Posted in Writings

Aug the Sixteenth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (24/224)

Aug the Sixteenth

It. Is. Done.

The True Commons is officially bordered off from the rest of the forest. I did it, Journal. I really did it. I had a plan, I stuck to my plan, and I did it.

It’s also technically not Aug the Sixteenth anymore, that’s how long I stayed out there today. But I don’t fucking care. The work is done. Now I shall rest, for tomorrow I celebrate.

Goodnight, Journal. I appreciate you. Good sleeps and grandest 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

Pretty Weird – Convenient Incidents (44/84)

The Incense Salesman
And the Wind Continues to Blow

Pretty Weird

“Gill!”

Gill feels soft hands on his shoulders, feels his body shaking. Hears the wind blowing around his house.

“Gill! Wake up, Gill! Wake up, my eggy little man!”

Gill’s eyes snap open. Rose is hovering over him, her hair in a ponytail and falling down her back, her hard nipples grazing against his chest tickling him in a way he’ll never be tickled again.

“Thank God!” Rose says, then embraces Gill in a hug, a close, pressing hug, one Gill will never forget, one he’ll have described many, many times in his dream journal by the time his therapist gets to read it. “You’re alive, thank God!”

“What… what happened?” Gill asks slowly as he wriggles himself out of her grip to sit up on his bed. The sound of blowing wind and pouring rain are cacophonous, louder than his heartbeat. Rose lets him sit up, then grabs him again and presses their bodies together with a somber force, as if she’s about to leave him.

But that would be ridiculous, the genie said this was all real. Why would Rose be leaving?

“I don’t know!” she sobs miserably into his ear, leaving his shoulder the sad kind of wet. “I fell asleep in your Father’s bed – by the way, we made a big mess, you should probably clean that up before he gets home tomorrow – and a loud bang woke me up. I ran in here and you were unconscious on the bed.” She grabs his bare pillow and uses it to wipe off her eyes and nose, then cranes her head back to look at her foot. “Ugh!”

Gill is very concerned by that ugh. “What’s wrong, my eggy babe?”

“No, Gill. You’re the eggy one, you eggy boy,” with a straight face. Then, as Rose’s sobbing recommences, “There’s a big black splotch on your floor, like soot or something, and I stepped in it. My foot’s all black now, look.”

Gill looks and can’t help but agree. The bottom of Rose’s right foot – her sweet, delicious right foot – is stark black, black as coal, a perfect contrast to her luscious pale skin.

“I’m sorry,” Gill says, apologizing for something he didn’t do. Just like his Father makes him. “Here, I’ll clean you up Rose, let me jus–”

“No Gill,” she says, putting a hand on his chest and sitting him back against the wall. She holds her hand there, as if she’s trying to ingrain the way his bony chest feels into her mind. Gill raises a hand to put it on her chest, but she grabs him by the wrist and sets his hand back down. They sit like that for a few moments, neither saying anything, the sound of their breathing inaudible over the pouring of the rain, the clapping of distant thunder, the blowing of the wind.

Finally, Rose closes her lovely eyes and lets a tear fall down her cheek. “Gill…” she says, now on the verge of weeping. “Gill, I have to tell you something.”

Gill’s heart drops and he has no idea why. “What is it, Rose? What do you have to tell me?”

“Do you remember when I first came here? When I told you my name is Rose Williamson, and my uncle lives down on Fricker Drive?”

Of everything that transpired over the past few glorious days, Gill remembers that detail the least. But, he does remember her saying it, and he tells Rose as much.

“Well…” she swallows hard. “There is a Mister Williamson, and he does live on Fricker Drive… but… but…”

Gill attempts to process this for a moment and comes up with nothing. “But…?”

“But… he doesn’t have a brother, or a sister, nor any living siblings. He’s an only child.”

The gears attempt to churn, but the rust which clings to them is too thick. “Oh… uh… well that’s pretty weird.”

Though tears fall down her face and drip on her naked body like ambrosial nectar down the flushed cheeks of the gods, Rose manages to smile. “Yeah,” a soft, rueful chuckle, “I guess that is pretty weird.”

A bolt of lightning strikes Gill’s house, igniting his bedroom in a blinding white light that doesn’t fade until after the foundation stops shaking following the ensuing roar of thunder. When Gill opens his eyes he’s alone, naked and afraid, propped up against the wall. The black scorch mark in his carpet is gone, and soggy, soaked sheets are piled high on his bedroom floor, right next to the towel he threw on the water he spilled after he woke up the other day.

And the rain pours and pours.

And the wind continues to blow.


Hello Commons, this has been the last 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 Fifteenth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (23/224)

Aug the Fifteenth

Exhaustion. Utter, complete, merciless exhaustion. My muscles are all sore. I crave sleep more than I crave weed, which is saying something. But hey. Wall’s almost done.

I don’t feel like writing anymore tonight. Thanks, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Sleep good and shit~


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

Crossing a Line – Convenient Incidents (43/84)

The Incense Salesman
And the Wind Continues to Blow

Crossing a Line

The next few days of Gill Milligan’s eggy life are nothing short of a dream come true for the now eggy man. Rose does not leave the Milligan household; neither of them even leave Gill’s bedroom on that first day, save for Gill’s occasional run into the kitchen to eat his eggs and get some energy back, energy that he quickly spends like he never had it stored in the first place; later in his life when he finally talks to a therapist about all this, Gill will say that Rose sucked the soul clear out of his body, but that’s just Gill, and that won’t be for at least a few weeks, anyway.

Following the first night of not sleeping, Gill makes his Rose breakfast. In return, Rose treats her Gill to a lovely dessert. When lunchtime comes around, they leave the bedroom again (walking out this time) and Rose makes her Gill an eggy lunch. In turn, Gill treats his Rose to a lovely dessert, followed by an extra helping of afternoon delight. They eat each other for dinner, and it’s just as grotesque as you think it is. Disgusting even, absolutely nasty. Gill relishes every second of it.

The third day starts at noon. Forty-eight hours of not sleeping will do that to you, even if you’re as young and restless as Gill and Rose are, and the crawl down to the kitchen is hard on both of their worn-out knees, more so for Gill, if you’d believe it printed on a papery surface. Rose makes herself an extra helping of eggs and Gill watches her eat it, mesmerized like a dog watching its owner eat dinner.

“What?” Rose asks him when she notices him starting to leak slobber.

In response, Gill gets down on the floor and bows as if he was praying. When he lifts his head up, his Rose is no longer leaning against the counter. Gill is petrified for a moment, terrified, and that’s when the first doubt crawls into his mind: ‘Is this… have I been dreaming this whole time?’

Then, Rose’s right hand makes itself present between Gill’s legs from behind – neither of them have worn clothing since Rose chased Gill up to his bedroom on the first day, you see – and Gill’s doubts go away… for the moment, at least. They come back for a second or two after lunch, then Rose scares them away with her mouth. They resurface later when Rose is in the bathroom, this time in the voice of Gill’s Father whispering in his ear, but they shut right up when Rose suffocates Gill in a better way than he could even dream of. They come back a third time when Gill is in the bathroom a little bit later, this time in the form of his reflection taking on a mind of its own and berating him from the other side of the mirror – Gill stifles this noise by taking Rose to his Father’s bedroom and living out his greatest, most gnarly fantasy. They go at it in Bill’s bed until Rose is unable to walk and Gill is unable to, shall we stay, raise an obelisk in praise of his goddess, but it’s just as well. The sun is setting now, and Rose is getting very, very sleepy, so she asks Gill to change the soaked sheets on his bed so they can get some rest together.

“Why can’t we just sleep in here?” he asks her.

“Because that would be crossing a line, my eggy little man,” she answers, then she does a thing with her right foot that almost makes Gill pass out cold.

Gill hobbles into his bedroom – yes, hobbles, the eggy man’s walking with a limp at this point– and before he even makes it to his bed, the doubts rear their ugly claws and slice him to ribbons.

“This can’t be real… this is all a dream, it has to be a dream!” he shouts. He’s lucky he wore Rose out the way he did, because that’s not something he wants her to hear… if she’s real. But how can he tell? How can a man, an eggy little man like Gill who has trouble differentiating between a state of dreaming and a state of waking consciousness possibly hope to figure out if this sexed up goddess that randomly appeared on his doorstep is real or not all by himself? He’s a depraved, eggy little man, he’s never so much as touched a woman before Rose appeared out of the blowing wind, and all this woman’s done is touch and touch and touch him some more, and when she touched him with her right foot just now? Fesus Jucking Christ!

Gill wakes up on his bedroom floor a couple moments later. All of the blood rushed out of his head, it seems, but he’s back at equilibrium now. After checking to see if Rose was still laying on his Father’s bed – she was, and God damn him if the moonlight glistening off her ripe, sweaty body didn’t almost knock him out again – Gill returns to his room to clear off the sheets. He supposes there’s no way to really know if this is a dream or not; reality is the springboard from which all fiction flies, after all – that kind of makes you wonder about all those indie writers out there, doesn’t it? Well keep wondering, ya chinless chump – so is it really that hard to grapple with the idea that real life can be stranger than the fantasies in Gill’s head? Of course not. Gill just happened to get lucky – so, so lucky – when this Rose Williamson walked up from Fricker Drive in search of eggs (Gill’s most favoritest food), and that’s just what it is. As Gill wrestles with his blankets, he accepts that his life has taken a pleasant, amazing, miraculous turn, and he accepts it with a smile and thoughts dirty as the smile is grand.

Then, the other incense burner and the Wicked incense cone box fall out of Gill’s pillowcase.

Then, the doubts fuck Gill harder than Rose could ever hope to, whether she’s a fantasy or not.

Gill doesn’t waste time. He sets the burner on the floor, the burner with the black streak running through its center, and lines up the incense cone. Using the grill lighter he never returned to the kitchen because his Father isn’t home to use it anyway and as long as his Father isn’t home Gill is the man of the house and he gets to make the rules and do whatever he wants, Gill lights the incense. When the tip is glowing an effervescent orange, he blows out the flame and, whilst waiting for the smoke to build, puts his hands to his crotch. When the apparition takes form, Gill drops his dirty, filthy Peter, and his bottom jaw follows suit.

The djinn presents itself in the form of the masked woman from the incense box, except the cat mask is the only thing she’s wearing. The handle of the golden whip is clenched in her teeth, the tail is coiled around her voluptuous body like a snake around a curvaceous tree.

‘State your name, you eggy boy,’ the djinn hums seductively within Gill’s mind. The golden whip, as if it has a mind of its own, wraps its tail around the point where the incense smoke becomes the djinn’s plump, curvy thighs and slithers up her body, caressing her in a way that Gill could only dream of doing to Rose. Then, she throws Gill a wink.

Gill states his name, though it comes out in a dry puff of air rather than in his voice – it seems his breath has been taken away.

‘You have awoken me, Gill, and after rousing the great rose, no less. To return to rest, I must grant you a wish – you may have anything that you desire. Choose your words carefully, you eggy, eggy boy, though not for the sake of your undying soul; that egg’s been cracked, the shells sucked dry, and there wasn’t much yolk to speak of.’

Not bothering to contemplate what that might mean – not yet, at least – Gill looks the siren of his doubts in the eyes and gives in to its terrible serenade. “I want to know if I’m dreaming all of this, sexy genie, if the past few days with Rose has been nothing but a dream. That’s my wish – to know if any of this has been real.”

The djinn giggles, then titters, then bursts into a downright cackle the likes of which a Salem witch couldn’t manage no matter how much ergot-infested bread she ate. ‘Oh it’s real, you foolish, eggy mortal; in my granting of this wish, you’ll learn just how real it all is.’

The djinn, taking the handle out of her mouth, draws the whip back and cracks it in Gill’s face, the snap emitting a thunderclap that throws Gill across his room, landing him on his bare, sheetless bed. Though his bedroom lights are on, all Gill sees is darkness.

Then, he sees nothing at all.

And the wind continues to blow.


Hello Commons, this has been the seventh 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 Fourteenth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (22/224)

Aug the Fourteenth

Journal, I am magnanimously tired today, so I’m going to keep this short. Before I say anything else, though, I want to admit that I don’t know what that big word up there means, it just popped into my head and I felt like writing it, so I did. Don’t know where I heard/read it, but there it is.

Right, short entry. The wall is halfway done. I split the day evenly, used the rest of my rock pile by around noon and then spent the rest of the day gathering. It wasn’t exactly noon, but like, the halfway point. Also, yesterday I nutted up and drove to the dirt shoulder with joints in my pockets and today I did the same, with the addition of also bringing a little cooler with some lunch in it. ‘Twas a good plan.

I’m going to bed now. I think if tomorrow I have another day like today then the campsite will be finished before I make my next entry. What’s fuckin’ wit’ DAT?!

…                                     …                                    …

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

Rose – Convenient Incidents (42/84)

The Incense Salesman
And the Wind Continues to Blow

Rose

Gill crawls up to the top of the stairs and looks down to the foyer, his eyes wide like a cat’s moments before it pounces. Who could be knocking at his door? His Father is the only one in the Milligan household who gets any company; Gill doesn’t have any friends in the neighborhood, or town, or the entire county, for that matter. Who could it be?

knock knock knock

‘It could be the burglar man.’ It could be Gill’s Father coming home early… no, that’s ridiculous, he wouldn’t forget his key, he would just come in and start talking down at Gill. ‘It could be the burglar man.’ It could be his first Stepmom, back from the dead and hungry for Gill’s brain… no, that would just be nonsensical, that only happens in Gill’s dreams. ‘It could be the burglar man.’ It could be Gill’s real mother Jill, his birthgiver who died during childbirth because Bill Milligan, never a fan of hospitals because of how much money they charge, insisted on a home birth… no, that would be impossible, the Milligans lived in a different town when Gill was born. Plus, Bill had Jill Milligan cremated against her wishes.

‘It could be the burglar man.’

It could be… but why would the burglar knock on the door? Had he done that the other night, Gill wouldn’t have slept through the invasion and his Father would be home to answer the door now. There’s only one way to find out who lurks behind the door, it seems. Gill steps tentatively down the staircase. At the bottom he draws in a deep breath, closes his eyes, exhales, opens his eyes, then answers the door. Standing there on the stoop, the sunlight dancing off her wavy black hair, is a beautiful woman, a woman with skin like a porcelain doll, a woman who looks like she came straight out of Gill’s dreams.

“Hello there!” the woman of Gill’s dreams chimes, giving Gill a smile’s worth of pearly whites that brightens his entire existence up. “I’m Rose Williamson, my uncle lives down on Fricker Drive. We’re out of eggs, do you have…”

Rose Williamson trails off into silence. She’s staring deeply into Gill’s eyes, seeming to fall into a trance. This makes Gill feel very uncomfortable and exposed.

Gill averts his eyes to his feet, then mumbles, “Uh… hi. I’m Gill. Do we have any what?”

But she says nothing, and though Gill is staring at his shoes, he can see the tips of hers out the top of his eyes. She isn’t moving. The wind blows, the planet turns, the fishermen out on Monksville don’t catch a single thing, and finally, Gill looks up and begins to say, “Uh, hello? Did y–”

Gill is cut off when Rose leans into him and presses her lips against his. Gill pulls away immediately, if only to prevent Rose from feeling the… the uh… the gun in his pocket, yeah, let’s go with that, Gill’s a badass. He’s definitely the type to carry a gun around in his pocket.

“What are you doing?” Gill stammers, out of breath. Rose just looks at him bewildered, as if she doesn’t know where she is, as if she doesn’t know who she is. As if she doesn’t care about any of the above. Then, she kisses him again.

Then, they fall on the floor.

Then, with the front door still wide open, Gill becomes a man two times in a row – the first time prematurely while still wearing his pants, the second time with his pants off – and the best part? Rose doesn’t laugh at him, she doesn’t sneer, she doesn’t call him a failure. She just keeps kissing him.

And kissing him.

And kissing him.

And the wind continues to blow.


Hello Commons, this has been the sixth 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 Thirteenth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (21/224)

Aug the Thirteenth

It is today, a veritable twenty-four hours after I committed both Big Mistake Numbers One and Two, that I’ve committed Big Mistake Number Three. I had every intention of just moving on, Journal, I was ready to hit this blank page and write anew, but then I gave into temptation and read the entry I made yesterday. Then I read it a second time and proceeded to think like I was a statue resting its chin on its fist. Now I’ve started writing, obviously, and I completely forget what I was going to say when I first sat down.

I suppose I should start with an explanation, and I won’t play coy, I’m fully aware that this explanation is more for me than it is for you, Journal. In fact, me addressing you as Journal in and of itself is something I do more for me than for you. If I was crazy enough to think you’re alive – hell, even if I was pretending you were alive with the knowledge that you’re not – I wouldn’t say your name so many times every single entry. I can’t stand folks like that, who say your name a trillion times between the moment they open their mouth and the eventuality when they finally close it. “Hey Albey, what are you doing, Albey? Albey, do you even know what’s going on, Albey? Like, really Albey? Really? Albey? Sidney “Albey” Blake? Hello? Why did you stop talking to me, Albey?” Christ, save me the fucking aneurysm. No, I just do it so I don’t feel like I’m sitting by myself as I psychotically scribble symbols onto this blank page for minutes and occasionally hours on end.

As for the explanation, well… Journal, you have now been let in on the secret that’s been kept by all the journals I had during college: you are now aware of How Albey Gets When He Doesn’t Get To Smoke His Weed. That’s how my old friend group put it, at least. Wan’a know how I know that? A group message that I wasn’t meant to receive.

Yeah.

So the guys and gals I chilled with had a group chat that included me (that rarely, if ever, got used) and a second group chat that was only for them. One day someone sent a text to the group that included me about if they should bring weed to a party and somebody else said “Definitely, you know how Albey gets when he doesn’t get to smoke his weed.” So, being the Albey in question – an Albey who had yet to smoke his weed that day, too – I asked, perfectly reasonably, “How does Albey get when he doesn’t get to smoke his weed, then?”

I didn’t get an answer. The party got canceled, too, right at the last minute, and somehow during the fifteen seconds it took me to read and reply to the “party’s canceled” text, all of my friends magickly made other plans that night and I got to sit alone and smoke my weed to lofi like a good little Albey. We all came together and smoked the next day and nobody mentioned it, they just acted like it didn’t happen, and so did I. Life went on.

But it did happen, and I doubt that time was the first time something of that caliber went down. And now I’m not in college anymore, and all of them still are. They’re probably all laughing about it right now, too. “Yo, you remember that Sidney kid who made us all call him Albey? What an obnoxious, idiotic fuckin’ junkie. How sad. It’s no wonder he flunked out.”

I need to take a break from this, hold on.

…                                     …                                    …

All right, I smoked a little. Well, a little more. I uh… fuck it, you know what I’m about, Journal, and so do I. Anyway, honestly, the thing that bothers me about the thing with my college friends is the fact that, while they obviously said a great many things to one another about Albey and How Albey Gets When He Doesn’t Get To Smoke His Weed, they never said anything to me. They never said shit to me about it, not a single word, Journal. Not so much as a single word. I don’t blame them, though – I told them to call me a name, so I became a name. Now it’s all that I understand, and that’s word to Yelawolf.

…I was listening to Love Story earlier, I have Ball and Chain stuck in my head. It’s not the best song on there (Love Story, the titular track, obviously is), but it always hits me the hardest. I don’t know why. It’s like… oh fuck, what’s that interlude called? From Wrek’s The Rooftops Mixtape, um… If You Wake Up! I had to look that up to remember it, oof. Wrek would be ashamed. Quick note to self: apparently there’s an extended version of If You Wake Up with a verse on it. Should find that at some point. Or at least liste–… hold on.

…                                     …                                    …

All right, found it on YouTube. It’s dope as all hell, yes Wrekonize! You buried gold and I just found it seven years later and it’s still shining just as bright as it was when you put it in the ground. ‘Man, I love creativity. That’ll be me someday, like, when I get to writing my poetry I’m not going to stop no matter how small my audience is. Even if I don’t have an audience, fuck it. I’m just go’n’a keep writing and creating and one day, someone will stumble across some of my old shit and be like, “Woah, this dude’s done so much! Who is this ‘man?” And that ‘man will be me. And it will be amazing.

That’s all once I start writing my Mad Poetry, though, which will be… huh, never thought about that, actually. I suppose there’s no better time to start than the present, but… actually, yeah, no buts. The present is the best time to start a project, so long as you don’t already have a project going. Which isn’t the case for me.

SO, I’m officially decreeing this right now: starting on the day (or perhaps the day after, if I finish TTC after the sun goes down) I finish The True Commons, I will begin writing my Mad Poetry. That’s it, that’s that, that’s just what it is. Bam.

Speaking of which, that’s (at least part of) what I was originally going to write. Journal, I did not gather enough rocks. I built about a quarter of the border wall today and I used over half of my rock pile… also, I may have exaggerated when I said the pile was taller than I am. Look, I’m not going to lie, gathering and then converting raw rocks into a fashionable wall is not quite as easy in real life as it is in video games. Like, nowhere near as easy. I thought I might finish today, tomorrow at the latest, but I think there’s a solid chance I’ll be working on this for at least the rest of the week… but, considering how today is Thursday, that’s not all that bad.

…                                     …                                    …

I don’t know how to close this. I feel bad about how angry I was yesterday, like, I feel as though I should apologize, which is ridiculous… but still. I’m sorry, both to you, Journal, and to myself, for allowing my rage to overtake me like that. Just rough, ‘man. I could have written anything, but that’s what came out. It didn’t even rhyme, either. Not my best work at all. Not by far.

But that about does it, I think. If I had some world-shifting philosophical stuff stored up in my head that I wanted to write down today, it’s long gone now. Oh well. The universe is perfect, everything is where it is meant to be at all times.

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

Two Incense Burners – Convenient Incidents (41/84)

The Incense Salesman
And the Wind Continues to Blow

Two Incense Burners

After eating his daily breakfast of six scrambled eggs – no cheese, no salt or pepper, no herbs; just eggs, as Gill is an eggy boy if ever there were one – Gill washes the dishes and proceeds to the couch to watch some television. The morning cartoons have all come and gone, much to his disappointment; it’s at this point that Gill finally checks the clock and sees that it’s a quarter past noon. He really must have slept in today.

‘I wonder if the mail was delivered yet,’ he thinks to himself. Suddenly, as if on cue, Gill hears the rumble of the delivery truck laboriously making its way up Barnstatter. He foots it to the door, belching along the way and catching a hit of eggbreath that makes him stop and retch, which is good. Bill Milligan has gotten many complaints from the mail truck drivers about Gill running out and meeting them at the mailbox; it isn’t that the drivers don’t like Gill, it’s just that the eggy boy always tries to hop into the back of the trucks when the drivers aren’t looking. He even made it all the way back to the post office one time, what a travesty that was.

But today, Gill has no plans to attempt an escape from his life in Treeburg. The light of success is shining over the horizon and Gill is just about ready to catch those lovely rays – just about, that is, because he knows the free samples won’t arrive today. They can’t, he just sent the message to Smells a few moments ago, it would be downright nonsensical – no, downright dreamlike if they arrived. But still, he’s excited to get the mail, so Gill waits with the top of his head peeking through the window of his front door lookin’ like Kilroy anytime the graffiti was here.

The driver peers over to the house and locks eyes with Gill. After stuffing a pile of envelopes into the mailbox with blinding speeds, he stomps on the gas and zooms off in a storm of brown clouds and flying rocks. When the dust settles, Gill heads outside.

The sun is shining bright and Gill has to squint his eyes into a horizontal slit avoid burning his corneas. Only seeing a fraction of what he needs to, Gill stumbles and falls all the way across his now rocky front lawn and scrapes both his knees and elbows on the sorry excuse for a road in front of his house. Upon opening the mailbox, however, all the pain leaves his mind – behind the bills addressed to Bill, there is a small package addressed to Gill, or more specifically, Gill Bottles. Leaving the letters in the box, Gill takes his package (upon which no return address is scrawled) up to his bedroom and locks the door behind him, just in case the burglar comes back.

Gill tears the top off the package and dumps its contents onto his floor, then crumples it up and tosses it in the general direction of his garbage can. As he bends down to pick up his winnings, the towel he threw down to soak up the spilled water catches Gill’s eye, and he ignores it. Laying on his floor are two incense burners, stained wooden disks with carved pieces of soapstone in their centers. Both the stones are a pale, pea smoothie green, both have flower petals carved around a shallow cylindrical depression in their centers, and one has a dark streak running through it.

There are also two little boxes of incense cones – one reading Romantic Rose that bears a picture of a heart made of roses, and one called Wicked which shows a picture of a woman with long black hair wearing nothing but shiny black thigh-height stockings, a shiny black bikini top and bottom, a shiny pair of black gloves that come up almost to her armpits, and a cat mask. A black cat mask. Dangling from the woman’s right hand is a long, golden whip. Drooling a little bit, Gill strokes the image of the woman with the index finger of his right hand, then immediately smells his finger. Then he licks his finger, and then he takes a deep breath and tries to get a hold of himself.

Succeeding, Gill notices there’s also a little slip of paper that came with the free sample. He assumes it’s a form to order more incense products, but upon unfolding it, our eggy boy realizes it’s just a measly handwritten note from the proprietor of Smells Inc. Gill crumples the note without reading it, as he’s never been one to read into things, uncrumples the packaging, stuffs the crumpled note into the uncrumpled packaging, and then throws the repacked packaging (which he crumples back up) into the garbage. Then, he busts open the incense boxes.

Much to his dismay, each box only contains one single cone. ‘Sure is a free sample, all right,’ he thinks to himself. Deciding to save the Wicked incense for tonight’s Gill Time session, Gill pops the Romantic Rose cone into one of the burners – the one without the dark streak, by chance – and then runs downstairs to fetch his Father’s trigger-action match-shaped grill lighter. He comes back to see that nothing has changed, and after taking a breath of relief to signify the fact that the burglar hadn’t broken in when he was gone, Gill lights the cone. The tip ignites and burns rather quickly, releasing plumes of gray smoke into the enclosed airspace of his bedroom, and he takes a big whiff which pulls all the blood out of his head and sends him plummeting into unconsciousness. As he falls down, Gill generates a small gust of air which extinguishes the flame, which is good for Gill, because otherwise, the house would have likely burned down. And then the burglar would have nowhere to hit a second time.

Gill wakes up on his side a few minutes later. He sits up to see the incense cone is no longer spurting its flames, although it’s not much of a cone anymore. Only the bottom third of thing remains, but it’s smoking nice and good and his room irrefutably smells of Romantic Rose. Gill takes another big whiff of the hazy air, being careful to sniff it rather than snort it this time, and he leans back on his carpet with his hands folded behind his head to bask in the aromatherapeutic pleasantness.

And that’s when he sees the djinn.

Looming from the smoke is a thick green stem lined with rows of razor-sharp thorns tipped in a red deeper than the color of blood. Two jade leaves sprout from either side of the apparition, and at the end of the stem bursts trillions of crimson petals, each of them actively wavering and unfolding to reveal the magic which lies at the center of the floral mass. The stem bends towards Gill and his eyes water as he sees what lies in the center – nothingness, a pure absence of things, the most beautiful and glorious sight Gill has ever laid his virgin eyes on. It speaks to him, the voice booming in his mind like the shifting of tectonic plates.

‘Gill Milligan, you have lit the incense cone and awoken me. In order to return to the garden, I must grant you a wish. Choose your words wisely, as they will cost you dearly, but not in the way you may presume.’

Gill tuned the rose out after it whispered I must grant you a wish into his mind. He thinks about it for a moment, he considers his entire life – his relationship with his Father Bill, his Buyify business and the negative cash flow it brings in, all the goals and accomplishments he’s yet to accomplish – and smiles, again, two separate smiles in one day. Gill then opens his mouth and says the following:

“I wish for romance, flower genie. I wish for the woman of my dreams.”

The rose lunges at him. Gill is blinded by the light of its core.

Then, as if he just blinked, Gill wakes up on his side. Feeling dazed, more so than when he got up this morning, Gill sits himself up and rubs his eyes until it burns to touch the lids. ‘I must have been dreaming,’ he thinks, then proceeds to curse himself out for a few minutes. The flow of expletives comes to a screeching halt, however, when he looks at his carpet and sees the large black soot stain, as if the incense he lit had burned all the way out, taking the burner with it, soapstone and all.

After picking up the remaining burner – the one with the dark streak running through it – and the Wicked box and throwing them into his pillowcase for safe keeping, Gill runs into the hall and gets the vacuum. He’s afraid the stain won’t come up, terrified in fact, for when his Father sees it Gill will surely catch the meanest of looks, but it comes right up without fuss. It’s like it was never even there.

Gill goes back to the hall closet and stores the vacuum away. On his way back to his bedroom to have an early Gill Time sesh (as the idea of the woman of his dreams has not left his mind), Gill hears a bare knuckle banging against the wood of his front door.


Hello Commons, this has been the fifth 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 Twelfth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (20/224)

Aug the Twelfth

I am goddamn fucking infuriated, Journal. Fucking livid. This entire day has been fucked from the get-go, I swear to Christ.

So we started by waking up, okay, that was Big Mistake Number One. I should have just stayed in bed–… should have just went back to bed, but no. I beat the sunrise yesterday so I kept the pattern going today. That was goddamn dumb, because all I did was walk to The Foothill and smoke and sit there in the leaves like a braindead hairless ape. I could have smoked and stayed in bed; plus, if I had put any actual thought into my actions this morning, I could have smoked out of The Peace Piece instead of smoking a joint, thus saving myself weed and still getting just as high. Big Mistake Number One.

Big Mistake Number Two: not bringing any weed to the site of The True Commons. This mistake is more understandable though: I thought I was being tailed by two police officers the other day, I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life in jail. I was traumatized by that event, and that’s okay. What’s not okay is how I went about dealing with that trauma: yesterday I walked all the way up Sawblade, then hiked to the spot. That was egregious, just painful, so rather than walking again today, I just smoked hella dope on the porch then drove up the road and hiked the rest of the way, because it has to be hiked – hardly have the money to put gas in my car, there’s no way I could get myself a quad or a dirtbike or anything. Here’s the thing about that, though: by the time I got to the oasis, I was stone cold sober. Might as well have never smoked at all.

And here’s the thing about that: I had already gone all the way out there, so I wasn’t about to turn back and hike all the way to the road just to drive home, smoke, and repeat the whole shit. I had a plan to gather more rocks today and I was going to stick to that plan. So I did stick to that plan, but here’s the thing about my sticking to my plan: I picked pretty much all of the rocks in the general vicinity of The True Commons yesterday.

To remedy this lack of supply, I decided to venture out past the site of The True Commons and look for puddingstones elsewhere, and Journal, I found some. In fact, I found all the puddingstones, every single last one to ever be formed by whatever arcane process of nature (or more likely, humanity) originally formed them. But here’s the thing about picking rocks: sometimes, there are insects living under the rocks.

Sometimes, Journal, those insects are motherless whoresons (read: yellow jackets).

And sometimes, Journal, those yellow jackets take one look at you doing your best to have yourself a good day and they up and ruin it by stinging you.

Right.

On the tip.

Of the goddamned motherfucking nose.

A FUCKING BEE STUNG ME ON THE TIP OF MY FUCKING NOSE JOURNAL I AM SO FUCKING ANGRY!!! WHY THE FUCK DID IT HAVE TO BE ON THE TIP OF MY NOSE? WHY? WHYWHYWHYWHY?!!? I ALWAYS LOVED THE SONG RED NOSE BY TECH N9NE, YOU KNOW? I’VE ALWAYS FUCKING RELATED TO IT, BUT THIS? THIS IS RI-GODDAMN-FUCKING-DICULOUS!!! Hey Mister King, you know your low men in yellow coats? How about ASSHOLE BUGS IN YELLOW JACKETS?! FUCKING ATROCIOUS!!

…                                     …                                    …

FUCK.

God. Fucking. DAMNIT!

…                                     …                                    …

All right, I took a breath… and you know the worst part about it all? I was not just sober but post-high sober when it happened, the kind of sober that leaves you aching for more smoke, and do you want to know when it happened? TEN FUCKING MINUTES AFTER I GOT TO THE SPOT!

And if I wasn’t going to let a lack of high take me back home, I sure as shit wasn’t going to let a bee sting do it. So I stayed out there all day. I avoided the living hell out of the area where I found the bees (after taking out as many as I could with the rampant flailing of my sweatshirt, which I had tied around my waist because it was cold when I ventured out but I got sweaty) – there were plenty of puddingstones elsewhere – and I stayed out there at the site of The True Commons and gathered up all the rocks I need for the border and then some, probably. I don’t actually know how much I’m going to need, but the pile is taller than I am. I’m pretty sure I have enough.

…                                     …                                    …

The sting itself doesn’t even hurt that bad, Journal. Like, it hurts, it stings – no pun intended, but ten bees in ten did die today, I’ll tell you that much right fucking now – but it’s not the physical pain that has me in such a huff. It’s the principle of the thing; it’s not so much that I got stung by a bee, because anybody could get stung by a bee, it’s part of living in a place like Logger’s Pond where society is (loosely) defined as “an area where there aren’t so many trees that you can’t build a house between them.” No, it’s that the ONE, SINGULAR little fatherless product-of-incest whoreson stung me ON THE TIP OF MY FUCKING NOSE!!!!!

THE TIP, JOURNAL! THE TIP OF MY FUCKING NOSE!!

FUCK!!!!

…                                     …                                    …

I feel so, so much anger right now. It’s all of my reality. I didn’t even smoke when I got home, I went right up to my room, folded myself up so I could sit at my tiny little desk, opened you up, and started writing. This has been raw Albey, Journal. No, not even raw Albey – this has been Sidney Blake at his absolute rawest, I embedded my emotions into these symbols I just scrawled into your pages like the asshole bug in its yellow jacked embedded its venom into the tip of my fucking nose. I doubt anybody’s ever going to read my journal – nobody will so long as I’m alive, that much I know for sure, but what happens after the world loses the Mad Poet is not under my control – but if someone is reading this right now, just know that you’ll never read anything like it again. It is pure emotion, pure energy, pure uniquity. I don’t think that wasn’t a word before I wrote it, but if it wasn’t, it is now! So fuck you! And fuck the bees! Fucking motherless bastards, fucking… fucking wing’ed cunts.

GOD I’m angry.

…                                     …                                    …

Well damn… I just took a few minutes to smoke a bowl and I no longer feel the stinging in my nose. I’m not even a tiny bit mad right now. Is it me or is that hilarious? xD

Maybe it’s just me, but that’s okay. It’s just me here, after all. Just me and you, Journal, but you’re less of a you and more of an it, so, y’know.

Well, you don’t, but… yeah.

I was infuriated after a long day of manual labor and getting stung on the tip of the nose by a yellow jacket. Then I came home and smoked a single bowl of weed. Now I’m happy and calm, and a tad bit hungry. And sleepy. I think it’s time for a snack and a lofi nap. How’s that sound?

That sounds great. Oh, sorry, I wasn’t asking you, Journal. I was asking myself. And I answered myself. So now I’m go’n’a go…

…bye.

…                                     …                                    …

Thank you, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Good sleeps and good dreams… and watch out for the yellow jackets. Apparently, they sometimes build hives under rocks~


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

Messages – Convenient Incidents (40/84)

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~