multiple parts. It’s good because blog posts shouldn’t be super long and also this will stretch the book posts out longer and give me more time. Killing the blogging game rn.

[1:33 pm] I inadvertently used both wondrous and wonderous in The Monksville Chronicles. Only one of these is technically correct. I feel like I need to decide right now whether I give a shit or not; I’m’a let it fly. It’s fine, y’know? Whether I’m using wondrous or wonderous you still understand what I’m try’n’a say. Going forward I’ll try to not make that mistake again, but as for The Monksville Chronicles? It’s not a new book. And even if I change that one word, it’s still not going to be perfect. I’m just a ‘man.

[5:03 pm] Accidentally posted post 78 of The Monksville Chronicles. Immediately unposted and deleted it, then cleared it from the trash, then I took my laptop outside and stomped on it and spit on it and waterboarded it except with gasoline and then I did an ancient dance which summoned the full moon to the sky, and beneath that full moon I set fire to my laptop and continued to dance and sway as it burned to ashes. Will be careful not to accidentally hit publish again.

[6:15 pm] The final subchapter of the final chapter of The Monksville Chronicles lands on post #100. On the fucking dot, you bitch. That, that right there, is what’s called a good sign, y’see? Splitting the longer posts is the fuckin’ move. There is one subchapter that didn’t split well so I kept it at 1,500 words, but the rest all got split if they got into the 1,300s. Post #100 on the fucking dot.

[7:17 pm] The blog posts are DONE. Sort of! I can’t actually finish them until I get the physical copy of The Monksville Chronicles (paperback and ebook both now available on Amazon, ho-ho hey-hey) but all 124 of them are set up so all I need to do is add 124 to each title, paste in the links, add the featured image, and schedule. The battle is halfway through. I don’t need to be finishing this late in the day, but I took lots of breaks. It was gorgeous outside today. I didn’t do shitting abs day because I shit you not, I literally shit like 10 times today and I thought it would be too ironic. But I walked in a park and then came home and ran. So uh, anyway, I added the Amazon links to the The Monksville Chronicles tile on my Books page. I’ll add the links to read the text for free and to buy an autographed copy when I have the physical copy. It’ll be here when it gets here. That pretty much wraps it up for the preliminary backend rerelease work. Preliminary backend rerelease work, well goddamn doesn’t that sound pretentious and aggrandized. I’m goin’ with it.

Now the question is, did I actually come back to this post at random points throughout the day or did I just type it all up now? And the other question is, how many words do you like to write in a day when you’re working on a project?

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

Posted in Writings

Oct the Second – Untitled Bigfoot Project (103/224)

Oct the Second

Short day today, only put three hours into the novel BUT that’s fine, that’s great, even, because chapter 2 is DONE. Well, like, it’s drafted. Roughly drafted, but it’s there. And I’m loving where it’s at.

I will not say much, Journal, but I will tell you this: Iuqon and Ram’rl found their way into the story. And that’s all I’m going to tell you.

…                                     …                                    …

Say thankya, Journal. ‘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 OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.

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

Posted in The Bookmaker's Note

Rain and Coldy | The Bookmaker’s Note 4/12/21

Progress log: Finished reviewing The Monksville Chronicles, submitted for republishing. Began backend release work


Another rain and coldy day today, ‘man. Yesterday was like this and I decided to piss the back half of the day away. Today I didn’t and I got shit done. But first, I have to cover something important.

So my Shopify stalker is keeping up his grind, she skipped looking at the running book yesterday and then took a peek at the three o’clock am hour today, as per his pattern. The pattern appears to be loosening though, she used to look once every day and then he was looking twice a day every other day and now she’s only looked once today. Maybe he’ll buy the fuckin’ book soon, who knows? I’ll keep you updated when there’s more activity.

That out of the way, I finished reviewing The Monksville Chronicles and implemented all the pencil strokes I made in the proof into the manuscript today. Boom, done, ready to go. I submitted it for republishing and now I’m waiting for the confirmation so I can put up the ebook too. That’ll take however long it takes.

After that I went outside to get the mail and decided it was too rain and coldy to run but I was still going to exercise, get in that abs day I skipped yesterday. Then I fell coming up the goddamn stairs and decided that shitting abs day can fuck off, I had shit to do anyway.

Thus began the backend work. First was the Shopify. I took down the old version of The Monksville Chronicles and made a short blog post saying I did so. Then I hit the WordPress and updated the books page, which included breaking a few links, updating the cover art picture and details for The Monksville Chronicles, and moving The Monksville Chronicles to the Third Spiral part of the page. Then I updated the The Monksville Chronicles page with all the new text and set it on private, where it shall remain until I can get all the new links together which will be when I get publishing confirmation so calm the fuck down A’IGHT? IT’S COMING! Then I started setting up the blog posts, got through the first chapter, and now we are here.

In other words, I didn’t do jack shit today.

Nah jk, shit got done, buckaroo. It was mostly monotonous shit and therefore was egregious, but it got done nonetheless and I got more to do tomorrow, and then eventually I will get back to writing OTR. Hee-yah, mother-expletive. Hee-yah. Oh, and uh, the obligatory How many words do you like to write in a day when you’re working on a project? There ya go. This here’s been a blog post.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

Posted in Writings

Oct the First (Log) – Untitled Bigfoot Project (102/224)

Oct the First (Log)

Words written: 4,195

Total progress: 18,957 {14 subc} [2 ch]

*Note: ch 2 is looking like it’s going to be much longer than ch 1, but… I don’ow. I think that’s okay? It’s my first novel, idk what I’m doing. It’s not going to be perfect, so I may as well just let it be.*


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 OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.

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

Posted in The Bookmaker's Note

Cold and Rainy | The Bookmaker’s Note 4/11/21

Progress log: reviewed 100ish of The Monksville Chronicles‘s remaining [however many] pages


It’s a cold and rainy and dreary Sunday. I have decided I shall piss the rest of the day away after posting this post. If ever there was a day to piss away, today is that day. I’m not running today because it is cold and raining, and I’m not turning on my workout app because shitting abs day can wait ’til tomorrow. I’m only working until [whatever time this gets posted] because reviewing a proof copy is taxing on the brain despite it not being very time consuming, especially in the case of The Monksville Chronicles. Like, I’ve been through this manuscript at least 200,000,000 times at this point. This is part of the reason I keep my editing process down to 3 drafts, I start to feel like I’m caught in an acid thought-loop if I have to re-read something over and over and over, it drains the hell out’a me. Obviously editing is more than just reading but you know what I mean. Or maybe you don’t. I don’t know you.

Listen, I’m’a get out’a here. I was going to rant about something or other but it’s null at this point. Water is falling from the sky like piss into a toilet. I got shit done today, and I’ll have shit to do tomorrow. What else is there?

Btw, how many words do you like to hit in a day when you’re working on a project? I’m go’n’a keep asking ’til I get an answer, and you know what? I’m go’n’a keep asking even after I get an answer. You know what else? Me either.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

Posted in Writings

Home – Under the Hood: TIoJK (44/44)

Insects

Time to open your eyes.


Home

Electric hands with pins and needles for fingers plunge into Jonathan Knox’s purged brain, surging him lividly back into consciousness. The sensation of burning ice floods through his body, down his arms to the tips of his fingers, through his internal organs and into his legs, finally stopping in his toes. He is awake, but his eyes do not open. Not yet. Not until the slimy hands release their hold on his head.

“It is time to wake up now, Jonathan Knox,” says a familiar voice to which Jonathan Knox cannot place a name. “Time to open your eyes.”

But Jonathan Knox doesn’t want to open his eyes. It’s not that he doesn’t know how – there are no memories in his head, no sense of a before, and this greatly disturbs him, but he is fully aware that he could open his eyes if he wanted to – he just doesn’t want to. Jonathan Knox doesn’t know where he is or how he got here, nor does he know who he is aside from his name, but he knows he isn’t home. When he thinks of home he thinks of a cozy place, somewhere warm and dark where he’s safe from those who wish to cause him harm, if such beings even exist. This place he’s in now, though… this place is dark, yes, at least from behind his closed eyelids it’s dark, but it is not warm. It is not cozy. He is strapped tightly to a cold, flat metal surface, and the air he breathes chills his lungs with every inhale.

“Where am I?” Jonathan Knox says, tightening his eyelids further. “Who are you, and what have you done to me? Why can’t I remember anything, why is it all so…”

He was going to say foggy, but trails off. Foggy isn’t the word. It’s not that memories are there and he cannot access them, they’re just… gone. Aside from basic control of his body, his name, and some arbitrary associations, it’s all just gone.

“All will be revealed; just open your eyes, Jonathan Knox,” says the familiar voice. “Resistance is futile – you cannot hide from reality.”

Jonathan Knox clenches his teeth, balls his hands into fists so tight his fingernails dig into his soft palms, threatening to spill blood… but the familiar voice is right. He cannot hide behind his closed eyelids, the reality is there no matter how hard he tries to hide from it. Slowly Jonathan Knox opens his eyes, then waits as his vision focuses through the lenses of the glasses on his face.

Before him is a man in a long black robe with buttons running in a line up the length and a white collar at the neck. The man is old with enough wrinkles and jowls alone to convince Jonathan Knox that he’s not a threat. He looks down and sees his own clothing, plain brown slacks and a white button-up longsleeve. Black sneakers. Nothing fancy, similar to the room they’re in, a kind of featureless blue metal dome with an excruciatingly pale light shining without a flicker from above.

“And thus all is revealed,” says the old man, bringing his hands together. There’s a grin on his face, but it’s not a particularly friendly grin. No, not particularly friendly at all. There’s malice in that grin, a ghastly and macabre kind of intention brewing beneath those disarming jowls and wrinkles. Something dark. Something utterly evil. “Welcome to your new home, Jonathan Knox.”

“My new–” is as far as he gets before the old man – a preacherman, as evidenced by his getup – backs to the wall and undoes one of the buttons halfway up his robe, reaches in, and removes what appears to be some kind of remote-control device. Jonathan Knox, his eyes shaking with tension, watches as the old man hits a button, then feels no less than nineteen different needles of varying sizes, all attached to the ends of translucent plastic tubes, plunge into his body from a myriad of varying angles. He shouts once in pain, then finds himself drenched in a strange tranquil mindstate. He is mellow. He is relaxed. He is comfortable, even.

“What,” Jonathan Knox says, “did you do to me?”

“Who, me?” says the elderly preacherman, returning the device from whence it came and rebuttoning his robe. “Well I simply pressed a button. The Compound did the rest.”

“The… Compound?” Jonathan asks, his words heavy in his mouth.

“Yes, Jonathan. The Compound ‘neath Atacama. You do remember Lake Atacama, do you not?”

His bottom jaw slack and his tongue lolling over his bottom lip, Jonathan Knox says nothing.

“There is a lake on the edge of the town of Wuester, Jonathan Knox – that’s the town in which you lived, and still technically live. It is called Atacama Lake, and in August of last year a small meteor fell from the sky and struck a boat, leading to the deaths of a handful of young adult human beings. A tragic loss for the community, I’m sure, and though their demise was as unplanned as the distribution of seeds carried out by the shit of a migrating bird, the falling of the meteor was not. That meteor was not a simple rock but actually a very complex machine, one designed to consume matter and break it down to its basic building blocks, and from those blocks the machine would build. For the past seven months that machine has been hard at work at the bottom of the lake, building and building and building away, and just recently it finished. The room we are–… well, the room I am standing in right now, Jonathan Knox? This is the bottom floor.” He raises his hands to the domed ceiling in triumph. “This is the Compound ‘neath Atacama!

“We’re…” Jonathan Knox mumbles, trying all too hard to make sense of this. “We’re at… the bottom of a lake?”

“Oh no, Jonathan Knox,” the man says, rubbing his hands together greedily. “The top floor is at the bottom of the lake. We’re we are now… well, let’s just say we’re deep enough.”

Jonathan Knox breathes heavily through his moist and dangling mouth.

“Are you comfortable now, Jonathan Knox?” the man says, approaching Jonathan Knox to place a moderately slimy hand on his left cheek. “Oh, I hope you are. Because you’re going to be here for quite a while.” He snickers, takes his hand off Jonathan Knox’s face, wipes it on his robe. “In fact, you won’t ever be leaving.”

“Why… not…?” Jonathan Knox asks slowly, not quite struggling but not having an easy time, either.

“Why, because of the tubes, Jonathan Knox,” the man says, smiling broadly. “You’re all hooked up, those tubes will keep your hateful body healthy and clean, in tip-top condition. You no longer have a need to eat, drink, sleep, shit. You don’t even need to breathe if you don’t want to. You don’t need to do anything anymore, Jonathan Knox, and you’ll stay perfectly alive for… ever. Indefinitely, until the tubes are disconnected.”

“Why… how…?” Jonathan Knox doesn’t feel the need to swallow, so he doesn’t. “What… does… all this… mean?”

“It means your life is over, Jonathan Knox,” the man says gravely, his aged and kindly face suddenly warped into a terrible gruesome scowl. “You invaded my church and hid your bugs so you could listen. You hid bugs in the houses of all your neighbors, but not those of your friends as you had no friends, just like you have no friends here. During your life you went through some horrible trials, Jonathan Knox, and you used those trials as an excuse to commit shameful, disgusting crimes to the ones around you. From the inhabitants of this town, you took away the right to a private life. So in return, Jonathan Knox, I am taking from you the right to a private death. You will not eat, drink, sleep nor dream, but you will live forever strapped to that table, unable to move, unable to escape. This is your fate, Jonathan Knox, and you have no choice but to accept it.”

“But… why…? How…?”

The scowl devolves into a grimace and the man steps back. “Allow me to show you.”

Moving calmly and oh so patiently, the preacherman unfastens his black robe one button at a time, starting at his neck and going all the way down to his feet. He then throws his arms back, removing the robe with a single gesture. The skin hidden beneath the robe is not wrinkly and covered in spots like Jonathan Knox expected but tight and perfectly smooth. No nipples, no naval, no penis nor testicles hanging between his legs. His head is the head of an old man, as are his hands, but everything else… it hardly even looks real. If Jonathan Knox wasn’t so serenely numb from the chemical compounds flooding his system he supposes he would be perplexed, perhaps even terrified.

The preacherman then kneels down and bows, his arms stretched flat on the floor in front of him. His back arches in a jerk, putting him on his palms as his fingers curl so tightly the knuckles turn white. Then, the fingers straighten and relax, then they appear to deflate as two masses move squelchingly up his deflating arms into his shoulders. His head strikes the ground then and caves, deflating like an untied balloon with a gut-wrenching slopping noise that might cause Jonathan Knox to vomit were he not hooked up to the eternal life-support system. The preacherman-thing’s legs then spread and his ass rises up towards the ceiling, and with a sick symphony of wet, slopping, squelching noises, something emerges from the gaping hole, which is mercifully facing away from Jonathan Knox’s face. It’s a slimy mass with dark blue skin and what appears to be a ridge of neon green running along its center. The preacherman’s body, now an empty sack of skin and viscous clear liquid, flops out on the floor, and the freshly molted creature stands up behind it.

It’s about four feet tall, the creature, bipedal with a broad head and legs that bend twice between the hips and the webbed feet. The hands with their long fingers ending in thick fleshy pads are also webbed, the webbing the same bright green color as the ridge on its back which is not a ridge, Jonathan Knox sees, but a fin running from the top of its head to the base of its waist. The creature’s soulless black eyes are massive, disproportionately large for its face but yet just the right size for its mouth, which resembles that of a grouper eel but with lips. Grotesque lips covered in thick, scaly scales. Great viscous globs of translucent slime dribble and drip from every inch of its figure and it gives off an ambient bubbling sound, almost as if the fleshy scarlet gills on its neck were gargling the slime.

“An… alien…” Jonathan Knox groans. “But… why… are you… humanoid?”

‘Humanoid?!’ the creature which once resembled a kindly old man rages in Jonathan Knox’s mostly empty head. ‘How so typical, how so humanly arrogant of you! I should not be surprised, though – you told me, before the purging procedure, that you never told anybody about the trauma you went through, Jonathan Knox, and quite a bit of trauma that was. But why would you? Why would a creature so despicably arrogant as a human being ask for help? No, you’ll do it all on your own, you’ll drive yourself far past the point of insanity because of your arrogance and pride and nothing else, and it will all be for nothing. I’ve only been on this Earth for a short time now, and in that time I have found myself to be utterly disgusted with the human race and how pathetically it misunderstands and misuses the gift of life, how disgracefully ignorant it is about the planet which hosts it.’

The slimy creature smiles then, stretching its thick scaly lips to speak.

“You are correct, though,” it says in the voice of Neil Campbell. “I am an alien, an extraterrestrial ambassador from the planet Neptune. A–”

“But… Neptune… is a gas… giant… there can’t–”

‘Not that Neptune, you oblivious fool.’ The creature’s smile widens despite the undying rage it feels for being cut off by such a petulant creature as a human. ‘And with your arrogance comes stupidity – you don’t even realize your planet is floating in a different star system than it once was. You probably don’t even realize this isn’t the Universe’s original Earth. Perhaps that is the fault of your government, perhaps the ones in control of your species found out but kept it a secret… but perhaps it does not matter. My superiors will be here tonight, their ship is due to reach the surface of Lake Atacama in a matter of hours, and the secret invasion will begin. In due time the Neptunian High Race of the Dali Straits will rise from the waters of Atacama Lake and eradicate all humans from the small town of Wuester, and from there we will take the world and colonize it as our own. So congratulations, Jonathan Knox. You’re actually quite lucky, you know. You’ve been allowed to have the awareness of the fall of your disgusting, petulant species. In fact, you should feel quite honored. In due time, you’ll be the last human left.’

The slimy ambassador of the Neptunian High Race of the Dali Straits, having properly rubbed Jonathan Knox’s nose in its race’s superiority to humankind, goes through the horrific and squelchy process of donning its human disguise. When it buttons the last button of the reverend’s robe, it turns to leave. Jonathan Knox stops it with noises he makes with his mouth.

What did you say?” says the thing which calls itself Reverend Neil Campbell.

“I… said… why? Why… are you… doing… this…?”

The thing in the skin beneath the robes crosses the small prison room so he may look directly into Jonathan Knox’s vacant, sleepy eyes, so Jonathan Knox can smell his putrid, fishy breath. “Because I hate you, Jonathan Knox. I hate all of wretched humanity. Humankind is a race of evolutionary vermin, inferior in every way to the genetic perfection that is the Neptunian High Race of the Dali Straits. You are a plague, you are a disease. You are insects, Jonathan Knox, you and every last one of your sniveling apish kind are nothing but insects with soft yet disturbingly dry shells, and me?” He sneers. “I’m a boot, the first of many which shall soon come marching across your misfortuned land to crush every last one of the dirty lifeforms known as human beings. Every last one aside from you, that is. You get to live when all the rest die, all because you’re a dirty little eavesdropper.

“I hope you’re comfortable, Jonathan Knox. Welcome to your new home.”


Bookmaker’s Note

A man who goes by the name of Exurb1a once said in the introduction of a novel that some creative ideas welcome themselves into your home and, if you’re kind enough to be hospitable, they will more or less bring themselves to fruition with very little effort on your part. Other ideas, though (and I’m paraphrasing here), are a big ol’ pain in the fuckin’ ass, and they need to be throttled repeatedly with an iron switch in order to just show up at the table, let alone to get working.

The idea responsible for this novel was both.

Some days, specifically in specific parts of the book, I would open my laptop and take a look at Scrivener and the words would literally be typing themselves, invisible fingers literally danced across my keyboard, and then on other days the idea made me do all the work, throttling me repeatedly with an iron switch until a hundred words were typed and I fell unconscious from being repeatedly throttled with an iron switch.

What I’m trying to say is Saint Wuester’s Church is a place to be when there’s nowhere else to go. Furthermore, Jonathan Knox’s home is on a road called Burnout Strip. I do not regret making this book, as it helped me through a cold six weeks of winter, but at the same time I’m aware of what it is. Universe W-2222 just ain’t the main event.

I’d like to thank Sudz for the creative contribution – you did more than you might know. And the hypothetical reader as well; if you’re there, thank you for being there.

H.A.W.
 February 12th, 2021


Hello Commons, this has been the epilogue (and Bookmaker’s Note) 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 OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.

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

Posted in Writings

Oct the First – Untitled Bigfoot Project (101/224)

Oct the First

Two things before I get back to Noises:

  1. I don’t even know how long ago, a couple weeks? A month maybe? Regardless, at one point before I got down to working on the novel I was like, “I’m not stressing, if I don’t start before Oct the First then I’ll definitely start then.” Well, it’s Oct the First today and I’m well over 10,000 words into this bad boy. I say that to say this: fuckin’ killin’ ‘em.
  2. I just finished typing the third subchapter of chapter Monday and it was, literally, 1 word shy of being exactly as long as the first subchapter of chapter Monday. Weird, especially considering how I made such a big deal out of that the other day, making fun of it and such. Anyway, I added like 20ish words (as if that even makes a difference) and now I’m go’n’a get back to it because me journaling before I’m done novelwriting only serves as procrastination and that’s lame as fuck.
  3. Bonus third thing: I might not even do another normal journal entry after I finish writing today’s fiction. It’s not that I don’t love you, Journal, but I need to stay focused and keep on track! I only have so many words I can spill a day – in theory, at least… kind’a makes me want to sit in my chair and write for sixteen (or better yet, 19) hours just to see how much I get done, but at the same time fuck that shit because sitting in this chair makes my lower back scream at me – so I need to make sure as many of those words are The Face of Fear words as possible!

Wow this got long. It’s not even that long – not compared to my novel, ho’ho hey’hey – but still, it’s too long. It’s probably at least 300 words, and those 300 words could have detailed what Albey did after getting back from b… I’ve said too much. If I say anymore I’ll have to burn you, so I’m’a stop myself before I write something you’ll regret.

That’s right, I’m’a save you from a merciless defeat, and that is worth it to me. Word to Joey Cool.

…                                     …                                    …

Say thankya, Journal. ‘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 OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.

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

Posted in The Bookmaker's Note

Bothered | The Bookmaker’s Note 4/10/21

Progress log: reviewed 94 of The Monksville Chronicles‘s 282 pages


I’m bothered. You wan’a know why I’m bothered? Because folks are strange, meaning one folk in particular is strange. Want to know what I’m talking about specifically? All right, I’ll tell you.

So I have this online store through Shopify, right? It’s called rePurpp, and through it I sell autographed copies of my books and The Hillside Commons merchandise, most of which is idiotic. I haven’t moved a single unit through this store yet, but it’s there, I have it, it’s real and it’s mine and I’m hemorrhaging money and it’s fine. It’s like I tell myself when I’m curled up in the fetal position in the corner at night bashing my head into the walls: It’ll all make sense eventually.

But that’s not why I’m bothered. I told you, it’s because of a human being. Aren’t you paying attention? Christ on a fucking crutch, I don’t even know what’s going on right now. My family is downstairs watching golf on the television. Golf, for fuck’s sake. I don’t know what the hell.

SO this store of mine, I have it through Shopify. I said that. Christ I’m tired. So I have this store, right? I can see who visits this store on the daily, and I usually check the viewership in the mornings when I’m booting up the social medias for my allotted thirty seconds. This is what I’ve seen over the past ten days, I’ll list it for you. Unless otherwise stated, the views come from within the USA.

  • Today: the running book was viewed at 6 am and 2 pm
  • April 9th: nothing
  • April 8th: the running book was viewed at 1 am and 6 pm
  • April 7th: nothing
  • April 6th: the running book was viewed at 3 am and 12 pm
  • April 5th: someone from Canada looked at my front page
  • April 4th: the running book was viewed at 2 am and 7 pm
  • April 3rd: the running book was viewed at 3 am
  • April 2nd: the running book was viewed at 7 am
  • April 1st: the running book was viewed at 7 am

Are we noticing a pattern here?! What the fuck?? It’s most likely the same human, because the pattern is there, and it’s been going on for a fuckin’ while now. At least a few weeks. I won’t even lie, I’m about 200% sure I know who’s doing it, and I won’t say his name nor will I reveal her gender, but I’m about 300,000% sure I know who it is and it creeps me the fuck out, ‘man! I am bothered by this nonsense! Like, what the fuck are you doing?! If you wan’a buy it then fine, buy the shitting running book, be my first Shopify sale, make my day! But don’t fuckin’… like, what are you even doing??? Why do you look at the same page on my goddamned store day after day like this?! How do you find yourself looking at Hunter’s running book at 3 am? Why do you roll out of bed and start your day by bringing up my store and staring at the running book?! What confuses me most of all: why the fuckin’ running book??? That shit is a 100-page pamphlet that I pulled out of my ass like a hard piece of shit, why that book?! Is it because the cover features my semi-pubescent body circa freshman year of high school, is that it? Golly, I hope not! Although if I were to find out that was the reason, I would be a little more comfortable because at least I would know what the fuck is going on! Like… just what the fuck?!

So there. Now you know why I am bothered. Today was fucking pushup day and I am being stalked on my Shopify store. Instead of folks buying THC beanies and Feller of Rock sweatshirts and autographed copies of my books which I put my heart and undying soul into, someone is drooling over my running book every day of their goddamned life. Sweet Christ. What do I do? What would you do? Also, how many words do you like to hit in a day when you’re writing a book?! I need to get out of here.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

Posted in Writings

Gold – Under the Hood: TIoJK (43/44)

Rock

Praise Thee and fell unto our poisoned town.


Gold

Warm golden rays melt the sleep from Sarah’s eyes, her lids fluttering open like the fragile wings of a butterfly just crawling out of its cocoon. She finds herself in the passenger seat of the smart car, the wheels still rolling along, the one who calls himself Al Sharpton still behind the wheel. All seems well, but…

But they’re still in the car.

It was night when they left the Atacama Lake public dock parking lot, and Al Sharpton said he was taking Sarah home. The drive with the Fellers felt like it took days, but it was still nighttime when they finally arrived. They were only on the water for about twenty minutes, it might not have even been midnight when she left with Sharpton. Sarah doesn’t live as far from the center of town as Chief Maxwell does… well, as Chief Maxwell did. So why are they still in the car?

‘Why am I still in this man’s car?’

“Relax, little one,” says the man who calls himself Al Sharpton. “So much anxiety I can feel it from here. We’re almost to Poland Boulevard, the drive’s just taking a bit longer than expected.”

Sarah breathes a little easier, but still she’s worried. She never told the man where she lives.

‘I can read your mind, Sarah Hammond,’ Sarah thinks in the man’s voi–… oh. Welp. “I can tap into your brain and make you do whatever I want, too.”

Wellpppp.

“I’m not doing that now, though,” the man says with a smile, looking happily out at Cannonball Road rolling on before him.

Sarah takes a minute to think about this – suddenly she’s feeling very self-conscious about what she says to this Al Sharpton character – and finally decides on, “How do I know for sure you’re not doing that now?”

Sharpton shrugs. “You don’t, but I’m not. I promise. I did it last night, forced you to dive underwater so you wouldn’t get domed by a piece of the police boat, but that takes a lot of effort and concentration. Had a hell of a time workin’ the jet ski when I was swimmin’ you, I’ll tell you that much right now.”

“Oh,” softly. She looks down at the spotless floormat. The floormats in her parents’ van were never this clean, not even when they first bought ‘em. Whoever owns this smart car must be some kind of a freak. Then, “Wait, did you steal this from the reverend at the church?”

“Couldn’t have,” Sharpton says. “Wasn’t his to begin with.”

“Oh,” Sarah says again.

“The car’s rightful owner won’t be needing it anytime soon, though. ‘Fraid he won’t be seeing the light of day for quite a while.”

“Why not? Is he in jail or something?”

“Yeah, something like that,” the one precisely like Al Sharpton says cryptically. “I’m’a bust him out, though.”

“You are??” Sarah sounds a bit concerned. Who on Earth is this man who calls himself Al Sharpton?

“Sure, eventually. When the time’s right. Won’t be for a while, though. You might have some kids as old as you are now by then… or maybe you won’t.” He shrugs. “Not really my business. We won’t be seein’ each other much after today – hey, this is your turn up ahead, right?”

Sarah looks through the spotless windshield at the green street sign standing sentry on the right side of the road. Poland Boulevard.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she confirms. “But… why did it take us so long to get here?”

Sharpton throws the blinker on. “This town is sort’a just funny like that, ‘specially when you’re driving down Cannonball. They say it’s a straight shot to the center of town, but…” He yawns as they take the turn. “Let me ask you somethin’, Sarah – have you ever been to the center of Wuester?”

“Um…” she um s, watching the familiar houses of her neighbors pass by. “The whY’doubleyeW’Cee’Ay I take my swimming lessons at is sort’a close to the center of town, I think. Closer than my street is. And I think the Fellers drove through it on the way to the lake. Didn’t we pass it coming back?”

Al Sharpton slowly shakes his head no. “This whole drive I’ve had my eyes peeled for the ol’ Wuester Central, but it’s just been road. Just been Cannonball all the way through. And now we’re at your road, just like that.”

“Oh… then no, I don’t think I’ve ever been to the actual center of town.” She broods for a moment. “My parents told me they heard that bad stuff happens down there.”

“It might,” Al Sharpton says, nodding slowly. “It just might.”

They pull into the driveway where there should be a van parked, a minivan, one with windows and a silver paint job and a couple dings and dents here and there from acorns falling out of the trees, and Sharpton parks the car. Sarah tries to open the door but finds it locked, despite the fact that the little bolt is sticking up out of the door. That anxiety creeps back into her stomach, which suddenly feels full of water again.

“Sarah,” Al Sharpton asks, and Sarah feels herself turning towards him, meeting his gaze against her will. “I have a favor to ask you. Will you do me a favor, Sarah Hammond?”

“Y-yes,” Sarah’s mouth says for her, despite her urge to scream out loud. “Anything f-for you, M-M-Mister Ah-Al Sh-Sh-Sharpton-nnn.”

“Good girl,” Al Sharpton says, putting a hand on her shoulder. His eyes dive deeply into hers, as though he was invading her mind and planting some sort of bomb between her neurons. “As your life spirals on you might forget some, maybe even all of what you’ve experienced over the past few days. And that’s fine, that’s just dandy, in fact. But I want you to remember one thing.”

“Whuh… what is it, Al Sharpton?”

“If anybody, and I do mean anybody, ever tells you they’ve been to Wuester Central, you turn your back and you run. They’re liars, Sarah, and worse, they might even be thieves.” Sharpton releases her shoulder and also the hex he cast upon her. “That’s all. Think you can manage that, Sarah Hammond?”

Never in her life has Sarah Hammond been so unsure of what to say.

“Good! Now get inside, they’re waitin’ for ya.”

“Who are?” Sarah asks as she’s opening the door. She climbs out of the smart car and the door pulls closed all on its own, denying Sarah the answer to her question, but that’s all right. She’s pretty sure the man wouldn’t have answered her question anyway.

The man who is precisely like Al Sharpton pulls the smart car out of Sarah Hammond’s driveway and heads down Poland Boulevard towards Cannonball Road. Sarah watches him go until the car is swallowed by the trees, then turns and makes the slow trek along the walk and up the steps to her front door. When she gets there she looks through the window and sees the cold darkness of an empty house, then has a heart attack, remembering how her parents locked all the doors before they left for Sarah’s swimming classes, but then she tries the handle anyway. The door opens, and Sarah takes one last look at her empty driveway before going inside.

The driveway is empty and black as fresh tar, totally devoid of any and all silver minivans.

Shoulders drooping and her head hanging low, Sarah Hammond walks inside her house and shuts the door. She notices the lights are on in the kitchen, the baseboard is ticking away, and the air is swimming with a salty, savory smell like her Mommy was cooking, but… but her Mommy and Daddy are dead.

Is someone in her house? Did someone break in?!

“Hello?” calls a woman’s voice, one eerily similar to that of her Mommy’s. “Sarah, is that you??”

“Sarah?!” A man’s voice. Her Daddy’s. She remembers it now. “Sarah, you’re home! You came back!”

Footsteps now, loud and hurrying through the house towards her. Sarah’s heart races, it’s not possible. They’re dead, she saw them get shot, the driveway was empty, it’s just not

Sarah Hammond spins and peers out the window in the front door. Parked in the driveway where the smart car dropped her off is the minivan, gold paint glimmering boldly in the morning sun. She’s swept up in her parents’ arms before she even has the chance to turn around.


Hello Commons, this has been the last subchapter of the last 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 OR you can buy the ebook for even cheaper here.

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