Posted in Writings

Meat and Poultry

Resale Shmucks

“Listen lady, nobody knows better than me that we’re livin’ during strange times, but that don’t mean I’m ‘bout’a let that thur old-school vintage nineteen’seventies souvenir illustrated Metropolitan Museum of Art blank recipe pad go for a shabby eight bucks. That sucker’s worth fifteen at least, ain’t nobody’s goin’ back in time just to get another one. Plus, you kn-you know, I’m not naïve. You’re gonna buy it from me and just double your money, just like the rest of the resale shmucks out here.”

Vallory doesn’t know what to say.

“Yeah, yeah that’s what’s going down. I know your type, lady. I know y’alls all too well because I used to be you. Do you know how much I made in a year slingin’ wares through Craigslist? Well? Do ya?!”

She’s not going to cry, she’s not letting this mean man get one over on her. Vallory is not going to cry.

“I made three-fifty! In profit!

Silence hangs heavily on the air. Vallory is currently the only shopper at this furry man’s garage sale; she was the only shopper when she parked her car and she’ll likely be the only shopper when she inevitably gets back into that car and gets herself home. It’s just her and him, just these two human beings standing on a lawn of chopped grass as the wind blows breezily and the rain threatens to pour and pour. If she speaks she’s going to cry and if she cries then the mean furry man will win, and that cannot happen. Vallory stands her ground, keeps her mouth shut, her eyes dry, her chin up.

Four minutes pass like this.

“Fine, you know what? Just fine,” concedes the furry man. “You win, you can take it… for ten. Do we have a deal?”

As it turns out, they do. Vallory takes her somewhat new old-school vintage 1970s souvenir illustrated Metropolitan Museum of Art blank recipe pad, shamelessly sprints to her car, hops in, hits the push-button start, and races towards the horizon.

Vallory Does Dinner

Sweet, savory barbecue sauce. Molten cheddar and mozzarella cheese. Buttery, grilled corn cobs. Cherry tomatoes and Parmesan cheese tossed into a vat of pasta shells and hit with a blowtorch to char. When Vallory does dinner, Vallory does not mess around.

“Val’,” gushes Manja as she attempts to work down a mouthful of this phenomenal pulled pork banquet Vallory threw together for them, “this food is phenomenal.”

A smile stretches for miles across Vallory’s face. “Well there’s plen’y more where that came from, butterbuns. Eat up!”

And to think, Manja almost didn’t come over tonight. She almost let the strange world she’s living on scare her out of spending a lovely evening with her best friend – her best friend since conception, mind you – eating delicious food and catching up after three months of not seeing each other. That’s just how Manja gets sometimes though, the state of the world troubles her very much. It wouldn’t if she didn’t spend so much time watching mainstream media and scrolling the social medias and waging full-on flame wars against random human beings who she’s never met over topics which she knows nothing about, but she does do all that toxic shit, and most folk begrudge her for it. But not Vallory. Vallory still makes time to see Manja. Vallory invites Manja over for dinner. Honestly, Manja doesn’t know what she’d do without Vallory. Manja likes to spend her waking hours watching disgusting horror films like Human Centipede, like Green Inferno and A Serbian Film and other pieces of art like them, and that practically covers the route of her standard train of thought right there. Most folk don’t like that in another human, most folk think that’s creepy. But not Vallory.

Honestly, Manja doesn’t know what she would do without Vallory. And tonight, Vallory is lucky Manja is here, too. After tonight, Vallory won’t know what she would be doing without Manja in her life, and it all starts when Manja finishes working down that mouthful of the phenomenal pulled pork.

“Good Christ, Vallory! This pork! It’s, it’s just… I’ve never had anything like it!” She engulfs another handful – the dinner started with forks, but, you know, that’s how it started – of pulled pork and then, as drupelets of thick brown barbecue sauce dribble down her stuffed, rosy cheeks, Manja asks, “What did you do to it?”

“Not a whole lot, Manj’!” Vallory raves as she follows a handful of pulled pork with a spoonful of barbecue sauce. “The guy who mailed it to me sent me all the fixin’s, I just followed the instructions!”

Manja, suddenly holding a fork in her saucy hand, stabs herself a wad and starts chewin’. “A guy mailed it to you?! Oh honey, you tell me more about that right now!”

“Well, sure!” Vallory squeals, hardly able to contain herself. This pork is so tasty-fine it’s driving her stark mad. “I was at this big garage sale the weekend before last, I don’t even remember what town it was in, and I bought an old recipe pad from the Met! It was all blank, so I could fill it in myself, and ooooohit has all different sections and illustrations, oh Manja it is to die for I love it so much!”

“So the pork?” as Manja dips a straw into the bottle of barbecue sauce.

“The pork ! Yes! So in the back of the Meat and Poultry section there was this little message. This little ad, it said Want that long belly? Call this number and get yerself some longpork. Fill you up right, you hear? It even said yer-self, like whY-Eee-aRe. It was so clever I just had to call. Any normal human being would. Wouldn’t you?!”

Manja wants to answer, but she can’t at first. Her stomach, her esophagus, her mouth, her fork, and before she grabbed that fork, her hands, it’s all full of Vallory’s pork. The longpork, to get that long belly. Fill you up right, you hear?

See, Manja isn’t a normal human being. Manja likes to spend her time watching disgusting horror movies like Human Centipede, like Green Inferno and A Serbian Film, they’re practically all she ever thinks about, and most folk begrudge her for it. Most folk think she’s creepy, but not Vallory. Vallory makes time to see Manja. Vallory invites Manja over for dinner. Manja doesn’t know what she’d do without Vallory, and in just a moment, Vallory will feel the same way about Manja. Vallory will have no idea what she would do without Manja because she will refuse to have that idea. She’ll picture it in her head, but she’ll refuse to look at the picture because the picture is all around her. Vallory is little more than the stroke of a paintbrush dipped in homemade barbecue sauce, and without Manja, she would be none the wiser.

“Vallory…” Manja trembles, letting the thoroughly chewed longpork fall out of her mouth and onto the plate. “Val’, longpork is… longpork is human meat…”

Hello Commons, this has been Meat and Poultry, the flash fiction story attached to the old-school vintage 1970s souvenir illustrated Metropolitan Museum of Art blank recipe pad from rePurpp, the official store of The Hillside Commons. Click here to go to the store and check it out for yourself.

I also write fiction books, all of which you can read for free on my website. Click here to see the list.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Emancipation: A Mongrel Chronicle – The 2020 Event |The Sideshows| (10/82)

Universe W-2020: The Sideshows 3
May 31st, 2019
Emancipation: A Mongrel Chronicle

A Cat Named The Mongrel

Everything has a beginning, an origin story of sorts. It is simply the nature of what is, and what is happens to be very cyclical in nature.

The laws of birth and death – as a physical creation, you’re likely familiar with at least one of these concepts, the latter tending to be quite the bitch at familial holiday get-togethers. Here in the Universe dubbed W-2020, much like in my own and maybe yours too, there are no exceptions to these laws – all things, at one time or another, are born, and at one time or another they’ll die… in body. However, as you may or may not be aware, there’s a lot more to this Universe than simple physicality; there’s also the domain of the mind, and more importantly, or rather, more pertinently, there is spirit.

Trotting among the standard run of the mill lifeforms inhabiting this eclectic plane of Existence are lifeforms whom, upon merging their arbitrarily defined circumstances with their minds, become self-proclaimed gods. These beings possess an excessive amount of something, whether it be time, currency, technology, connections, resources (whether valuable or in-), what have you. Because of this access to more stuff than the lifeforms around them, the stuff-havers get an idea in their head that says, ‘You were bestowed with all this stuff for some higher purpose that isn’t perfectly clear to you, for some reason. Ignore that last bit though, you were created for higher reasons than the rest of these peonish peasants!’

Once this idea’s been allowed to ferment inside their mind until it solidifies, these beings go ahead and act like they’re some sort of gift to the world, often making complete asses out of themselves in front of all the other beings that choose to surround them. Unless, of course, they choose to wield their influence for good, or rather, for the benefit of the beings with which they coexist; in these scenarios, regardless of how infrequently they occur, the given self-proclaimed god self-proclaiming their own godship really isn’t that far off from the truth. A bit early, perhaps, but not far off.

At the end of the day though, all these beings wield is influence. No matter how much shit they throw at the fan that is existential kickback, the wind will not stop – it will only stink when it hits their noses.

Above the self-proclaimed gods on W-2020’s infinitely vertical spectrum of consciousness are the actual gods. Not even big G, just to get that out of your head. These beings, having surpassed the base realm of physicality in one way or another, dabble in the mastery of the domain of the mind. They represent, possess, create, and exude knowledge in the purest, most refined sense – they’re the masters of their fields, known by none and studied by less. These beings can be benevolent, if they wish, or they can fuck shit up; godship comes with the ability to decide whether you’d like to help or harm the lifeforms around you on an entirely situational basis.

These gods, as powerful as they may grow to be, are always far from omnipotence; they too die eventually, inevitably cast astray from the pantheon of the mind they spend their entire existences building up. Death is not the end for the gods though; following their demise a god will be reborn, sometimes in a new body, sometimes on a different planet, always equipped with the knowledge of what it must do but lacking the knowledge of how – this instills a certain balance between the so-called forces of good and evil, you see. Gods are also born with a secondary, underlying piece of knowledge to accompany their knowledge of what they must accomplish in life, one inescapable gospel of godhood that some higher beings spend entire incarnations trying to fight: gods are not, and never will be, at the top of the consciousness spectrum.

Seeing how self-proclaimed gods are no more than (sometimes cocky) masters of the body, and true gods are masters of the mind, all that remains are the masters of the spirit.

Universe W-2020 was created by a blast of energy emanating from something near the top of the consciousness spectrum; some think it was a being, some think it just kind of happened, both and neither of them are right. So when this being created everything – the various tiers of lifeforms, the Universe they fester within, the Multiverse it’s all contained in and yadda yadda big words – it did so in the instantaneous flash of a timeless moment. Despite that, even the top being is not omniscient, and it cannot ensure its entire creation remains stable by itself. The being created this Universe to exist in it, not to monitor and micro-manage it; I’m sure you can understand.

In order to sustain balance, this being had to create a new tier of lifeform. A secret, higher form of life, able to control and manipulate the very energy that life both emanates from and is sustained on – these are the aforementioned masters of spirit. These beings operate at the highest possible level of consciousness their specific situation allows for; where the gods are masters of knowledge, these higher beings brandish the very force of intelligence itself. They too exist in a hierarchy, the original creator of what is residing at the top, but yet still as an equal to its fellow spiritual beings (as long as they’re not in the room with it).

To avoid further overuse of the word being, let us call these masters of spiritual pillar of Existence the universally endowed – you know, because upon birth they’re endowed with the intelligence that the Universe itself operates on. There are myriad of these beings inhabiting Universe W-2020, some who know what they are and others that are painfully unaware; this is the story of neither type.

No, this is a story, a chronicle of sorts, about the first universally endowed creature to be birthed into Universe W-2020, one who does not think about the purpose of his own life but one who just simply lives.

This is the story of a cat named The Mongrel.

A Chase Ensues

It’s an exceptionally balmy night in the self-cleaning streets of New Manhattan. An innumerable number of cars are self-driving an even larger, still innumerable number of humans, and even a few beings, to wherever they think they need to be getting to right this second. Some folks are enjoying a night out on the town, keeping it mellow at one of the many speakeasies or smoking lounges, while others are pushing the limits of their own comfort zones at extreme sports venues or snuff houses like Madame Mwazah’s Train of Pain. Some just got out of a 16D movie, their nerves still tingling from being technologically removed from and reinserted into their bodies, while others are looking for a quiet place to veg out and enjoy whatever cocktail of arbitrary drugs, narcotic, Psychedelic or otherwise, they decided to shotgun tonight. Some are lurking in the luxuriously ratty back alleyways, lying in wait to stick up some unsuspecting shmuck who resolved on going for a swell perambulation without packing a deadly weapon, while others, all gutsied up in tuxedos and evening gowns, are staring down at the city from inside their skyscrapers, essentially doing the same thing but in a strictly corporate fashion. The Mongrel, just coming out of a nap, takes in all the nonsense with the most uninterested look possible plastered on his furry little face.

The Mongrel’s lived in this sprawling cityscape for quite a short time now, only being born a year ago amongst a litter of six kittens. His mother was a hairless Siamese and his father was a fat orange tabby, the latter probably serving as the character model for the star of the popular newspaper comic Farfield. All the kittens in the litter more or less resemble their parents, sharing the same colored coat (or lack thereof) of mom and pops, but not The Mongrel. Not only was our dude born a few sizes larger than his siblings, bless his poor mother, but also with a sleek black coat and white fur emerging from his belly, booting his paws, and decorating his nose/mouth/lower face area… you know what I mean.

From the very start, The Mongrel knew that he was some kind of special – whether that meant genetically deformed or superior, he did not know, or care for that matter, for he is a cat. All The Mongrel wants to do in life is, quite simply, his thing. In the last life he lived, this included roaming the forests of the East Coast hundreds of years ago in the body of a fearsome mountain lion, but that was then and this is now, and now, The Mongrel doing his thing involves finding whatever delicious-smelling morsel the hairless apes stashed away for him in the nearby tall metal can.

The Mongrel crawls out of his hidey hole and prowls his way out of the alley, initiating a dash across a gridlocked street until he finds himself face-to-face with a gas station. This station, one of the city’s many Lexicon-Grovels, has a RapidSurvey minimart on the property – this is The Mongrel’s go-to hotspot when he’s hungry or bored and he can’t find any large alley crickets to kill for food, sport, or otherwise. He comes here because it’s a food depository and he respects the humans for building it; what he doesn’t respect is the fact that humans walk in, get their food, and leave without eating it immediately. Like, really? How can one possibly hold food in the palm of their creepily fingered hands and not devour it on the spot?! Like this one time – get ready for this shit – The Mongrel witnessed a human, somewhat young and seemingly both male and female at the same time, walk inside the minimart to get food, walk out with said food, and point a glass rectangle at it for a few minutes, just to ultimately toss the food into the can! Without even eating it! The sheer absurdity, the sheer wastefulness of these dirty, hairless apes! Inarguably flabbergasting, but it didn’t bother The Mongrel for too long; dude ate very well that night.

Keeping low in prowl, The Mongrel lurks around to the back of the building where all the bulk excess food is stored in large metal containers, most of which are slathered in green paint. He was going to hit up the can out in the front, but the one of the odder monkeys accompanied by one of those four-legged hairy beasts walked up and stashed a bag of foul-smelling nasty right on top of all the food, ruining it forever. The Mongrel wasn’t engulfed in a fiery fury of rage for too long though – wildly whipping his tail around helped him sever his emotional attachment to his perceived dinner. Besides, the food stash in the back has way more grub, and hardly any other animals hang around it anymore. This may be due to some sportful genocide (read: playing) on The Mongrel’s part, but the past is the past.

When The Mongrel gets around back he picks up a scent, the aromatic, infatuous scent that can only emanate from one, specific morsel: balls of meat smothered in tangy yet delicious blood-colored stuff. While it doesn’t take The Bottomless Pit very long to find his target – he has a nose like you wouldn’t believe; the Mongrel can sniff out the scent of food from four hundred twenty miles away – you better believe he takes his sweet time inhaling it. Bite after bite of lukewarm beefmeat, lap after lap of tasty sauce; The Mongrel has never been more elated than he is right this moment, bringing decimation with no survivors to this decadent, monumental offering the humans have obviously prepared and left out here just for him. Pure, unadulterated bliss… until about two minutes later when he finds the bottom of his bottomless pit of a stomach, gets bored, and walks away.

As Mongolio turns the corner and prepares for the dash home, something that surprisingly enough isn’t readily edible or killable catches his interest. A car, packed to the tires with humans, pulls up to one of the pumps and lowers one of their windows, letting out all that adolescent apestink. Due to The Mongrel’s supreme sense of hearing, the excessively loud mouth noises of the humans, and The Mongrel’s inexplicable capability of understanding any and/or all forms of communication regardless of the language with which it’s spoken, The Mongrel is forced to eavesdrop on their conversation. Three of the humans, males, are attempting to anecdate the one other human, female, that around Christmastime a few years ago, a flying yeti shot jelly-loaded missiles at them for trying to record it as it flew through the clouds. She’s not buying it though, homegirl just wanna drank.

The Mongrel quickly loses interest in the conversation and turns around to head home and take a nice catnap, walking underneath the beam of a streetlight on his way towards his crossing. He then hears a shriek, followed by the slamming of doors and the rapid onset of approaching footsteps.

‘Ohhhh shit,’ The Mongrel thinks to himself as he turns back to witness two hardly evolved chimpanzee escapees coming at him at a mediocre speed. ‘They’re gonna try to get me.

Mongo, a pure ball of energy, fur, and good looks, dashes back into his hidey hole hidden in the alley, his movements slicker than a greased streak of black lightning. From his spot he listens as the humans try to and quickly fail to keep up with him; he even watches their dirty feet as they stomp’n’tromp along mere inches from the entrance to his cubbyhole, completely unaware that he’s there, yet there he is all the same. Funny how that works, isn’t it? The humans proceed to waste the next twenty minutes of their lives searching every square inch of the alley until a creepster in a trench coat and nothing else scares them off. The most intelligent species on the planet, according to themselves; if The Mongrel was physiologically capable of laughing like a human, he undoubtedly would be right now. However, he is a cat, so he does the thing that any cat in their right mind would do in a situation such as this: hunt down that filthy bastard cave cricket that just had the audacity to crawl out of a crack between the bricks.

A chase ensues that lasts all night, taking The Mongrel from his alley nestled in the heart of the city to the drone-powered shipping hubs of the PortNation district, then back across to the graveyard of the suburbian outskirts near the North Beach of the walled-in island until they bang a hard left and enter one of the more ethnically and sexually diverse districts of the city, South Jopia. A quick note, and The Mongrel wanted me to tell you this, but despite all the fancy names, everywhere looks the same in this stupid city. PortNation is a bunch of skyscrapers, the headstones of the suburbian graveyard are all skyscrapers, and South Jopia? All scrapeskyers.

The cricket fights hard and well, truly giving The Mongrel a run for the dollars he does not have nor want. Eventually the pair make it back to the middle of the city, The Mongrel’s dojo. They blow past his hidey hole a few times before the insect turns down a street that The Mongrel has always avoided because instincts, not this time though. This time there’s a cricket involved, a smart, respectable cricket, a cricket that must taste death at The Mongrel’s claws.

Literal cat chases metaphorical mouse down the street, under a barely open garage door, and into what appears to be a physical space that was distorted into a dimension of pure light. When The Little Guy’s eyes adjust, the room’s true identity reveals itself: a massive garage with marble floors engraved with patterns of olive branches and owls in gold, rubies, and more gold, light fixtures installed in the ceilings and floors, and a team of dormant robots that, thankfully, look absolutely nothing like humans whatsoever. The Mongrel, taken aback by all these reflective surfaces, gets distracted long enough for the cricket to disappear once more, leaving its pursuer not even the sound of its crunchy legs tapping against the floors. Oh well, at least The Feline Phenom has a new place to sleep and live. Nothing will be able to find him here, especially not one of those silly humans. There’s no way one of them could fit underneath that garage door, no freaking way. Their dumb, stupid, useless, dumb opposable thumbs are just too fat.

Studying his surroundings, The Mongrel notices there are quite possibly more cars in here than there are out on the street. This place must belong to a human, then… ugh.

A wave of tidal proportions composed solely of the feeling of tiredness crashes over Mongo and joins forces with his already overwhelming wish to avoid human contact until he slumbers and wakes back up. This sends him on one mission: find a car, one that he’s never seen driving around before, and sleep soundly until he can sleep no more. There’s actually quite the selection in here, and that’s after eliminating all the cars that don’t fit into the very strict guidelines and preferences The Mongrel holds for the places he rests his head at all hours of the day and/or night; how lovely!

Deciding that snooping around and finding the perfect car would take far too much effort, The Mongrel jumps into the nearest vehicle with an opened window, which just happens to be a laser red Vechy Vorcette from fifteen years ago, give or take. A very sleepy Buddy curls up into a little ball on the back seat and gently drifts off into slumber. Deams of unbridled cricket massacre guide him into a state of unconscious delight.

The Passenger Seat

The next morning, a resounding ding startles The Mongrel from the most catly of naps. His ears perk up and he lazily stands, does a little stretch thing, and walks over to the car door, barely poking his head up enough to see what in the world is impudent enough to disturb him from his slumber.

Surprise surprise, it’s a fucking human. Exceptional. Awh, but this one’s all dressed up in a suit, and he has a purple tie, too! How charming.

Our furball, less than half awake and not giving a damn, sits up and watches the human stroll halfway across the gilded floor before randomly stopping dead in his tracks and swinging his head back and forth, swaying his hair, as if he was surveying the room. The Mongrel, sketched out by the eccentric behavior, ducks down to the floor and does his best to hide in the space underneath the passenger seat, managing to fit a whole third of himself into the gap. Meh, good enough.

The clicks and clackles of Suitboi frantically pacing around the garage ricochet off the walls and directly into The Mongrel’s ears. What’s more, the human keeps whispering words to himself under his breath as he tromps around, sketching Mongo out to an even further extent. It isn’t that Cat’s afraid he couldn’t outrun the human, that’s not it at all, escaping just requires a certain amount of effort effort that Boy doesn’t feel like expelling right now. All he wants to do is go back to sleep, so much struggle so early in the current stream of consciousness does not resonate well in The Mongrel’s infinitely complex brain.

Eventually the human relents, the click’a’clacking of his shoes unto marble audible for entire seconds after. He begins to speak, his mouth noises easily penetrating the makeshift hidey hole Mongruh’s buried himself in.

“All right, y’all… I don’t know who or what is in here, but I really, really feel like something squirrely be goin’ down. There’s some straight juju in the air and I don’t know if it’s the bad flavor or the good flavor of juju. BUT! I don’t really want to know either, so I’m just gonna leave… if you’re some kind of thief or something, well, I think you should make like a loaf of banana bread and get the fuck outta here before I find you and put you the fuck outta here. ‘Kay, byeee!”

With that, The Mongrel hears more clicking proceeded by a car door opening and closing, more miscellaneous car noises, the sound of three low-speed collisions, followed finally by the human audibly wishing to himself that he had lit up this morning. ‘What a strange huma…’ The Mongrel thinks to himself as he falls back to sleep, still sort of underneath the passenger seat.


A few hours pass and Dude wakes up. He’s significantly less sleepy, but he feels heavier than usual, a bit sluggish even. He goes to peek out of his hidey ho– oh wait, he lives in a garage now, that’s right. This place is certainly upgrade to what was once his humble abode, but when he decided to live in here for the rest of his eternal life, The Mongrel failed to consider something of dire importance to his quality of life: where is he going to poop?! The Mongrel must be sneaky at all times from now until he never ever dies ever, especially with that confirmed human sighting this morning, but his poops and sneakiness don’t exactly go together. Like, at all.

Stress begins to overtake The Cat, but not your everyday stress; no, this is real stress, stress like a human’s trying to get him, stress like witnessing the global extinction of alley crickets, stress like he’s bombed on someone’s spot just to find out there’s nowhere to drop his bombs!

It’s at this point, his tail mid-whip, that a wonderfully relieving revelation overtakes our little friend: this place isn’t just a garage. This is his brand new, gold-encrusted marble-tiled litter box! If only momma could see him now… anyway, as he’s about to leap from the car and find himself a nice spot to lay it all down, the memory of the weird human rears its fedora-topped head.

‘Fuck that guy, I’m gonna shit in his car.’

And so he does.

And so it smells.

Really, really bad.

Cat, feeling lighter on his feet than ever before, springs from the eternally ruined automobile and takes a prowl around the garage to better familiarize himself with the new digs. Well, he starts to prowl, but the prowl evolves into a sprint when he spots that damned cricket from last night. That little motherfucker escaped The Mongrel and it dares to show its goo-filled exoskeleton again?! Oh no, not today.

A pursuit over the marble ensues. The Mongrel has never before encountered such slipperiness during his escapades over concrete, nor asphalt; this marble’s a different animal. Just like The Mongrel. He respects this choice of flooring.

Jumping over motorcycles, ducking under cars, leaping through a helicopter or two, and forcing The Mongrel to slide around all over the place, the cave cricket proves to be quite the prolonger of the inevitable. Eventually the pair comes to a slightly opened vent that connects to a series of tubes leading somewhere under the floor, and the cricket jumps in, leaving The Mongrel to bat at the cover until he realizes he needs to use is claws to pry it open. And so he does. Having thrown all caution to the wind many, many lives ago, The Mongrel then slings himself into the darkness after his prey.

The fall feels like it lasts for hours. Fur and whiskers tumble violently through the air and sensations of all three of the emotions on the feline emotional scale hit The Mongrel at once. In reality, the fall only lasts a few fast minutes and The Mongrel lands on his feet totally unscathed, but there’s no telling him that, he’s a survivor. The cricket’s completely vanished from his sight, and his mind, too; Mongo’s attention is wholly captured by the underground laboratory complex he seems to now be trapped in.

Such a busy basement – there are workstations for all sorts of “manly” hobbies, more computers than a team of four humans could use at once, robotic beings both assembled and scattered about in pieces, welding equipment, mounds and mounds of unorganized spare parts avalanching out of open doors and storage cabinets, a couple walls covered with a large assortment of weapons of both the standard and science fiction varieties, test tubes, gigantic vats of chemicals (some glowing, some radioactive, and some both) and, finally, not a single poster depicting a specimen of the human feem. The Mongrel, having been around the block more than a few times, realizes exactly what kind of human lives down in this cave, and he wishes to avoid making eye contact with it at all costs.

Upon this realization, two large metal doors that were previously posing as a normal wall slide open behind The Mongrel, releasing a tubby creature wearing overalls under a transparent plastic lab coat, of all things. The creature, taking an unimpressive step and a half before noticing The Mongrel’s presence, freezes and allows his eyes to bulge from his head.

“Oh my god thERE’S A CAT IN HERE! CAAAAAT! HOw did you get in hERE?! NO! You’re a spy, sent from the United States Government Resurgence Force! Obviously! All weapons systems, robots, automated chemical spraying hose-o-ramas! When I step back behind that door, open fire and don’t close up shop until you’re either dead or out of ammo! There’s no telling what this cat could do! This is NOT a DRILL, robots, I repeat! This is NOT a DRILL!!”

The chunky monkey, busy going around the room and shouting at all his inanimate objects, did not notice The Mongrel pull a quick how do you do, for The Mongrel is as smart as his fur is sleek. From beneath the floating flying saucer bed in the corner, The Mongrel watches the hulking creature pant and gasp uncontrollably as if it was exhausted from walking around in circles for two minutes, then it limps back into the secret room and seals the wall. For the next several hours (or minutes, who’s to say?), more loud noises erupt from that solid metal door than The Mongrel ever wanted to hear in his literally infinite life. Once the onslaught against the monkey’s own ridiculous fears subsides, said monkey opens the door and creeps out into the chemicular mist laden battlefield, the smells of gunpowder, laser beams, and heated metal co-mingling with the myriad of spilled, mixed, and ruined chemical compounds is almost enough to send The Mongrel into a seizure.

Almost. But not today.

The human, a wide smile carved across his genetically paranoid face, walks back into his bedroom and seals the door. With the slap of his right sleeve, the ventilation system clears out all the nasty air and replaces it with clean, homemade air, hinted with a scent of lemons and lavender. Unfortunately for humey, the smile morphs into a terrified gaspish mawgape when The Mongrel walks out from underneath the hovering bed and breaks the silence with an apparently paradigm-shifting, “Mrrrrow?

“Wha… what? No, that’s not… how?” the man(?) whimpers as he falls to his knees, palming his leaking face. “How is this possible? All of my equipment, muh–… my weapons. You… survived?”

The Mongrel gets the feeling that this dude desperately needs more human contact, or any type of interaction with other living things, for that matter.

“Well, I knew this day would come,” the overall-clad man-sized mouse squeaks out. “You know, cat, if that is what you really are, I knew this would happen. You’re obviously from the yoU-eSs-Gee-aRe-eFf, I mean, duhviously. I’ve been discovered, Cape Enterprises Uncorporated’s secret is officially uncovered. This truly is the end of days.”

The human raises his right arm and rolls up his sleeve to reveal a wristwatch, not just any normal watch of the wrist though. No, The Mongrel can sense the power emanating from deep within the gears of the thing’s clockwork; something is coming, something big.

With the inputting of a complicated series of button presses, all the lights go out in the bedroom. The once white fluorescents are replaced by a dreadful red glare that comes as a package deal with an obnoxious alarm.

The human looks The Mongrel in the eyes, whimpering, “Just know, Gruncle Fred, you did this,” before curling up in a ball and singing himself a nursery rhyme as his face leaks moisture from various orifices.

Suddenly, a robot voice with an alarmingly feminine undertone comes booming through the alarm chatter.


The Mongrel, unsure of exactly what’s going on right now, sits himself down next to the sadsack and spends the next fifteen seconds grooming himself. Five seconds after that’s over with, Suitman from the garage materializes into the room. After shooting tubbo in the neck with a cannonball or a dart or something, hard to tell, the suited human deactivates the blaringly loud inconvenience with a press of his tie. He then looks around, assessing the situation with a facial expression of this shit happens way too often here before pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes.

“Oooooh-kay, so a few hours ago I certainly felt differently, but now I’m very glad you shat in my car today. C’mere lil’ guy, let me get you out of here. Sigmund needs some sleepy time.”

This goes about as well as you’d expect, The Mongrel avoiding His Eccentricness for minutes on end, the former jumping rapidly from the bed to the walls to the ceiling in an attempt to not get getted. This lasts until the jar of Catnip is removed from Suitman’s jacket, our Feisty Furball becoming immediately more complacent once he catches a whiff of the holy herb. Always being one for compromise, The Mongrel allows the conscious human to pick him up and carry him into a small room that, once the doors close, seemingly begins to ascend.

More than a few minutes of the human breathing very heavily later, the doors open into a cozy little hallway that leads into a cozy, not so little office that sports a dastardly lack of scratching posts. Before The Mongrel can squirm his way out of Suitman’s grasp, a demented howl reverberates through the air. As Cat looks over and locks eyes with the howler, he gets a strange impression that the woman’s name must be Karen.

“BOSS!” as The Mongrel allows the woman to give him a belly rub. “Where did you find this adorable little whoozits?! I LOVE him! We should call him Milkshake!”

The Mongrel and Suitman turn to each other, sharing a look of What the fuck? over a simmering mutual feeling of The fuck we should. The man lets The Little Man down and proceeds to explain to the Karen that one, they’re not keeping the cat (Duh. Nobody contains The Mongrel.), that Sigmund almost hit the big red button again because the cat found its way into his lab, and four, that after he gets back from his business trip to Oregon, he’s going to bring the cat to an animal shelter.

Karen protests and points out the fact that her boss left out the number two and skipped over the number three, but Suitman will have none of it, telling her that if she wants a cat she can go out and save one from imminent death on her own time. She answers this with a pout, explaining that she already has seven cats downstairs and she needs another one for the office when Suitman isn’t around to entertain her.

Sutiman, claiming he isn’t offended by Karen’s comment, acts extremely offended and goes off on a tirade about how he does so much work, how he has such a cool suit filled to the seams with so many gadgets and contraptions, and… The Mongrel loses interest, deciding to explore his new new digs.

It takes Mongrath, Eminent God Of All Things Feline, literally twenty seconds to locate a collection of wooden scratching posts that are all set up around a raised platform, the essence of the platform whispering to The Mongrel that it will be used for very unsettling purposes within the next year. Ignoring this, The Mongrel gets to work ruining the chairs forever until that tidal wave of exhaustion comes back for a second helping. A full day of being bombarded by bombastic bangs and booms can really take a lot out of a cat! Dude wanders around until he finds what appears to be either a bedroom or a hidden cannabis closet, it’s difficult to tell due to the conflicting smells of human and cannabic origins. The Mongrel jumps up on the bed to find a smaller, suitcase-shaped bed for himself, stuffed almost to the brim with identical copies of the exact same black suit. ‘Purrfect.’

The Mongrel squishes his way into the suitcase, burying himself betwixt a suit and another suit for sustainable warmth. As our boy’s fading into sleepdom, his nose picks up a cannabic odor drifting up through the clothing, quickly dominating his awareness. Yeesh, do all humans do drugs? Sad little monkeys.

Still feeling zonked from mingling with the Catnip deities, The Mongrel gently drifts off to sleep in his brand new makeshift hidey hole. Sweet dreams, Buddy.

A Flick Of His Tail

The next sunrise, Chuck wakes up feeling the wonderfully human feeling of being burnt as fuck. I mean, he wakes up feeling awash in afterglow. He checks the clock guarding his nightstand– 4:21 in the morning. ‘God. Damnit.’ Sleep has never been a close companion of Chuck’s, always flirting with him endlessly before dipping out the bathroom window halfway through their dates. Unless it’s a double date with Cannabis and More Cannabis anyway, but that’s beside the point. He decides that, for the first time in his life, mind you, that since he is up, he might as well stay up and get on with his day. Today this means leaving his city, breeching the mainland, and flying until he hits the other side of the country.

Chuck and Emilio, a childhood friend of Chuck’s, have been trying to get together for a good ol’ fashioned week-long powwow for quite some time now, but Chuck’s antics and wildly successful business ven– well, his antics mostly, always seem to get in the way. Not this time though; it’s almost 2020 for crying out loud! If New Manhattan’s most elusive eccentric wants to fly to Oregon for a week and smoke himself sillier, he should be able to. And if he has to lie to his Karen The Secretary and call it a business trip, so be it.

After draping himself in one of his many identical suits, Chuck zips up the suitcase (dutifully ignoring the purring noise emanating from deep within) and sneaks out to the elevator.

The evil box of fears takes our man (and cat) to the roof where there’s a large aerial vehicle waiting for him. This is no average helicopter or plane though; based off an old wartoy called the W-22 Osprey, one of old Grunc’ Fred’s most potent fuck you vehicles, The Superego Mk I has the shape of a transport plane with helicopter propellers at the ends of its wings, the props capable of shifting from verticality to horizontality once the craft is up in the air, plus an extra fourteen somethings tacked on that Sigmund threw in just for good measure. Chuck chucks the suitcase back in the passenger bay, one side unzipped, as he climbs his way into the front seat. With the press of a button that’s clearly marked AUTO-TAKEOFF AND
-PILOT, the craft takes off into the air, Suitman grabbing the joystick and making a very big show of pretending to be in control of his ascension. Once Chuck is… well he’s never high enough, but once the craft gains enough altitude over the city’s border wall, the propellers achieve horizontality and the fourteen hidden somethings reveal themselves to be jet engines, sending the craft beaming through the sky like a meteor through outer space.

A few minutes of pretending to fly later, Chuck gets bored and wanders out to the passenger bay. He sits down next to the suitcase and pats it a few times, saying, “Okay, I know you’re in there. Come on out little guy, I won’t throw you from the plane.”

Chuck gets neither a reply nor an acknowledgment, the suitcase simply does not respond to his gesture. Reacting in the way any sane, rational human being would in this situation, Chuck tears the luggage open and starts digging through his packed belongings as frantically as he possibly can. Suits and matching slacks go flying every which way, even loose, and to his astonishment, he only finds some shedded fur, a hairball (gross), and an empty baggy that carries with it the faint scent of catnip. He digs further until he hits the bottom, making sure his stash of Cannabis is still intact, which it is, allowing Chuck to breathe himself a sigh of relief.

“Oh well, I guess I’m going this alone.”

Chuck mopes his way back up to the pilot’s cabin to find none other than The Mongrel, sat proud and tall upon the co-pilot’s seat. Woah!

“Yo, Milkshake! I mean, Random Alley Cat I Found And Saved From Imminent Death That You Yourself Caused! You’re here!”

Mongo looks over to Chuck for a second before diverting his gaze back to the aircraft’s radar and GPS map. The cat, to Chuck’s amazement, sits motionlessly, attentively staring at the map for minutes on end without responding to any of his catcalls. Chuck can hardly even exist for a few minutes without getting himself involved in some sort of psychotic shenanigans, let alone sit still; this cat is something else.

Human starts pretending to fly again, this time as a fighter pilot in the surely upcoming third iteration of a worldwide war. After he downs a few bogeys, he checks in on his co-pilot, who seems to be missing. Coincidentally, meaning the phenomena can’t be linked at all, there’s a sequential jumping-scratching noise coming from the passenger bay, forcing Chuck to debate whether or not he should stop playing pretend. At first he decides not to, but his decision quickly reverses itself when the craft rumbles and entire torrents of air start rushing all around him. The words fuck and Oh are queued on repeat in Chuck’s head as he attaches a safety leash to his belt and proceeds with an investigation.

Rounding the corner, Chuck sees the one thing, the single set of circumstances that he was hoping to avoid seeing: the cat somehow opened one of the doors separating the inside of the craft and a forty-thousand-foot drop. Chuck’s gaze meets The Mongrel’s once more; the two silently stare at each other for seconds on end as oxygen, belongings, and an assortment of herbs fly out into the open sky. The suited man, securely attached to his ship and unable to walk any further, can only manage a single plea, two groveling words as a solitary tear forms and is immediately whisked away from the corner of his eye.

“Please… don’t.”

With a flick of his tail, The Mongrel jumps from the aircraft like the caution he threw to the wind all those incarnations ago. Chuck leaps but is immediately caught by his belt like a pissed off dog on a chain, sending his face directly into the plush carpet lining the floor of the vessel. He peers up and tries to catch a glimpse of the flying cat, but the little black furball has already shrunk out of view, his very being merged with the forests below.

Chuck, feeling emotionally devastated, manages to shut the door and regain stable footing, which he quickly abandons as he collapses back to the floor in a fit of rage, sadness, and an overwhelming need to not feel anything right now. When the rage has passed, Chuck gets up and hobbles to the front seat, engaging hyperflight. A joint is pulled from his suit pocket – the sheer astonishment over the fact that it survived the door’s opening allowing our catless hero to feel a tiny bit less miserable. He makes it to Oregon before he can even find a lighter, but not to worry: Emilio’s waiting for Chuck at the airport, and he’s got it covered.

The Mongrel has achieved emancipation. Thank you.


The Mongrel Dashes

Overcome with jubilation, dopamine, and an increasingly intense Psilocybin high, Chuck sprints up the foothill. His giddiness is cut short about seven steps later, however, when his bare foot splatters a fresh, steaming pile of nasty.

“Oh come the fuck on now, really? REALLY WITH THI–” sniff “Wait, I know that smell.”

Chuck quickly swings his head back and forth, surveying the area until he spots a very familiar tuxedo-furred furball staring him down from up the path. The Mongrel dashes, Chuck following him all the way to the mountain’s peak, the Mushrooms allowing him to ignore the screams for help his legs are trying to send to his brain. Upon reaching the summit and striding over the arrow-shaped rock that he doesn’t even notice, Chuck comes to a pastureish clearing with a cabin set back near the treeline. It is here that he shares a startled look with a curly haired hippie sitting lotus in the grass.

Hello Commons, this has been the third story from the fourth chapter of The 2020 Event |The Sideshows|, a satirical short story anthology about Existence and the universes that float within it. |The Sideshows| is the final book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Sideshows| 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 |The Sideshows| and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed paperback copy (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) paperback copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Just Like That


An unholy glob of brownish mucus leaves the witchy woman’s mouth stringlessly and crashes dangerously close to Harrison’s right loafer. He takes a step back, as does Libby, and the witchy woman goes on the offensive. She steps towards them twice and her odor pushes them back another two steps. Now the witchy woman’s smiling – she has them right where she wants them.

“You two aren’t from around here, are you?” she creaks, her voice a leaky faucet.

Libby’s eyes light up. “No, we’re not! How did you know??”

The witchy woman’s eyes move up and down each of their bodies individually. Harrison and Libby take the chance to do the same to the witchy woman, and we shall join them in their mutual judgment of each other. The witchy old woman is draped in a black cowl that seems to sprout from her black wool sweater. Her legs are covered by a skirt, a very thick and old skirt, one made of stained burlap or something else just as wicked. The bottom hem of the heavy skirt is torn, frayed, tattered, soaked deep with mud. The outsiders, on the other hand, are dressed up fancy-like for their drive through the rural outskirts of Bur City. Harrison’s wearing his penny loafers, the classic browns, beneath caramel slacks and a riveting red blazer with what else but a black button-down with white buttons beneath it. Libby is wearing a sundress and only a sundress, and she doesn’t care who knows because her OnlyFans followers paid her very well to pull this little stunt and when it’s all done and over with she can buy herself a parka.

“Just a hunch,” crones the witchy woman. “What you had the wiles to point at is The Nineteen’ninety-five Longaberger Pottery Gingerbread Country Cottage set, not a cookie mold as you so belliriantly put it.”

“Um…” injects Harrison, an English major. “Belliriantly isn’t a word, Ma’am.”

“Irregardless, the Longaberger gingerbread house mold is a very rare collectible, it’s individually numbered and only a limited number of them exist. I’m going to need… I’m going to need seventy-four dollars for it.”

“Seventy-four dollars?!” booms Libby, her eyes burning hotter than the oven she’s determined to use to bake a gingerbread country cottage. “How are we supposed to get dinner on the way home if we pay you seventy-four dollars? That’s way too much!”

The witchy woman folds her arms and smiles a toothless smile. “And yet the price holds firm. You two cidiots have a nice day now.”

A Large Tip

“…cidiots, as in city idiots. The utter audacity of the woman was entirely preposterous.”

“You got that right,” says a gruff purr of a voice.

Harrison looks out of the corner of his eye and sees the bartender. He’s cleaning a drinking glass down at the other end of the bar, but Harrison was talking pretty loudly into his phone. Couldn’t have been very hard for him to eavesdrop. The four girls sitting in the booth next to the door probably heard the entire conversation, too. Libby probably heard too, and she’s still in the bathroom laying down enough toilet paper to sit down on the toilet and not feel the need to shower immediately afterwards.

“Listen Dally, I’m going to get back to my drink. Next time we’re in Wuester we’ll give you and Sally a call, we’ll all get together like the old times. Yep. A’ight, enjoy your night.” Click. “You go into Wuester much, ‘tender?”

“I do,” as the burly man moves closer, glass and rag in hand. “I live out there, know most of the townfolk. Sounds like you went by Old Meredith’s place.”

“She sure presented like an Old Meredith. She wuh–”

“Who’s Old Meredith?” says Libby, back from the bathroom.

“The fine old woman you folks attempted to barter with today.” The bartender puts his glass down. “Wuester’s a small town, not a whole lot to do. Some folk like to mess with the outsiders for kicks, can’t blame ‘em. You just have to prove you’re good folks.” He walks out from behind the bar and disappears into a door on the far end of the room, then comes back a moment later with a full jar in his hand. He places said jar on the bar between Harrison’s Malibu sunset and Libby’s cosmo. “You go back and give this to Meredith, tell ‘er Grit says he wants the gingerbread mold. She’ll give it to you.”

“Just like that?” asks Harrison skeptically

“Just like that,” confirms Grit, and that, dear hypothetical reader, is how you earn yourself a large tip from the odd few cidiots who manage to escape the confines of their concrete jungles. “But you two’ll want to be careful cruisin’ around Wuester, especially if you wander close to the center. Some folks in the deeper parts of town are the kind you’d do well to turn away from, and they love to invite random innocents into their twisted acres with sales. You never know what you might catch buyin’ stuff from deep Wuester folk, take it from me. I come across a lot of them in my line of work.”

“As a… bartender?”

Without blinking, without faltering, without skipping a single beat, the bartender answers, “Yes. As a bartender. You folks enjoy that gingerbread mold.”

As they get off the bar stools, Libby and Harrison notice the four girls in the booth staring at them. They make no attempt to hide it; if anything, the stares are only more intense now that the cidiots are looking.

“Shall we?” Libby asks. We shall, Harrison answers without speaking.


They can see her staring at them before Harrison has a chance to put the car in park.

“So. You’re back,” challenges Old Meredith, her feet planted firmly.

“We are…” squeaks Libby.

“We have this,” says Harrison as he takes the jar out from behind his back. “And a message. Grit says he wants the gingerbread mold.”

Old Meredith’s glare sharpens to daggers. She closes one eye and scans the cidiots individually with the other, Libby first, Harrison second. Nobody says a single word.

Then, “Grit’s a good man, cidiots.” Old Meredith turns, takes up the Longaberger kit, and makes the exchange. “You two make sure you get that mold to him.” A moment of uneasy silence. The cidiots are petrified. “He warn you about Mahty, cidiots?”

The cidiots nod their heads slowly. Libby isn’t sure why they aren’t in the car yet.

Harrison says, “He said there were some shifty characters deep in the town, yeah.”

Old Meredith closes her eyes and nods slowly. “You two get that Longaberger to Grit now, then skedaddle. Maybe don’t come out to Wuester during sale season, yeah?”

“Maybe we won’t come out again…” Libby mumbles, as if to keep it to herself.

“Maybe you won’t,” Old Meredith agrees with a smile. “Maybe you won’t.”

Hello Commons, this has been Just Like That, the flash fiction story attached to The 1995 Longaberger Pottery Gingerbread Country Cottage Set from rePurpp, the official store of The Hillside Commons. Click here to go to the store and check it out for yourself.

I also write fiction books, all of which you can read for free on my website. Click here to see the list.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

A Shame Indeed – The 2020 Event |The Sideshows| (9/82)

Universe W-2020: The Sideshows 2
December 2nd, 2007
A Shame Indeed


A loud pounding noise echoes throughout the hollow household of Greg and Patty Clarke, the entire foundation seeming to shake with each forceful impact. John, the eldest son, slowly opens his eyes, half expecting a raging gorilla to come barging through his bedroom door. He then realizes said door is open, which can only mean the knocking is coming from the front door. And that he must get up. Spectacular. After wondering who is tryna bother his family so early in the morning, he shakily rises to his feet and rummages around his room for some clothes without beer stains soaked into the threads. In his haste he finds only a long-sleeve thermal shirt and a pair of Neye’ke competitive running shorts; if it was perfect for answering the door for the pizza man last night, it’s perfect for answering the door this morning.

John fully grasps the brutal extent of the hangover he’s harboring as he saunters out of his bedroom and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging in the hallway. The mere image of his own bloodshot eyes is enough to trigger the all too familiar headache and the gut-wrenching nausea at the same time, causing him to flirt with the great idea of taking a tumble down the stairs. Hangovers have an inconvenient tendency to sneak up on John, but most days our boy buckles down and handles them like a champ. Today is not most days, however, so he retreats to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face before continuing along to the bass drum convention being held downstairs. The pounding only gets louder as he nears the front door, and John notices his headache pulsing in rhythm with the knock. If John wasn’t in such mind-numbing agony, he would probably really appreciate that.

Upon unlocking and opening the door, John finds who else but his neighbor, a kindly old geezer named Louie. Louie has a wife named Roberta who he’s been with, faithfully, for fifty-five years; Louie is the type of old man that John aspires to be one day.

“Goodmorning Louie, how’s it goin’ m’man?” John says as he removes a knuckle-full of crust from his eye. “What can I do for you?”

“Good morning John. I’m doing wonderfully, how are you?”

“I’m doin’ okay. I have a bit of a headache but I’m hangin’ in.”

“A headache, eh?” Louie asks with a chuckle. “Probably from all that loud music you boys were listening to until all hours of the night!”

“Yeahhhh sorry about that, I had a little party last night. Parents are out of town, they’ll be back sometime later today though.”

“Oh it’s okay, John,” Louie says, patting our hungover hero on the shoulder. “You just have to learn to be a bit more considerate is all. You and your brother. Speaking of which, I also brought over this flying disk,” as he reveals a flying disk. “I think he accidentally threw it over my fence the other day. He really must be more careful you know, it almost hit Roberta right in the head when she was outside gardening!”

Louie holds the disk out in his hand but keeps a tight grip on it for a few seconds when John goes to grab it. If John would look up, he’d catch quite a chilling stare coming from Louie’s suddenly beady eyes. However he does not, instead focusing on the disk and assuming his hungover brain is playing tricks on him. In an attempt to appear normal, John keeps his stationary hold on the disk until Louie eventually lets go. After studying the mundane object for a few moments, John casually tosses it onto the floor behind him.

“I’ll make sure I hit him on the head with it when I see him.”

This makes Louie snicker. “All right, well, not too hard I hope! I’ll leave you be now, tell the folks I said hello when they return.”

“I think I can manage that,” John replies with a smile. “See ya later Louie. It was good talkin’ to ya, man.”

John closes the door. Overwhelming feelings of gratitude rush him as the house grows silent once more. All John has left to do is go back upstairs and crawl into his nest, where he can continue sleeping off his fantastic night – and less than fantastic hangover – for the rest of the morning. He slowly climbs up the stairs, the nausea strangely getting worse with each slight increase in altitude. Or, maybe he stopped paying attention to it during the talk with Louie and he’s just now becoming aware of it again. He decides the argument with himself is null and beelines into the bathroom to throw up when he gets to the top of the stairs.

After washing the taste of digested food out his mouth, changing out of his vomit-covered morning attire, and chugging two bottles of water to purify, John puts on the first pair of sleeping pants he finds in his bombsite of a bedroom and crawls into bed. Within minutes he hears the front door open and at least six legs run into the house. This can mean one of two things: the house is being burgled and John is probably going to get murdered by intruders, or, his brother had gotten home from walking the dog. As much as John wishes for the former, he chooses the more realistic viewpoint and uses his pillow to muffle any and all ruckuses in the house from invading his earholes.

The pillow seems to do the trick; John’s out like a dead lightbulb in seconds. He daintily drifts back into his dreams.

Play It Safe

A loud thump erupts from downstairs, stirring John in his sleep. The alarm clock reads 1:30, and judging by the total lack of light coming through his open windows, John deduces that he slept through the day. He fumbles around trying to feel for the light switch next to his bed, taking him far longer to locate it than he will ever admit. Sitting on the side of the bed, feet dangling over the carpet like hanged men from the gallows, John waits in the silence, blocking out the dull ringing in his ears to listen for any more strange noises of the night. A few minutes go by with no audial stimulation, and just as John so much as brushes his fingertip against the light switch, another thump echoes through his house and freezes him still like a wax dummy.

One loud sigh later, this groggiest of twenty-somethings stands up, his feet somewhat sinking into the aged carpet. Slowly walking across his room, John’s heart begins to beat faster and faster as his mind comes closer and closer to piecing together what might be going on. He puts his hand on the door handle and hears a barrage of thumps, this time coming from the hallway right outside his door. Then something makes contact with the door from the other side, scaring John not only out of his wits, but also out of the grip he held on the knob. He quickly steels his nerves and opens the door, fully expecting some kind of mix between a murderer and a thief, only to find his lovable beagle Spike laying at his feet. ‘Aww, poor guy,’ John thinks to himself while reaching down to pet his puppy pal. ‘Must have had a nightmare and ran into the wall again.’

After the impromptu pet therapy session, Spike hauls tail back downstairs, and John takes a stroll over to the bathroom. There he proceeds to ruin everything for hours to come in the matter of a few minutes. After a flush, and then a courtesy flush for good measure and good manners, John leaves the war zone a hero and backtracks to his room so he can finally catch slumber, although he has a funny feeling he’ll be woken up again.

Something seems off to our dear, tired John though; something about the dimly lit hallway is different than it was before he went into the bathroom. He stands there puzzled for what feels like hours, only to realize his brother’s bedroom light has been turned on. ‘What is he still doing up, it’s a Sunday night,’ he thinks to himself before shambling down the hallway like a zombie hungry for the flesh of the light switch. John elects to play the good brother and simply reaches in to turn off the lights without looking in to see whatever Jason is up to. He lets out a “Goodnight, kid,” and gets only silence in reply. When he turns around to go back to his room, he notices that someone has apparently turned on the kitchen light downstairs, too. John lets go of the controls and his mild anxiety takes over – now it really seems like someone is trying to goof him in the worst of ways.

Deciding to play it safe, John opts to head back into his room and lie down on his soft memory foam mattress, pulling the covers up to his head. He figures that dying in his sleep is definitively better than being killed whilst he’s awake, so he sees sleep as his only legitimate option. Right as John is in the middle of questioning the morbidity of his own sense of humor, he hears what he assumes is the bathroom door shutting in the hallway as some light pollution leaks in through the crack under his door before vanishing. Luckily for our young hero, this distraction proves to be enough to end his previous thought process, and he gently drifts off to sleep.

A Cold Monday Afternoon

It’s a cold Monday afternoon in December; the ominous gray clouds above the town had opened up earlier in the morning to relinquish a joyous mix of ice, rain, and snow upon the unsuspecting population. Hours of exposure to the pitter-patter of precipitation was enough to wake Louie up, his old body creaking as loud as the floorboards as he stands, gathering himself. Something succulent catches his nose and he can only hope the mouth-watering aroma he’s smelling is, in fact, Roberta’s famous bacon and eggs as he proceeds to search for his fuzzy slippers. Truthfully, they’re a little too fuzzy and sweaty for Louie’s taste, but he got them from his adorable grandchildren Samuel and Jackson, so he treasures them immensely anyway.

“Good morning, my love!” exclaims Louie as he struts into his kitchen, hugging his wife from behind. It is only then that he looks outside and sees the flashing red and blue lights. “Honey, they’re not at Greg and Patty’s house, are they? What on Earth happened?”

“Go turn on the telly in the other room, it’s all over the news, dear. Greg and Patty… and both of their sweet kids, they’re all… they were all… oh, I can’t even bring myself to say it!” Roberta puts her arm across her forehead as if she is going to faint, but quickly composes herself. “It’s a shame, Louie; it’s a damned shame!”

Louie is already in the living room with the television tuned to the local news channel, and there it is: Family of four found (by the local mailman) dead and buried in their own backyard. The reporter begins going over theories of what may have happened, but not before reading a very clear disclaimer stating that he is sharing the speculative thoughts of the news station and not of the police. Louie reminisces on the news-reported incoming alien invasion incident that swept his town in fear a few years back and chuckles to himself. The reporter goes on to report the most likely scenario in which these heinous acts were committed under would be a triple-murder-suicide, considering the husband’s slit wrists with a matching knife found inside his unfilled grave. Every other family member seemed to have sustained blunt force trauma to the head.

“Oh dear!” Louie exclaims, closing his eyes and shutting off the television immediately after hearing such gruesome, foul language. “Roberta, let me hold you. This is an utter tragedy, even worse than the flooding of old Skunks!”

After eating breakfast together, the couple reluctantly turns the news back on as to update themselves on their neighbor’s situation. As the screen boots up, they catch the tail end of an update stating the now family-less dog has been found safely locked in the upstairs bathroom, with a full bowl of food and water no less. The sad couple then learns the police ruled the case a triple-murder-suicide, just as the reporter predicted, surprisingly enough. They were also made aware of the memorial service being held later in the day, after the storm passes. Louie and Roberta collectively decide to go to the service, as they had a very close relationship with Greg and Patty. It would be the right thing to do.

The Driver’s Seat

The storm overstays its welcome above the town, finally dissipating around half past seven, delaying the memorial service until eight o’clock sharp. As Roberta steadily makes her way out the door and into their car, she calls out to Louie to hurry up, refusing to be even a moment late.

“I’m coming, woman. I just need to find my shoes!” he shouts back, hoping to push his wife’s buttons to lighten the mood a little. After looking through his closet multiple times all to no avail, Louie finally decides to search the hallway closet for his dress shoes. This attempt proves successful, as he locates his trusty pair of shiny black Chaps right next to a pair of damp, muddy boots. Louie grabs the shoes and takes them to the bed to carefully slip ‘em on his sleepy feet, tying only the most graceful of knots with the laces.

“Here I come, honey!” he yells out the bedroom’s open window before shutting it. “You can start the car if you’d like,” to himself.

Locking the front door before he exits his house, Louie proceeds down the walkway and passes by a rain-washed shovel, the blade standing in a runny puddle of mud, the handle leaning up against his garage, before reaching his car. He opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat, which feels very warm to the touch; he smiles at his wife. She smiles back for a moment before the sorrow and grief take back over.

“Oh Louie, I’m just so broken up. They were such angels, what a shame,” she pouts as she wipes a tear streaming down her face.

Louie reaches over and hugs his frail, dismayed wife with one arm, cuddling her. “A shame indeed, my love.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek before returning his full attention to pulling their car out of the driveway. Louie takes Roberta’s hand and off they drive into the bleak night.


Hello Commons, this has been the second story from the fourth chapter of The 2020 Event |The Sideshows|, a satirical short story anthology about Existence and the universes that float within it. |The Sideshows| is the final book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Sideshows| 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 |The Sideshows| and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed paperback copy (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) paperback copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Odd One

First Candle

Mahty strikes a match and lights the first candle. “Hello, Momma.”

Mahty’s Journey

Something just went bump in the night. In the kitchen, that is; it’s currently night, the middle of the night. Mahty’s in bed with his fuzzy Franklin Turtle feetie pajamas on and he was just dozing off into a dream about pterodactyls with saddles on their backs like they were horses when something went thud and did so with vitality. Tonight is one of the Early Nights so his Momma is still up, but she couldn’t have made that thud. That was the thud of dead weight.

The floor creaks as Mahty tiptoes across his room, but that’s the only noise in the house. The foundation in the hallway is more solid than the foundation of his bedroom, giving the rest of Mahty’s journey to the kitchen in the middle of the night on one of his Momma’s Early Nights a kind of silent quality that crawls up his back and lays its unwashed hands on his shoulders, and Mahty’s better off that it does. It’s the only thing that keeps him standing when he sees his Momma on the floor naked with her skin painted up all culty and blood leaking out of her like a bag full of water poked in seven places with a safety pin.


“Sweetie!” she says faintly, addressing the ceiling. “Oh no, sweetie, the yuckyuck’s all gone now! Momma’s okeydokey, sweetie! Momma’s okeydokey!”

Mahty shouts hysterics through the phone line and into the ear of an emergency operator. When the ambulance arrives it’s escorted by four police officers, two of whom are sitting in passenger seats with shotguns in their laps. Central Wuester isn’t a warm and cozy place, it’s mountain. Deep mountain. Folks are odd out here, anything could happen.

Second Candle

“I forgive you for the bloodletting,” Mahty says with reverence. He lights the second candle with the same match, the head of which is no longer burning.

Mahty’s Poppa

“He’s coming with me, woman!”

“NO!” roars Mahty’s Momma as she hurls a hot frying pan full of scrambled eggs loaded with enough cheese to constipate a black bear directly at Mahty’s Poppa’s head. He ducks in time to dodge a direct impact, and while he pushed Mahty out of the way in time for the boy to dodge the eggs, he catches them to the right shoulder and up the side of his face. Mahty’s afraid to open his eyes; everyone is screaming, the alarms are ringing, anything is happening in the very worst of ways.

“You bitch!” bellows Mahty’s Poppa. As he’s struggling to stand up, he reaches his left hand over to the counter, uncomfortably close to where the frying pan landed, and starts grasping. His right hand, meanwhile, is trying to scrape the egg off his face and body, but the stuff has the consistency of fresh slime and every surface it touches is immediately burned to the second degree. He makes no more words, only screams and shouts.

“You’re lucky I don’t kill you now!” booms his Momma. “I read your diary, I know all about you, you rancid sick deviant! Get out of my house, get out of my son’s life!”

Third Candle

“I thank you for being both parents when one failed his job,” Mahty says with reverence, his voice a low rumble. He lights the third candle in the tall burner, set up between the other two, with the same match, refusing to let go until the candle is lit no matter how many blisters he can feel forming on his fingertips.

Mahty’s Momma

“I’m not long for this world, Mahty,” whispers Mahty’s Momma, her voice fighting the air conditioner for dominance. “We need to have a little talk.”

“No Momma, you’re gonna pull through. You’re gonna be okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

“Mahty… I’m an odd one, Mahty, but that don’t mean I’m no good. Neither does it mean I’m stupid. Now when I’m gone, I’m’a do my best to look after you, baby. Anything you need, you just light candles in my burners and ask. If I did everything right and I can hold on, I’ll come and help you. Anything you need…”

Mahty’s tears flow. “I love you, Momma.”

The life support machine weeps with him, its cries long and hollow.

Blow Out

“Well I got my first client, Momma. His name don’t matter, he only gave me a few things today, sort of like a trial run, but he has his own business he runs, too. It’s, uh… it’s an odd business, but that don’t mean it’s no good. I have a few phone calls I’m waiting to answer, and the first big sale is tomorrow. Momma, I’m just askin’ for some help in keepin’ myself goin’. I believe I can make it work, I can make stuff move, but I want all the help I can get, Momma. If you’re holdin’ on, please help me however you can.”

The candles in the smaller burners blow out simultaneously. The taller burner bursts with light, flames howl out of the top and the holes in the sides, illuminating the photograph of Mahty’s Momma hung on the wall above the shrine. Her eyes glow like orbs of molten glass, fiery and orange.

Then, the room goes dark.

Mahty stands and takes his leave.

Hello Commons, this has been Odd One, the flash fiction story attached to the candle burner set from rePurpp, the official store of The Hillside Commons. Click here to go to the store and check it out for yourself.

I also write fiction books, all of which you can read for free on my website. Click here to see the list.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Legend Of Tiny Tim – The 2020 Event |The Sideshows| (8/82)

Universe W-2020: The Sideshows 1
March 6th, 1987
The Legend Of Tiny Tim

That’s The One

“Jym’bah-k, the sun approaches the horizon. I really must get going. The boy why stowed away with me, where is he?”

“You mean,” with one bushy eyebrow raised, “your son?”

Yes! that’s the one. Where did it run off to?”

Smoke And Ash

From within his cavern he hears it – the whisper, the cackling, the pollutant mouth noises of the Hairlessfut. Darkness surrounds him inside his home; he wades through it until he can feel the cool breeze of the mountains whipping across his weathered face. As the smell of the forest mixed with a slight hint of smoke and ash graces his nostrils, he knows what he must do. With a leap and a grasp or two, he begins to ascend the mountain.

Intelligent Ape Creatures

Where indeed. Off in the jungle, out of both eye- and earshot of their respective fathers, a young Charlie and Tim-nah’tee sit upon the bank of a river, casting their lines in hopes of catching something fine. The water is crystal clear, the current the only hindrance in the two friend’s search for river fish, visually speaking. A butterfly with iridescent violet wings flutters by before landing on Tim-nah’tee’s furry head; there it sits undisturbed until he lifts his pole behind his head and casts, startling the insect into fluttering off to a patch of red, purple, and orange flowers rooted a few feet away. Charlie, eyes caught by the beautiful little flutterby much unlike the fish in the river by their bait, sets down his pole. He leans over and reaches for the thatch catch basket, looking inside only to find it utterly empty. He lets out a sigh, feeling a large hand pat him on the back not even an inhale later.

“Do not worry Hairlessfut, there will be plenty of fish to catch next time.”

“I know… that’s why I sighed,” mumbles Charlie, eyes trained on the water babbling by below them.

“Oh? But we had a wonderful day Charlie, even though the fish didn’t bite. We’ll do it again when you come back next week… you do wish to return, don’t you?”

Charlie folds his arms, the sleeves of his littleman suit creasing. “Yes, more than anything, Tim. I don’t want to have to come back though, I want to live with you guys. I love it here, this island is so incredible, so magical… my home is jus–”

“Your home is your home, Hairlessfut. It is important for you to go back to it. Come, the sun is nearing the horizon; soon we won’t be able to find our way back.”

“Is that really such a bad thing?”

“That depends… can you kill a spotted nightprowl with your bare hands and a fishing pole?”

“Um… no, I don’t think I could.”

Tim-nah’tee smiles. “Me either, so we’d best get a move on!”

Young Charlie returns the smile as the ‘Futs stand and proceed back towards the village, the largest coastal settlement, nay, the only settlement on the entire Isle of Fut. The island, coincidentally shaped like a foot complete with five increasingly smaller islets where the toes would be, is something of a well-kept secret; only about ten humans across the surface of Earth know of its existence. A tropical paradise akin to the Galapagos Islands due to the uniquely evolved flora and fauna, this island has been separated from the rest of the world ever since its conception in the early days of the cataclysm that gave life to what we know as Planet Mediocrity. A thick fog emanates from the ocean in a ring around the island, merging with the clouds above and becoming one, giving off the appearance of a monumental never-ending storm, a trick of the light that couldn’t be more misleading if it tried. The majority of aeronauts are afraid to fly anywhere near the supposed monsoon, let alone through it; in fact, only one human’s ever had the balls, funding, and influence to pilot a plane into the plume of water vapor until he punched through to the other side. Shortly after realizing what he’d discovered, the man devised a plan to assemble a crew and sail a ship to the shores of the mysterious island, hoping to raid and pillage all the oddities, resources, and whatever else the cherry island had to offer them. It was the man’s destiny; if God didn’t want him to rape the island, why’d He let him find it?

His crew was comprised of ten men, including himself. The mates were all trained in multiple forms of martial arts, survival, sharp and blunt weapon combat, as well as attaining mercenary-level aptitude with firearms and explosives. The mates were more than well equipped to overcome any challenges or obstacles waiting for them in the underbrush of the lush jungle… is what they thought, at least. There was one detail, one tiny little asterisk the cabal of conquistadors did not account for that threw a rather large monkey wrench into the metaphorical nuts of their plan – the race of eight-foot-tall intelligent ape creatures that call the island home.

Two return trips and a sunny day later, the seaborne aeronaut is somewhat patiently waiting on the beach for the current form of his sperm to come wandering out of the jungle so they can get back on the water already. ‘That damned child.’

Like two slow-moving bats out of hell, Charlie and Tim-nah’tee emerge from the forest, fishing poles in hand and an empty catch basket balanced atop the latter’s head. The boys approach their father figures, their smiles returned by one of the adults whilst the other holds his maw in a stern scowl. Upon seeing the emptiness of the basket, Magnus grows even further unimpressed and leaves the group to prep the ship for the journey home. In the midst of saying his goodbyes, Charlie hears his father calling to him with a certain get the fuck over here tone in his yells, inspiring a skip in the boy’s step. The Quatchfuts watch him go, waiting for their moment.

The GMS Horgan, a wooden seafaring masterpiece reminiscent of the eighteenth century complete with elegant exterior metalwork and fourteen or some odd sails crafted from a mixture of the finest hemp and flax, had landed on the shores of the Isle of Fut early this morning for the third time in far too short an amount of time. As the Horgan prepared for landfall, the elders had convened and the tribe had spoken; now, Jym’bah-k is forced to throw himself over a most decadent handrail after climbing the damp and slippery exterior of the boat in order to deliver the news to the captain, the very captain whose quarters is all the way across the massive barnaclish deck.

One unanswered knock on the door and he’s inside, greeted by none other than an empty desk and the stench of stale burnt tobacco. The old sage looks around and spots two chairs against the wall next to him. Sitting down on one and a half of these chairs, Jym’bah-k patiently waits until he hears the approaching weighted footsteps of a human in charge. Said human, slightly red in the face, is quite startled when he sees his slightly crouched visitor, but he quickly settles himself into an eerie state of calm when Jym begins relaying the message from the tribe.

Quite bluntly, Jym-bah’k states that Magnus is never to return to the island. Not only that, but any craft bearing his name shall never breach the fogwall again, lest it be swallowed up by the as of yet unevoked Wrath Of The Sea. The reason? The impurity of the black hole that is Magnus’s heart is dangerous to the Quatchful population of the island, especially so towards the impressionable Youngfut. Also, the very existence of the Hairlessfut is already raising a lot of existential questions amongst the tribe’s youngers that the elders just aren’t ready to answer yet; exile is really the best course of action for everyone involved.

Magnus tries to offer the ape sage currency, power, technology, weapons, human women, anything and everything he can think of to change the Quatchfut’s mind, but Jym’s whistle stays dry. So dry, in fact, that he simply relays the message a second time in the exact same tone before turning around and heading towards the exit. A flicker of hope is lit deep within the bowels of Magnus when the apeman turns around at the door, but it’s quickly extinguished when he’s told that his son Charlie is more than welcome to return, but only when he’s able to make the voyage by his own terms.

Unable to keep up the threateningly calm mask that he wears, Magnus storms across the captain’s quarters and slams the splintery old door with the force of a hurricane, clipping Jym’bah-k’s ass as he slowly walks out. Sounds of a muffled tantrum can be heard erupting from the quarters as Jym begins to search the vessel’s upper deck for young Charlie, the sage going as far as asking for help from Magnus’s crew members. Unfortunately though, the ship begins to depart before the boy can be found, forcing Jym’bah-k to trust that Magnus will be honest and relay the message in full.

Jym leaps from the stern of the ship and lands on his beach with a tumble, damp sand caking his fur like mudpies. The tribe joins the weathered Jym’bah-k in watching the soppy carbuncle of a thousand chopped trees sail off into the darkness that forever looms over the horizon. After thoroughly picking the sand from his fur, Jym gathers the rest of the tribe’s elders and they all head to the Mokka Grove to prepare for the upcoming religious ceremony. Back on the ship, a frigid wind of the approaching nightfall blows the fishing hat off of young Charlie’s head.

A knock on the door followed by not only one, but two more knocks startles Magnus from a chairnap. At first he says nothing, struggling to keep his nose breathing from audibly rustling the hairs of his mustache. The fear of his mind beginning to leave him halts its encroachment when the knocking is repeated, followed by the sounds of a boyish whine.

Boiling internally, “Come in already, will you?”

The small, frail little thing enters the room and noticeably puts effort into shutting the door behind it, trying its best to do so silently but failing miserably. Its hairless prepubescent face is covered in a trying, gay little grin that makes Magnus feel both uncomfortable and indescribably disappointed. They just stand there for a moment, the awkwardity building until the man can bare it no longer.

“What do you want then, brat?!”

“Well,” Charlie squeaks, gulping. “I wanted to thank you for taking me futfishing again. I really like these trips we take together.”

Magnus takes a moment to discern the importance, the necessity of this dragged out interaction, but he dredges up nothing. “That’s… great, I guess. Anything else?”

“Um, well… when are we coming back?”

Magnus’s eyes light up like Vietnam War-era napalm strikes. “Did… Jymbo didn’t speak to you before we left, did he? A few of my crew reported that they saw the ape looking for you.”

“No, I went to my room and sat in the corner like you told me to. I must have missed him,” says Charlie in a gradually less audible voice.

Magnus, eyes locked in a squint, says “I see… very well.” He sits up straight and dusts off his already spotless captain’s jacket, then, “Well he and I had a little chat before we departed from the lovely Isle of Fut. Much to our mutual disappointment, he told me that, due to the blasphemously inappropriate relationship between you and Tiny Tim over there, you’re no longer allowed on the island.”

The deafening shockwave resulting from the audible shattering of Charlie’s hopes, heart, and happiness kills the large plesiosaurus trailing behind the boat. The boy stands motionless, tears welling up in their ducts.

“I’m afraid the Quatchfut tribe fears that you’re going to grope the young ape lad inappropriately, and quite frankly, I agreed with them. You never know what a young huma– sorry, Hairlessfut is capable of when it’s not being watched, especially you, Charles. They told me that I can come back whenever I want, and I think I may well return once more. You know, to get that full Isle of Fut experience. Without you, of course, you fucking psychopath.”

Magnus offers his son the most genuine of false smiles until it, er, he leaves the room in a fit of misery. Feeling confident, Magnus spins his chair around and puts his feet up on a cushioned ottoman made of gorilla bones. As if by instinct, he locates a cigar buried underneath a pile of maps and lights that puppy up as he begins pondering his next financial venture. Maybe something with smells or something with hair, who cares; the dollars will flow regardless.

Game Trail

The light of a distant campfire shines like a dim orange star, the forest below appearing to reflect the infinity overhead. He looks up to the moon floating in the heavens above, lighting the valley just enough for his eyes to make out a small foothill near the glow of the fire. A deep breath of cold night air is drawn in and held. Eyelids dominate his vision for a few moments until the air is relinquished, the forest seeming somewhat brighter now. He advances through a game trail and starts down the mountain.

The Isle Of Fut

Right around the arch of the Isle of Fut, hidden deep within the heart of the dense jungle, lies a secret fruit grove. This is the sacred Mokka Grove, birthplace of the Quatchfut tribe’s holy sacrament. Every eight years of a Quatchfut’s life, and once at age twenty, a religious ceremony of sorts takes place in which the Quatch’ and a guide both eat of a Mokka Fruit, the planet’s sole species of psychoactive fruit. The voyagers embark on a tremendous four-hour trip in which their consciousness merges with that of the Universe, giving them the opportunity to learn lessons that cannot be taught in any other way. When they come to, they feel as though their minds have aged for infinite eternities while their bodies have gone untouched by time, only growing slightly hungrier. The ceremony takes place within a cavern dug into a hillside located just a short walk away from the grove. The location of the cave is known only to the elders; it is up to them to guide the Youngfut to their sacred place and teach them the lessons and traditions so the ages-old culture can be passed down and correctly taught to posterity.

Tonight, Jym’bah-k proudly sits across a large stone table from his son in this very cavern, one half of a Mokka Fruit cupped in each of their hands.

Tim-nah’tee watches his father lower his dome and touch the flesh of the Fruit to his forehead. He begins chanting, quietly at first until the reverberations of his whoops and howls begin to shake the plantlife growing through the cave’s walls. Tim takes a good look at the purple flesh of his fruit before touching it to his own forehead and joining his father in the shamanic chanting. A pressure reveals itself between Tim’s eyes as he does this, spreading to his temples as a whirring, rushing feeling overtakes his body. The spirits of the Ancestorfut wake and gather inside the hallowed cavernous temple as the Quatchfut mystics sing the song of their tribe – then, silence. Father and son look up in unison and their gazes meet in a moment of true synchronicity before the fruits are devoured, sweet juice and purple flesh spraying until nothing but the pinkish-white rind falls to the ground as the bodies of the voyagers do the same.

A certain trance sets in as Tim-nah’tee becomes aware of a slow dance of vibrant purple lights taking place within his own mind. This being Tim’s second time venturing into the spirit realm, he is taken immediately, the rest of his world melting away until the last bit of his physical awareness drips off into the nothing in which it floats. Jym’bah-k, being much more experienced in the ceremony of the holy fruit, finds himself reinhabiting his body almost immediately. Even from deep within the temple, the old sage can feel the rapidly approaching shockwaves, can smell and the faint odor of chemicular combustion that’s punching its way through his jungle, one ancient tree at a time.

A Bottle Of Pink Juice

At first, there is nothing; no lights, no darkness, simply the numb perception of a sole pocket of nothingness that dwarfs the scope of Existence itself. A single cosmic light appears, orange around the outside with a glowing scarlet core. Another appears, this one green and purple, and then another, and even one more, all the colors of the visible spectrum manifested into glowing orbs of light off in the distance. A sky full of stars flashes into existence as the perception, the spirit, floats through the kaleidoscopic space, seeing everything and nothing at the same time. It approaches a small rock topped with a purple-skinned ape sitting upon a gilded throne, a spear held in one hand and a bushel of fruit in the other. The ape hurls the fruit into The Void and begins to devour the spear, a torrent of red liquid oozing from its smiling maw as it feasts.

The bushel scatters and the spirit is drawn to a white fruit. He follows it through the cosmos, passing by a pod of rainbow-skinned whale creatures with seven horns sprouting from each of their tails, a swarm of large metallic beehive structures, and whatever else may currently be traveling through the cosmic realm of Psychedelia, this highest of subjective dimensions. The fruit freely floats about until it finds a planet to merge with, the watery rock embracing it like a mother with open arms.

Following germination, three mighty statues depicting wise old apes sitting cross-legged rise from the soil before animating into three living apes with glowing white eyes. A white-skinned hairless child appears before them, walking out from beneath the surface of a great ocean with bruised skin, three teeth, and a tuft of hair missing from its battered head. The child is taken in by the apes before it is cast back out into Existence, a bottle of pink juice in one hand and a piece of wood with a tree carved into it clamped to the other. The child returns to the ocean as the wise apes return to their pedestals, sinking back into the ground from whence they came.

The Universe begins to fade away now, piece by piece, planet by planet, star by star, until there’s nothing left but nothingness once again. Tim-nah’tee, no longer in spirit form, looks down to see that his body has returned to him. What appears to be a trap door opens before him, releasing a miasma followed by a yellow-furred feline creature with four ears, a single whisker, and two tails with six and a half spots each. The beast floats in the nothingness with Tim-nah’tee as it devours a large rainbow crystal that wasn’t there when the creature first appeared. Tim gazes in lush, astonished amazement as he watches the otherworldly creature twirl about and devour its feast. What can but shouldn’t be described as a few moments of appeased crunching and silence go by before the creature locks eyes with Tim-nah’tee and asks if he’s going to say something.


At first, Tim fears that the Mokka Fruit destroyed his mind; the voice appears in his mind’s ear without warning and repeats itself several times before giving the young Quatchfut a chance to answer. Stunned, our monkey keeps silent, leaving the leopardish thing to repeat itself again and again, refusing to relent until Tim finally screams out an uproarious, “YES!”

Then, “…What are you?”

The beast tells Tim-nah’tee that it does not matter, and that his first question was very stupid.

“What am I doing here?”

Tim is served a memory of himself eating the Mokka Fruit and becomes aware that the feline being is attempting to communicate telepathically, but Tim just isn’t shuffling the deck. Then, a thought crosses his mind suggesting that the beast only exists right now for a very specific reason: to have this conversation.

“Tell me what you must tell me, spirit,” boldly.

The creature takes another bite out of its crystal and stares at Tim, offering nothing more as a response.

Caving, Tim telepaths, ‘What do you need to tell me?’

Tim wonders why he left out the spirit that time before realizing the creature needs to show him something. Tim wishes the creature would be more forthcoming, which causes it to laugh. A few more moments pass by.

‘What do you need to show me?’

Between them, a large foot-shaped island materializes into The Void. A luminous spark ignites a gigantic fire at the heel of the island, the blaze spreading up along the arch and tracing the entire perimeter. The jungles, and everything within them, are consumed by death and destruction before Tim’s eyes.

Still not quite grasping telepathy, he has a thought asking him whether he wants to live and escape or die with the rest of his kind.

‘I want to live, please!’

The spirit of the nightprowl stares Tim down as the concept of being imbued with a great power floods into his head, a power strong enough to protect his body from the harsh blaze.

A moment of contemplation. ‘Wait, that will not do. I must save my tribe, or at least as many of them as I can. It’s what my father would want, he’s given me everything. Given everything to all of us. I need a stronger power, feline; is it possible?’

The beast holds a soul-piercing stare as clouds of vapor continue to flow out from the existential trap door below it. Sure, it’s possible, Tim-nah’tee learns, but he may not be capable of harnessing such a power. Tim asks again and again, spoon-feeding the apparition its own medicine until the ‘prowl screeches and starts dry heaving. With a sly wink, the spirit of the jungle hacks up a pitch-black blob, lobbing the shapeless form directly at Tim’s head. Upon contact, Tim is forcibly cast backwards into infinity, falling through the canyon of nothingness, questioning the spirit creature that was once before him as he plummets through the abyss.

After an endless eternity of falling, the spirit of Tim-nah’tee crashes back into his body, finding himself alone in a slightly hazy cavern.


The Quatchfut adolescent stands up slowly, still very much under the influence of the Mokka Fruit. He looks around the spinning room to see that the walls are squiggling, as if they were composed of snakes and nothing else, as if they’ve been composed of snakes. The flames of the torches sconced along the walls seem to be dancing in perfect unison, each flicker of the fiery ballet bringing their plasmic forms closer and closer to Tim’s essence, his soul is exposed to the world like a heart upon the sleeve of a Hairlessfut. Our boy dashes, crashing through the low hanging vines at the cave’s entrance to find himself greeted by twilight. He looks up into the sky to see a thick, noxious cloud of black smoke emanating up from the jungle, visible only because of the orange glow piercing the canopy.

All around Tim-nah’tee, bathed in the moonlight, the foliage is green and alive. Yet something doesn’t seem right; there’s a smell in the air, a nose-wrinklingly nauseating, but almost pleasant smell of… what? Such a mixture of the familiar and the foreign paired with the Psychedelic compounds cruising through his brain creates nothing but confusion, insecurity, and a calamitous sense of anger and destruction in the mind of young Tim-nah’tee. Without thinking twice, he sprints into the forest, his unusually dark shadow trailing close behind him.

He eyes the blaze before he breeches the clearing of the Grove. A towering inferno the likes of which is feared by Dante himself stands before the young Quatchfut, engulfing all but four of his tribe’s miracle trees. What were once tall, strong towers of age-old life are new being reduced to nothing more than charcoal and soot, one by one, to be swept away by a gust of wind in a matter of days. A fire, just like the one currently consuming his home, ignites within the broken heart of Tim-nah’tee. He howls into the night, WHOOPs and screams, tears pouring down his face only to be evaporated before they can fall by the heat of this confounded conflagration. The entire religious side of Tim’s life is being incinerated before his eyes, and by whom? Who in their right mind could commit such an evil, ghastly act against all that is good and living?

Tim’s screams are returned by two creatures at the other end of the Grove. He looks forward with his saucer-sized pupils and spots two soot black bipedal things, coated in fire, screaming and howling and heading right for him.

‘Of course,’ Tim thinks to himself, balling his fists and preparing for battle. ‘The demons have returned for my homeland…’

Demons Sent From Another Dimension

What was once considered Quatchfut society before it was burned to the ground by jealous outsiders was never a very superstitious civilization. Parents did not lie to their young about witches hiding out in the woods or about goblins and gremlins that eat naughty little children in order to scare them into acting right; they simply taught their offspring the correct way to live. That being said, they did have one story that was passed down from generation to generation about life before the species had found their home on the Isle of Fut. In the olden days which followed the Zeroc exodus and the hard reset of humanity, the Quatchfut sought shelter underground. They found it, as the Earth is hollow, and you know what else they found? A fierce subterranean race of bipedal reptile creatures who called themselves the Klorveckx. These monsters believed in servitude and punishment rather than love and freedom, and they enslaved the Quatchfut race for as long as they could – that is, until the Quatchfut figured out how to escape from the dastardly realms of Inner Earth.

The thing about the Klorveckx, though, is that they’re about as intelligent as they are misguided; at some point in the convoluted past of the species, they genetically modified themselves to be born with totally fireproof scales that excrete an extremely combustible oil, which enabled them to set themselves on fire as a combat tactic. Whenever a group of the stinking, hairy Quatchfuts got too rowdy or weren’t working hard enough, the bipedal, tailless lizardmen would set themselves ablaze and grapple with the apes, often leaving their victims with massive burns and infections, if they lived through the encounter at all. This was all at a time when the Quatchfut’s intelligence hadn’t been fully developed, you see, so they listened when the Klorveckx said that the burning monsters were actually demons sent from another dimension to wreak havoc on them for not serving their masters well enough. They listened every time.

Today, this story has been reduced to a myth, a faded memory that none of the remaining members of the currently dwindling Quatchfut population was ever made to endure. However, when under the influence of the Mokka Fruit, up means down and two plus two equals the rings around planet Saturn, leaving a lot of room for misinterpretation of perceived events; in this case, Tim-nah’tee witnesses two large creatures blitzing towards him, two monsters covered head to toe in flames, and he decides right then and there that the Klorveckx demons have returned for him and his tribe.

Sand And Water

‘… and now they must pay for what they’ve done.’

Imbued with the power of the cat spirit’s hairball, Tim-nah’tee leaps forward and grabs the leg of one incoming demon, slamming the blaspheme to the ground. Tim climbs on its back and lifts his fists, bringing them down with the force of a thousand meteor strikes over and over until there is nothing left in the soil but a skull and a backbone. Using this to his advantage, Tim grabs the base of the spine and stands up, locking eyes with the other demon. As if he was holding a medieval flail, Tim reels back and whips the skull of his deceased foe into the skull of his animated foe, both skulls exploding into a billion burning bits and pieces on contact. Tim-nah’tee spits and pounds his chest before the gravity of the situation bares its weight on his shoulders: with the short amount of time he spent fighting, not only have the walls of fire began closing in around him, but his hair is also beginning to smoke. It will combust soon; Tim has two options: tear through the miles of smoldering jungle in front of him and reach his village, or take a detour to the shore and circumnavigate the blaze.

Considering the fact that sand and water don’t burn nearly as well as jungle burns, Tim trudges into the incinerator of a forest and bobs and weaves his way back to the beach, dodging fiery bits of vines and bounding over every burning bush he comes across. The sand at the end of the jungle is beginning to conglomerate into a liquid, glassy substance from the pure heat of the island-wide fire, catching Tim by the foot and force-feeding him a mouthful of sand. His muffled scream, accompanied by the unbridled, wretched pain, is the only thing, the only sensation that keeps him conscious long enough to drag himself into the ocean, the salty water extinguishing his burning coat and washing the sand from his mouth. On the dark side, this instant transition from unbearable heat to chilled ocean water saps Tim’s energy and consciousness, leaving him to float alone not only on the cold ocean, but also in an emotional stew of rage, sadness, confusion, despair, and fucking rage.

When he comes to, the fire has all but died down and the island, the only home Tim has ever known, is entirely reduced to rubble.

Gingerly, the last of the Quatchfut tribe drags himself out of the ocean. He attempts to stand up but falls right back down into the sand, the thin layer of ash topping it dirtying what remains of Tim’s fur. He stands himself up and hobbles down the shoreline towards his village, or at least, whatever’s left of it. The moon is approaching the horizon when he reaches his familiar section of beach, the sun’s reflected light providing our fallen hero with enough luminescence to see that he’s far too late. Charred corpses of the Youngfut and the Elderfut are scattered among heaps of ash, a once thriving village utterly decimated. Just as Tim-nah’tee is about to embrace his deep, bottomless sadness, a sharp pain strikes him in the neck, and he falls to the ground. Right before he fades into darkness, he makes out the silhouette of a sole Hairlessfut approaching him from the ruins of the village.


Stepping only on rocks and fallen logs, he slowly creeps through the forest towards his destination. His body is warm though the air is cold. His mind races as his legs carefully carry him over hill after hill. He spooks a band of coyotes huddled together at the summit, their frightened yelps creating a moment of silent anticipation among the Hairlessfut at their campground. They are completely unaware of him, but he can see them all. Perfect.

Tiny Tim

“Is it awake yet?”

“Dunno. I keep throwin’ bananas at it but it won’ fuckin’ move.”

“A’ight, hold on. Lemme zap it.”


The two men exclaim their joy in unison.

“Ayyy, there ya go! Wake up bigfoot, it’s the last day. Clean up crew ain’t comin’ ‘til least nightfall, you got one more performance before daddy’s boys come back for your hairy ass. So, yeah, wake the fuck up,” the human condescends upon Tim as he slaps the shock baton in his hand.

A few days ago, a groggy, stiff Tim-nah’tee was woken by a very turbulent rumbling in complete darkness. His foot stung, his head was pounding, and his dark side was desperately trying to regain control, but the body was still far too weak. Within a few moments of waking, that odd, sharp pain bit into his neck and he was out cold, yet again. This cycle of waking to darkness, followed by a darting neck pain tackling him back into sleep repeated itself at least a dozen times before Tim finally awoke to a set of metal bars. The cage was not large; it gave our Quatch just enough room to stand up and bump his head on the ceiling.

The cage stood, and still stands, in the middle of a large red and white striped circular tent, keeping Tim alone with his very dark thoughts until the two men, and I use that term lightly, appointed as his trainers paid him a visit. They taught him how to fear a shock baton and how to do tricks in exchange for measly scraps of food and water, spending an entire twenty-four hours of life they’ll never get back juicing the patchy-haired biological miracle of a creature with electricity to get their jollies and payslips. The next day, Tiny Tim performed for a crowd of fourteen humans. The day after, six. Today is the final day of the one and only Skunksville Permanent Circus Attraction, and you better believe Mister Bahrleigh is going to get as much of a return on his investment into the ape man as possible. With only a few hours until showtime, Tim realizes that he needs to figure his own way out of this demented situation.

Shortly after the trainers leave the tent, the one and only Mister Bahrleigh waltzes into the center ring. A short and stout man clad in vertically striped pants with a puffy blouse and a top hat that would make Abraham Lincoln want to go to the theatre, he steps forward, cane in hand, towards Tim’s prison. The two lock eyes before Mister Fancyfuck looks his newest attraction up and down for the first time, chuckling to himself as he turns back to face the entrance. The man offers some obnoxious remarks about the blasphemy of the valley town being turned into a reservoir before spinning back around and slamming his cane into the cage. Tim doesn’t even blink, instead leaning forward and gripping the tenuous bars with his massive hands. The rage boils, but the pot has a lid.

His face within breathing distance of Mister Bahrleigh’s, Tim says, through a mouthful of clenched teeth, “Release me, you pitiful abomination of aged flesh and regretted life choices.”

Bahrleigh stares for a moment, then, “You… you could talk this whole time?”

Tim is silent, speaking volumes through a hot puff of air from his nose. He removes his hands from the now slightly bent bars and sits back down, legs folded.

Bahrleigh audibly swallows and slowly backs away, his pupils shrinking down to the size of the point of a freshly sharpened pencil. “I-I-I see. Well, erm, I uh, I would, b-but, I… I misplaced my keys!”

Tim looks up at the geriatric grandmaster with the most uncaring expression ever expressed on a face, bipedal or otherwise.

Remembering that he has a train ticket to Anywhere, Buthere to buy, the proprietor of Skunksville’s most permanent circus quickly evacuates the premises. A few moments later, the sound of rubber tires peeling out of a dirt parking lot brings a small grin to Tim’s otherwise melancholy face. That was the mastermind keeping him prisoner here? That spindly old yellow-toothed cretin? It really is no wonder why this was their first meeting.

Tim takes a few deep breaths and closes his eyes to meditate. When he opens them back up a few hours later, he’s surrounded by darkness, save for a dim light shining through a small hole poked into the cloth covering his cage. All is quiet; normally before a show starts, Tiny Tim is treated to the neurotic chattering of the audience, their diapers filled with anticipation and the waste products of salty, sugary concession snacks, but today, nothing. They must be doing a dress rehearsal for the final performance, how charming. Tim sits in wait in his cage like a dog in an empty suburban household for what feels like only a few minutes, and then darkness accompanied by a high-pitched noise. A bout of loud tapping follows the screech and a shockingly familiar voice begins to boom on the other side of the pierced veil shrouding Tim in his cell.

“Lady and gentleman, I am obligatorily proud to welcome y’all to the final performance of Bombastic Bahrleigh’s Circ de la Circ! I’m your host, William der Waffe. Since we have such a… sizeable crowd tonight, we’re going to skip right ahead to the final act of our show! Also, everyone else beat feet and you two showed up before I could finish packing, so here we fuckin’ are!”

A hesitant clapping fills the void.

“Aalll right! So, without further ado, I give you…” as he prances over to the center of the ring and grips a corner of the cloth, “Tiny Tim, the real-life bigfoot!”

Will yanks away the old, spotty cover to reveal an empty cage, complete with extensively bent bars on the side facing away from the seats. The audience, a man named Louie and his daughter Daisy, offer nothing more than a confused silence and raised eyebrows. Will would have noticed the missing bigfoot if he had turned around to face what he was introducing, but it’s not his job to do so. He’s the announcer man and the ringmaster, and he hardly gets paid shit as it is.

“This mysterious creature was found by our scrappy, exuberant founder Mister Bahrleigh whilst he was on an expedition deep into the jungles of a long-lost island called Bigfootlandia seven years ago. He single-handedly wrestled this creature into submission, the nutbar, then had him boated into the country and carried by a train right here to Skunksville! Alas though, the train had a tragic accident in Upstate New York and Tiny Tim escaped, cursed to roam the local forests alone for seven long years until he finally found his way back to us. Lady and gentleman, I again give you…”

Will turns around and finally feels the sting of this most prickly of predicaments. “… I… I give y-you… ohhhh fuck me.”

Will’s eyes dart back and forth a few times before his spotlight begins to shake. One audience gasp later and the large contraption comes crashing to the dusty, hayish ground faster than Will can even come to terms with what the hell’s happening right now. Surrounded by darkness, Will’s suddenly sweaty hands fumble around to ready his stun baton and… yikes, that wasn’t pretty. Let’s just say that he never found his stun baton, and when the fallen, broken spotlight flickers back to life a moment later, the two members of the audience are greeted by an empty cage and nothing more.

Louie throws a vice-grip on the back of his daughter’s neck and drags her out of the auditorium, the noises of her kicking and screaming held underwater and drowned by the cacophony of dirt-lot peel-out filling the air for the second time today. A few hours later, when the four members of Horgan’s cleanup crew show up, they find nothing but a flickering stage light and a battered, bloody, empty cage. When the light goes out, only one man escapes.

And the rest, as they say…


“…is history. Soon after, the remaining denizens of the sleepy town that was once Skunksville were huffed, puffed, and tossed out of their homes as the valley flooded, creating the Wanapo Reservoir’s little brother, our very own Skunksville Reservoir. They say Tiny Tim escaped into the forests of Quarryville that night, and he’s been here ever since. Allegedly, if you listen really closely out here at night, you can still hear him whooping in the distance, searching for more of his own kind that he’ll never find.”

The crackling of the campfire is met with the cracking open of a can of Pssst Blue Ribbon beer, which is then accompanied by a belch. Tyler rolls his eyes as he takes another swig to recover from Sam’s cheesy story. Jack, on the other hand, is staring wide-eyed at his big brother.

“Does he really live in these woods, Sam? Have you ever seen him back here?”

“Why?” Tyler croaks. “You wanna protect my sister from him? Twerp.”

Jack’s face turns a rosy shade of red that complements the glow of the fire quite nicely. Sam smiles at his little brother before lighting a joint with the campfire and taking a small puff. A distant WHOOP echoes through the night air, widening Jack’s eyes even more. Tyler shoots a nervous glance as Sam, but dude just chuckles and shakes his head.

“See? I told you guys he was real, and now he’s comin’. Just kidding lol, it was probably some coyotes or something. Tyler, pack a bowl, would ya. This jay isn’t going to last much longer, and we have a tent to hotbox. You’re more than welcome to join us inside, Jack.”

“Nah I’m okay, I don’t do that stuff,” defends Jack, lowering his stare to the fire. He’s petrified, and the coyotes can smell his fear.

“Oh, you don’t have to, but suit yourself!”

Sam and Tyler stand and proceed towards the tent, sparking their bowl before they even get inside. As he’s zippering the tent, Sam calls out, “Tell Tim I said hi!”

Jack lasts a few more minutes before petrification turns into fear and the distant yipping of a band of coyotes convinces him to run into the tent at full speed. He busts into the contained cloud of calm giddiness, decreeing that he won’t be getting eaten by any fucking coyotes tonight. Through the ensuing laughter, the tent is zipped shut with the force of a frightened teenager and remains so until the morning.

Off yonder on the foothill, Tim-nah’tee smiles and cups his hands around his mouth, offering the young Hairlessfut one final WHOOP before he begins his trek back to his cave on the other side of Bored Mountain. Once inside, he curls into a ball and falls back asleep to the soothing soundtrack of a pleasant summer’s eve.

Long live the legend that is Tiny Tim.


Black and Purple Cloaks

I am alone in The Void with one more loose end to tie up; what better a way to tie off a loose end with another end just as untaught?

A puff of smoke appears from within The Void. It clears to reveal a mysterious mystic adorned in black and purple cloaks.

He looks up to me and says, “Finally, you’ve called.”

I have. Listen, you said you didn’t want to be stuck in the branch universes anymore. Well… something was released into the main universe, something dark and very powerful. It came from the gullet of a seventeenth-dimensional cat creature an–

“Ah yes, I believe I’m familiar. We play blackjack and eat toxic berries under the green moonlight every other Twoosday.”

No shit? Invite a brother next time. Anyway, said cat creature expelled something into the body of a Quatchfut; said Quatchfut no longer needs something. Can you remove it and hide it somewhere?

“I certainly hope so, else this may be my execution.”

‘Clever boy,’ I think to myself.

“And where shall I hide your dirtiest of laundries?”

In a bottomlessly deep pit beneath a very specific warehouse. Being yourself, I believe you know of which ‘house I speak.

“I do now… hol’ up. Is this… this isn’t the inspiration behind that whole monkey suit nonsense in that other universe, is it?”

…just do as I say.

“Very well,” with a sinister smile as the cloaked man fades.

A moment later he returns to The Void, silently staring.

What is it?

“When shall I remove this something? The life of the Quatchfut, nay, this entire Universe is a clusterfuck, a dredge to wade through.”

When he escapes the circus, but before he reaches the forest. You know, somewhere along the dash across the lakebed. And make it painless, would ya? The poor bastard’s been through a lot.”

“Indeed. And when shall I stash this something away?”

Immediately. There are plans in store for that ‘house, yes, many plans indeed. Eh, anything else…?

“Yeah, what’s my payment?”

Your… payment? ‘He must be joking.’ You mean other than the fact that you’ll continue to exist here?

“Yes, other than that.”

Well… I can give you… you know what? I don’t even want to spoil it. You’ll play a role in something bigger, how ‘bout that?”

“Deal,” he says. “‘Twas a pleasure, Highest One Writing.”

That is was.

With a puff of smoke he’s gone.

I am alone in The Void.

All is as it should be.

Hello Commons, this has been the first story from the fourth chapter of The 2020 Event |The Sideshows|, a satirical short story anthology about Existence and the universes that float within it. |The Sideshows| is the final book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Sideshows| 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 |The Sideshows| and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed paperback copy (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) paperback copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Too Good to Be True


Effervescent stars of deepest violet, maroon, and cerulean begin to flash at Humphrey from within the darkness of his eyelids. He slowly removes his hands from his eyes, flinching when the raw skin sticks to his fingers and then snaps back into place. He couldn’t believe his eyes at the sight of it, he just couldn’t believe his eyes, and in the television shows the characters always rub their eyes when they can’t believe what they see so Humphrey started rubbing his eyes, and he got lost in it. But the ad is real, it’s really real! Someone just an hour and a half away is selling their antique porcelain doll collection! Humphrey is a lifelong collector, an ancient relative in his family was the model for a line of porcelain dolls, it’s his passion and his muse!

“I must have it,” Humphrey says to himself, his cheeks beginning to drip sweat. “No matter what the cost, I must have it. This man has more ads, I’ll buy up quite a bit of his things as a gesture of good faith. Perhaps he’ll throw me a discount.” Humphrey’s hands come together at the fingertips. “Yes, this will be perfect. Just perfect.”

An Itch

“Hamilton Beach. Huh. I wonder if that’s a place.”

An excruciatingly inflammatory itch sunk its prickly teeth deep into Calvin’s nose hours ago, but he hasn’t been able to scratch it. Isn’t that the worst feeling, when you have an itch you can’t scratch and you feel it seeping deeper into your body, heating up a tiny bit as it grows and spreads like a plague from your skin into your bones into the core of your physical being? It certainly is the worst feeling, and you know what that means? Scratching that itch is the greatest feeling. There is balance in all things.

“It must be, right? Why on Earth would someone make up a fake beach to use as a name for a company? It seems so ridiculous saying it out loud, but I bet that’s how it is. I bet there is no Hamilton Beach, not a single one in the world. Psych! Hah, that would be too good to be true, the world would have to be some kind of simulation if there’s not a single Hamilton Beach on the entire planet Earth.” Calvin turns towards Humphrey and looks him dead in the eyes. “What about you, Humphrey? What do you think?”

What Humphrey thinks is evidently no business of Calvin’s.

“Well fine, but let me ask you this: what sounds crazier to you, a salesman who makes up a beach to name his company after it, or a whole world populated by humans just like us who never thought to name a beach for a guy named Hamilton?”

Humphrey looks at Calvin with a dopey, vacant grin, like he smoked some stellar pot on the hour and a half drive over to Calvin’s place in the center of Wuester.

“All right, maybe crazier wasn’t the right word. What sounds more probable? Or should it be more possible? They say anything is possible, Humphrey, so long as you put your mind to it. But you don’t have much of a mind these days, do you?”

Rocking that spacey grin, Humphrey holds strong.

“You smoked too much stellar pot on the drive here, didn’t you Humphrey?”

If Humphrey meant to answer Calvin’s questions, he probably would have started doing so by now. And Calvin recognizes this. “I recognize this. Trying to talk to him is pointless, he might as well be a mannequin. Hey Humphrey, fuck you.”

Nothing but the grin and the spacey gaze.

“Fuck you Humphrey, you dirty, filthy little girl, you. Abominable, you are a horrid foot-sniffing abomination of humanity, Humphrey. I’m surprised you’re allowed within a mile of elementary schools you gleeping prostitute, you lesbian! That’s what you are, you klorfing Satanist, you supine figment of Hell incarnate! You are husky, Humphrey, you are hunksky! GrrAAAH! I can’t tell if I love you or if I hate you, but I know I want to touch you, Humphrey. I want to touch you in a very specific way.”

Vacant eyes. Dopey grin. Not a single bead of sweat.

“See? You’re spineless. You just sit there and stare at me, you’re impotent. You have nothing to say because you are nothing, Humphrey, you are absolutely fucking nothing. And now I’m going to touch you, I’m going to make you something.”

Calvin begins his slow walk towards Humphrey. The cord plugged into the wall stretches to full length and pulls the electric knife out of Calvin’s hand, but he doesn’t notice. He’s right next to Humphrey now, little hoary Humphrey who came a’knockin’ on Calvey babey’s doorstop. Saliva floods Calvin’s mouth, and he raises one hand into the air, fingers splayed, palm itchy, eyes livid. Shrieking at the top of his lungs, Calvin open palm slaps Humphrey across the face. Humphrey’s head flies off the table and the top of his skull is launched clear into the wall on the far end of the room.

Breathing heavily, Calvin removes one bloody rubber elbow glove, then the other. He removes his apron, falls to his knees, raises his arms to the ceiling, and thanks his higher selves for granting him the work he has received on this day. He then stands up, scratches his nose until it stings, and collects up the electric knife to be cleaned for sale. Humphrey’s head will join the rest of him in the big freezer, but not until the knife is clean. Humphrey’s a filthy little girl, he deserves to toil on the floor for a while.

You Never Know

White knuckles bound by skinny fingers strangle the steering wheel.

“This is so dumb, I don’t know why I’m bothering. It’s just a few things, and I only need one of them to sell. If they all went it would be great, but they might sit. They can’t sit, they can’t they can’t they can’t they just can’t, an–”

The front door opens. A furry gray old man in striped shorts and a white tee that’s three sizes too small for his bulbous gut slowly maneuvers his way down the four stairs between his front door and his walkway. He then steps over the five steppingstones between the front stairs and the driveway. Calvin is out of the car with the trunk open by the time the furry man gets over to him.

“So like I said, it’s just these things. Funko pop, electric knife, old recipe pad. I think it’s from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the recipe pad.”

The furry man grunts in affirmation. “And you put your advert in the pad?

Calvin nods gratuitously, adding, “I sure did, Mahty. You never know, right?”

“You never know,” Mahty agrees, nodding slowly. “All right, bring it inside and get. I’ll call you if any of it moves.”

Calvin hustles as he carries his stuff into Mahty’s house. Mahty is just mounting the second steppingstone as Calvin’s making his way out.

“Thanks again Mahty! Hope your mom’s holding on!”

Mahty says, “Yeahhh,” but Calvin doesn’t hear it. Calvin already started the car. Calvin’s already backing out of the driveway. Calvin’s nose is already starting to itch.

Hello Commons, this has been Too Good to Be True, the flash fiction story attached to the Hamilton Beach electric knife kit from rePurpp, the official store of The Hillside Commons. Click here to go to the store and check it out for yourself.

I also write fiction books, all of which you can read for free on my website. Click here to see the list.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Stinking Human – The 2020 Event |The Sideshows| (7/82)

Universe W-63: Who Are You?
Stinking Human

The Suited Man

A thick cloud of Cannabis smoke wafts up in a wall, dispersed by the rim of the fedora on the suited man’s head. His shoes and the end of his pant legs are caked with mud and sand, his suit is getting uncomfortably humid from the drizzle, and if he has to relight this damned joint one more time, the Universe will never be the same afterwards.

Before him stands a pyramid of sorts composed entirely of pink and purple pudding stones and topped with a rocklet bearing quartz crystals bigger than golf balls. The structure is approximately two and a half feet tall and the ground around it is immensely disturbed, as if a hole was dug and then filled back in. Taking another drag of his left-handed cigarette, the suited man contemplates the meaning of all this; what he’s looking at, why he’s where and when he is, why his suit is so uncomfortable to wear in this weather. He’s pulled into a mental vortex of self-questioning and rabbit hole diving, only to be yanked back out by the sound of a sliding glass door closing shut a ways behind him.

“What in the hell?” he hears, quietly, back by the house. Then louder, “Yo! Who are you?”

He turns and sees a man with what can be described as a lion’s mane of curly brown hair sprouting from his head. He’s dressed in a tie dye shirt and pajama pants. The suited man takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, turning back to face the pyramid. He goes over every conceivable answer to his previous questions and can come to only one realistic possibility, and boy is it a doozy. He then hits the joint and holds the smoke in for far longer than any man should.

The suited man is certain of one thing in this moment, and one thing only: he is about to be thoroughly unimpressed.

“Yo!” yells out the maned man as he walks up the muddy slope to the site of the pyramid. “What are you doing in my back yard, guy?”

The suited man isn’t paying attention to the words being tossed at him; in fact, he can barely even hear them. What makes him aware of the maned man’s presence is the slight hint of body odor that slides its way into the suited man’s DMs as the creature slinks closer and closes the gap. Unable to ignore him any longer, the suited man turns to face his tie-dyed adversary and demands, “And where in the fuck have you been?”

The maned man is taken aback by this accusation, as he hasn’t the faintest idea who this random suitworne man in his backyard could possibly be.

“Uh… excuse me?”

The suited man takes another drag of his joint and holds it in far longer than a normal human would. I feel like he does this to prove something, to make a point, but I’m not quite sure; his intentions are illegible. As he exhales clouds, the suited man chokes out the words, “You heard me, fucko. I’m your old pal, don’t you remember me?”

The maned man studies the strange being that’s been presented before him by a force unknown, entirely unsure of how to feel about this whole situation.

“I bet you’re fuckin’ trying to figure out how to feel about this whole situation. See, that’s gigantic mistake number one,” scoffs the suited man before burning more plant matter. “So, this pyramid. Is there someth– someone buried under there?”

“Uh… well… I guess you could say that, yeah,” mumbles the maned man. His gaze is locked on the crystal crowning the structure.

The suited man politely puffs air out of his noise as an alternative to laughing out loud. “Well then, I’m sorry for your loss. I’m pretty sure I know exactly what’s going on here, too, like, cosmically. Tell me this, maned man: How many full moons have passed since your last bathe?”

The maned man’s demeanor changes a bit after this question; he closes up like a frightened box turtle, never to see daylight again. “Uhh, it’s been a few days, I guess. Or months. Not really sure, to be honest, but. Uh. Who are you?”

The suited man can feel an emotional wall being built and paid for. “Seriously, you dense motherfucker? Chuck! It’s Chuck. Chuck Leary? Did you really forget about silly ol’ suited ol’ me?”

“Chuh… Chuck… Leary? From my… what? That’s, no, that’s really not actually possible. Ohhh Christ I’m hallucinating, oh boy.”

The suited man starts laughing maniacally, and not in a laughing with you kind of way. “Took you long enough, my word. What’s it been since the first black hole, an iteration? Two? I’ll bet you’re high right now, too, you monkey, you stinking human, you absolute stoned ape.”

Confusion clasps ‘round the maned man’s head. “Wh… what? What does that even mean?”

“I’m not talkin’a you, maned man; I’m talkin’a you. Nevermind, the moment passed.” The suited man turns away from the maned man and gazes down at the pyramid, taking another three or so hits from his joint. “How did he die?”

The maned man almost answers straight out, but decides instead to return to his shell. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There could be treasure or a yoU-eFf-Oh buried under there. For all you know, that pyramid is guarding a secret back entrance to the ancient civilization of Atlantis. Why do you ass–”

 “How did the cat die, homie?” the suited man cuts. The maned man falls, gutted like a fish. “He was your son, tell his story.”

The maned man is quiet for a moment. The sea of clouds filling the sky above him darkened as the conversation between these two men progressed, and at this point, the drizzle’s evolved into a full-blown drazzle. The suited man passes his left-handed cigarette to the maned man who, instead of smoking it, just holds it in his fingers.

“Go on, take a hit. It’ll loosen you up.”

The maned man stares down the joint. “No… I don’t do drugs. I don’t deserve to even try drugs, I’m a failure. How can I reward myself by starting a drug habit if I don’t even have the courage to tell the world about the second book I wrote? How can I smoke drugs when I wrote a self-help book that didn’t blow up overnight? My cat died Chuck, I… I let my cat die… I’m unworthy.”

The suited man processes this for a moment. “Try again.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not repeating myself. Hit that thing or give it back, my oral fixation is entirely indescribable.”

The joint returns to the suited man, who proceeds to hit the stick like it’s a red-headed stepchild. After a moment of fighting himself internally, the maned man breathes and begins to speak.

“He died from a heart condition, okay? His heart was too big or something, and there was a blood clot, and… his back legs gave out. He was hardly five years old. I saw him drag his broken body across my bedroom floor before I could scoop him up, Chuck, I… the image is burned into my mind. All I can think about is all the times I let him scratch on my door in the morning because I didn’t feel like getting up to feed him, every time I let him outside and forgot, every other terrible thing I ever did to that poor cat.”

“Yeah but, at the same time, you were thoughtful enough to give him a big-ass piece of turkey as a last meal” the suited man reminds, hoping he isn’t asked how he knows that. “Turkey was his favorite, and you knew that. And you gave him some before he was taken to the hospital. You didn’t let him suffer. You did the right thing.”

“I forced him to eat that shitty prescription food he vehemently hated for the last five months of his life.”

“You didn’t fuckin’ know he was going to die, Jesus. You were just doing what you thought was right.”

“I… I kind of did know he was going to die, though. Like, I can’t really put it into words, but I always had a feeling he wasn’t long for this world. And still I neglected him.”

The suited man takes a few more moments to process. “All right, so even if you weren’t consciously bullshitting yourself by allowing yourself to entertain the ridiculous belief that you can see the future, you didn’t neglect your freaking cat. You gave that mongrel the best life he could have possibly lived. Sure, it wasn’t perfect,” he says before looking up and all around himself. “Neither is this freaking Universe. I’ve been to more than one now, and this one gives me a nasty case of the willies, man. You did your best and he lasted four years and change. Accept it.”


The suited man topples. “Uh… kay?”

“No, I won’t accept that.” footstomp “That cat was an angel, a guardian angel sent to me by the Universe. He was my best friend! I refuse to accept tha–”

“That you no longer need a guardian angel, and he was doing you a massive fucking favor by staying with you this long, and that his life was fairly traumatic, so as soon as he hooked you up proper, he got the fuck out of NewMann?”

The suited man can tell that his words just fucked up the maned man’s head game. He shrugs and looks back at the grave, thinking back to the time he found a cat lurking around in his garage. Shaking his head, the suited man says, “Christ man, even I got to meet the damned cat. It’s utterly undeniable that you loved him, and that you still love him. What do you have to torture yourself like this for?”

“Because,” the maned man says betwixt fat tears, “I don’t know. I don’t deserve to be happy. This life probably isn’t even real. I’m probably still in a coma from the night I cracked my skull and didn’t immediately get medical attention, this is all just a coma dream. Or better yet, I’m actually crazy and this is all a hallucination, and the camera’s going to start panning out until it shows me strapped in a straitjacket flopping around one of those padded rooms that you’d see in cartoons and shit.”

The maned man lowers his head to let the tears drop directly from his eyes to the ground. Or maybe those are rain drops, it’s quite hard to tell. “I never appreciated this body that I was given, or my family or my friends, or anything. I’ve been depressed since the day I was born, and I use the few humans who actually choose to include me in their lives as an excuse for driving myself to the point of literal insanity. What the fuck do I even matter, like really, who would care if I just died? Right now, somebody could literally sh–”



The suited man blows away the smoke rising from the barrel of his fingergun. A moment later, the maned man passes him back the joint and exhales a large cloud of smoke. Then, he shakes his head in existential confusion.

“Wha… what the fuck just happened?” the maned man attempts to say through numerous gasps for oxygen.

“To quote one of your favorite rap songs – Smoke by Ces Cru, by the way, off Constant Energy Struggles, great fuckin’ album – We’re lovers in the smoke, and we can’t even breathe.

The maned man’s bottom jaw goes slack for a second. “Am… are… do you expect me to get any meaning out of that?”

The suited man takes off his sunglasses, rolls his eyes, and puts his sunglasses back on. “Okay, so you got yourself into a thought spiral that was clearly just diggin’ you deeper into the mindhole you’ve been burying yourself in for the past couple whatever. So, I transformed my thumb and pointer finger into a railgun and blew your fucking head off in order to set your tormented spirit free from the timeline you were stuck in, which may or may not exist anymore. I don’t really know, or care, to be honest with you. Anyway, so you, in your pure, undiluted spiritual form – said form being a formless interdimensional geometric energy body of a dubious consciousness level – was immediately summoned back to an alternate reality that I was simultaneously existing in where, instead of holding my joint like a bitch, you hit it and just now passed it back to me. For a split second, your consciousness was in between bodies-slash-universes-slash-timelines, but you’re back now. Makes sense, right? Let me answer for you – no, it doesn’t make any sense, because I just made it all up. Sometimes, things just kinda happen. Go with it.”

The maned man’s bottom jaw goes slack for a second. “Am… are… do you expect me to get any meaning out of that?”

“You… you just copied and pasted that exact line… jeez. Okay,” mocks the suited man before smoking the rest of his joint. “Oh word, that thing disappeared on me. I was starting to think that it wouldn’t go out.” The suited man brushes a glovestroke of water off his suit and it’s immediately replaced by more raindrops. Taking a few deep breaths, he turns around and starts walking towards the street.

“Wait, Chuck!” calls out a distraught the maned man. “Where are you going? What am I supposed to do now??”

“Well,” the suited man says as he stops in the trenches he builds with each footstep. “For one, you could do me a favor.”

The maned man hesitates, but then figures, ‘What the hell, why not?’ “Okay, what do you need?”

“For you to finish that stupid novel you’ve been trying to write and let my universe just fucking exist.”

“Wait, what?”

The suited man treks back across the backyard. “You heard me. You need to let my universe exist again. It’s been swallowed by a black hole, what, three times in a row now? I don’t know how you did it, don’t know how you continue to do it, but it needs to fuckin’ stop, dude.”

The maned tries to break eye contact but he can’t, even through sunglasses the suited man’s stare holds firm. “You… you mean… my literary universe is… real…?”

“Literar… what the fuck? No, fucking… okay, let me explain this real easy. We all live in Existence, it’s this big clusterfuck of energy, and we’re all connected to it in ways that I don’t understand enough to postulate on correctly. I just know we’re all plugged into it like a big surge protector. So, you live in this Universe, whatever you want to call it, and I live over in my universe, let’s call it Doubleyou’Dash Twenty-Twenty, okay? Ya with me? So, see, for some fucked up reason that I don’t even wish I could understand, you’ve somehow tapped into my universe. Your consciousness bears witness to the events, you can even control the existential flow, and you do it all by writing.”

“…Naaahhhhh, that just… that sounds kinda crazy, like, I feel like you’re just a hallucination, and my dream of writing a novel is just supposed to be symbolic of my cat, and when he died, so did my happiness and my dreams.”

The suited man looks around like he’s being pranked. “What the fuck are you talking about? The only crazy part about any of this is the fact that you’re doubting the reality in front of you, which is me, by the way. Hey there. Notice me. Look, you wrote a couple books, right?”

“How do you know that?!”

“Because you said so before, that you didn’t have courage or whatever. Look. When you started writing your little stories way back when, you started something, kid. You interfered, you became something of a cosmic, existential interloper. You started some shit with my universe, hell you made my best friend destroy it three times. Or maybe you didn’t, maybe he just pulled that shit for the hell of it, but regardless, usually it just starts right back up and I find myself living my life again with a vague sense of having done it all before; but, it still hasn’t started, and I know it hasn’t started because instead of waking up there right now like I normally would, I’m here in your Universe, Mister acHe Oh Doubleyou, which tells me that something’s up. Plus, we ran into each other when you were writing the second one, remember?” ‘Wait, how do I know that?’

“We ran into… what? Oh… oh my fuck, that was fucking you, at the Walmart! Jesus, you… are… are you Jesus?

“No you assfuck, I’m Chuck. And you need to fix my universe so I can go back there and continue living in it.”

“Dude, but I can’t just fix your whole universe, my life is going on a different path now. I write nonfiction books, they’re abo–”

“Fuck you and your asinine nonfiction books, nobody wants to read about an egotistical shithead who writes about his own life like it fuckin’ matters. Besides, even you think your books are shit the way they are, and for all you know, I’m appearing here to realign you with your purpose in life. So you’re going to take your books, okay, and you’re going to rewrite them and present them as satire, as that’s an easy thisisfake label to slap on – fiction is just more interesting than nonfiction, that’s just what it is, plus, all fiction is based on reality anyway, and reality isn’t even that real. Might as well call it like it is. Yeah, yeah this is good, you’ll do a trilogy about how a writer struggles to write anything good until the third book where he delves into fiction and gets super successful. The story will be told through the books he writes, and in the third one – the book about my universe, if you’re having trouble keeping up, – you can even put in a chapter starring you and some chick living in uh… living wherever you want to live if you ever get your shit together and move out of your parents’ house! We’re getting started NOW, wake up, slappy! What’s the name of this Universe?”

“Huh?” the maned man huhs, incapable of keeping with the suited man’s game of rapid fire.

“This Universe, the one we’re currently permeating in. What’s She called? Like, make something up if you need to, fucking hell dude keep up with meeeeee.”

“Uh… uh… UH! Universe, uh… Doubleyou’Dash Sixty-Three?”

“Surely! Why not?! Okay, so you’ll rework the self-help book, rework the other one, make ‘em satire, and put them in a series called Doubleyou’Dash Sixty-Three. Then, when you’re feeling nice and good about yourself with your new satire books, you’ll magically man the fuck up and fix my universe! It’ll be the aforementioned third book, call it whatever the fuck you want, it’s officially a’go!”

The suited man dances in victory. The maned man feels doubt.

“What if I don’t though?”

Continuing his dance, “Then do something else for your third book, then make mine the fourth. Look, you have the information now, and if you keep up this drug smoking trend, the–”

“Drug smoking trend?! No, I don’t do drugs dude, I told you!”

“You just smoked my Cannabis.”

“Neither of us can prove that.”

“Fucking… you are inane, child. Do a poetry collection for all I care, whatever you need to do to force yourself into writing my universe’s book. Once you do that and it’s nice and finalized, I can go back home, and we never need to have one of these conversations again.”

“Okay okay, fine, I get it. This is my life’s purpose, to write your universe’s book. Thank you for finally letting me know what I’m supposed to do, Uni. But… how am I supposed to actually get there, Chuck? I’m not creative like you. Flip the self-help book into satire, fine, that’s easy, but what about the other one? Ih–”

Dancing like a porpoise, “STOP I don’t want to know what it’s about, not even a little. Just… fuckin’, I don’t know, do you got any extended family? Old dudes or dudettes?”

“I mean… I have a grandmother, yeah.”

“Great! Read it to her, make the second one a book about reading a book. That’s creative as fuck.”

“It… is?

“Sure!” as he breakdances whilst floating inches off the ground. “I don’t care even a little bit, dude. Just do it, and then write my universe’s book.”

“And the short stories too?” the maned man interjects, puffing his flat chest out. “I should put my stories into a book too, right?”

“…Yyeeaaaahhhhh,” the suited man says, lowering to the soggy lawn. “Yeah, I mean, I guess you could do them, you probably don’t have to, though. You know, you could just like… skip ‘em. Or don’t. I don’t really care, manbro. Just make my universe whole. No more black holes.”

“No more black holes… okay, I think I can do that.”

“You think?” stopping his dance furiously enough that the music in his head stops playing.

“Uh…” the maned man uhs, “sorry. I can do that. I’ll start on the self-help book tonight. Um… Chuck?”

“What?” the suited man asks, searching his body for a joint.

“How do I… how do I know that you’re real? Like… how do I know this isn’t all a hallucination? I mean… you’re a character I made up, and now you’re in my backyar–”

“I’m a character you made up?” the suited man growls, stepping into the maned man’s comfort zone. “How fucking egotistical are you, child? You can’t possibly think that you are responsible for my existence.”

The maned man shivers.

“Stop shivering, cretin! You’ve no reason to be chilled!”

“Why are you talking like that? Just… show me the ring, that’ll prove you’re real.”

“Now you demand to see my jewelry! You harlot, you’ll just slip it off my hand when I sleep!” the suited man sings, dancing to a tone-deaf swan’s song.

The maned man has never once been more convinced that he is, in fact, mentally insane, than he is in this moment.

“Chuck… please,” the suited man says. “That’s what you were going to say, right? God you’re lame kid, so belligerently unsure of yourself.” As he removes his right glove, “Is this what you’ve been trying to see? This little diddy doo-dah right here?”

Upon the suited man’s bare middle finger shines a platinum ring fitted with a glorious gemstone which shines with all the colors of the rainbow and then some. As the maned man’s eyes feast, his brain grows hungrier still.

“There, you’ve seen God. Are we on the same page now, like, are you going to fix what you’ve broken? Is my universe going to be back on the other side of my next portal?”

“Well, uh,” the maned man squeaks, feeling great responsibility resting on his bony shoulders. “Probably not, I mean… I don’t know exactly how the bit about the interdimensional traveh–”

“Interuniversal travel. Get it right, bloke.”

“Interuniversal, you’re right. But um, I don’t know how all that works and, and I mean, it’s not like I’ll be able to write the whole five books tonight alone.”

“Five books?” the suited man asks, ignoring all the squirrels in the trees that won’t quit staring at him.

The squirrels turn their heads to the maned man. He says, “Yeah, the self-help, the grandma, the poetry collection, the novel about your universe, and then the anthology of my short stories.”

The squirrels look to the suited man. “Oh right, yeah. Well all I care about is the novel, so… anyway, how will I know when it’s done? Hmm… I’ll just have to live here with you.”

The maned man isn’t about to let that happen, even the squirrels know that much. “I can… hrmm… I have an idea.”

“Shoot,” says the suited man whose hands turn into guns.

“I can buil–… well, write a flash fiction about you getting stuck in a contraption, some sort of isolation tank that’s powered by your ring. It’ll hold you in a state of existential limbo until the ring senses that universe Doubleyou’Dash Twenty-Twenty is back in Existence, and then it’ll click and you’ll be there.”

The suited man smiles and says, “That sounds like a dope plan, actually. I’ve never been isolated in a tank before, only in closets. Anyway, I do have a request.”

The maned man, who had taken out his smart phone, looks up and resumes the conversation. “Wuzzat?”

“Two, actually. One: don’t mention that I told you to make these books, at least not until the last one. Your readers, hypothetically speaking, will think you’re nuts talkin’bout a dude in a business suit in your back yard setting you on your destiny. At least, not until I’m properly introduced in my own universe first… hmmm… actually, on that note, definitely do the poetry collection, and add in a part about how you can mysteriously perceive the events of an alternate universe and how you talk to a voice in your head that tells you to write the books or something. It’ll be good for the story. Secon–”

“But… but those things are both true, I can see what happens in your universe. I do hear a voice in my head, and I talk to that voice, and it does tell me to write books.”

“EVEN FUCKIN’ BETTER! Second, when I come to, I want to be incarnated in the middle of the action. In medias res, or whatever the hell. I’m tryna be side by side with my best buddy… you know who that is, right?”


“You better know who that is.”

Off the top of his maned head, the maned man knows not. “I’ll… surprise you? Or, how about I’ll put you back in the moment, but then have you realize you talking to me today worked a day later? How about that? Yeah, I like that,” as he looks back at his phone.

“I mean… that’s complicated as shit, but whatever, wake me up wherever, but… wait, who the fuck are yo–”

“Who the fuck am I?” the maned man asks rhetorically, standing alone in his back yard, beneath a now cloudless sky as he taps away at a keyboard projected below cracked glass. “I’m your creator Chuck, universe Doubleyou’Dash Twenty-Twenty is my invention.”

The maned man’s finger mistypes a key and his brain is slow on the draw, forcing him to delete seven words in the correcting of one.

“The real question Chuck, is who the fuck are you? You just appeared here in my backyard, staring at my cat’s pyramid, and asking me all these questions. You could be a police officer or a government hacker who tapped into my computer and read all my writings, and you were sent to spy on me because you think I’m gearing up to write a manifesto or something silly like that.”

With his prey verbally backed against a corner, the maned man raises his eyes from the screen and shouts, “Got you now, Chuck, if that even is your real name!” to the empty space in front of him.

The maned man notices that the squirrels are gone as he looks back and forth, surveying the backyard. The rain has stopped falling, the grass is saturated with polluted skydrips, and the quartz gleams atop the pyramid. He’s alone there, no wildlife, no suited man, no peeping neighbors, nor bored construction workers next door. No security cameras, no actively recording programs running on his smart phone. Only a foggy memory of events that just transpired a moment ago… and no way to verify if the suited man had really been there.

The maned man looks to the ground, tapping at the footprints with his big toe. None of the holes feel solid, surely they must be real. He didn’t make them all though, did he? No, no he’s barefoot, he can’t be responsible for the footprints made by business shoes… unless he stole his father’s and used them to trounce around in the mud instead of sleeping last night again.

No, no he was out here praying last night, hoping that Milkshake would hear his pleas and return to visit in astral form. The cat has yet to come, but the maned man will pray again.

And then, he will write.


The Contraption

Chuck wakes up in a dark space, his mind suffocated before the taste of air graces his lungs.

“What the fuck?” he shouts, flailing his fists and kicking his feet. The surroundings catch his punches and lick his shoes. Arms and mouths lined with dull vampire teeth then sprout from the walls of the dark space and leave Chuck’s suit tattered and positively riddled with tears and bite holes. He submits.

“Hello? HELLO??” Chuck screams, his voice bouncing off the interior of the contraption. “WHERE THE FUCK AM I?!”

You’re in the contraption, Chuck.

Chuck says nothing, his own words still ricocheting off the inner wall of his cranial sanctum.

‘You’re in the contraption Chuck, the one we talked of.’

We?” Chuck accuses the empty air. “What in the fuck?! Why am I hearing voices?!”

‘It is I, Chuck. HOW. You came to me in my backyard, and we talked about my life’s purpose, remember? Such a beautiful vision… but I thought perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me when you disappeared. Then, I remembered… the contraption.’

“The contraption,” Chuck says aloud, trying to follow along. Oh right, he just talked about this a moment ago – weird how you just forget stuff like that. “Right, yeah, okay. So I’ll be in here until my universe is fixed, right?”

‘Oh Chuck, your universe is fixed. I published the book a month ago… how long have you been in there?’

“Literally a handful of seconds, it’s fine dude. Don’t worry about it, just send me on my way.”

Send me on my way… wait, shit, how do I do that?

“Hello? Are you going to let me go home or not? I need to make sure I like it so I don’t need to come back here,” his voice dropping through the spectrum of inflection along the way.

‘Uh…’ I stall, trying to come up with something. ‘Just… um… wait for the click?’

“Okay…” as Chuck begins the eternal wait for a click that may never, “Suddenly, I don’t think this is going to work,” click.

Hello Commons, this has been the third chapter of The 2020 Event |The Sideshows|, a satirical short story anthology about Existence and the universes that float within it. |The Sideshows| is the final book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Sideshows| 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 |The Sideshows| and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed paperback copy (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) paperback copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Heist

Ceiling Tiles

Dally isn’t sure what the ceiling is made of. It’s a tile ceiling, but not the same tiles as the ones on the floor. The ones on the floor are made of… rocks of some sort. Probably. Dally isn’t sure what the floor tiles are made of either, now that he thinks of it. Truth be told, Dally isn’t sure of much today. It’s a stressful day. His freedom hyperbolically hangs in the balance and all he can do is play the waiting game, at least for now. The room is only on the second floor, and the window next to the bed is right above the parking lot. He’ll know when the car rolls in, in fact he’ll be the first to know. So until then… what is the ceiling made of? The tiles are white, and the material has nooks and crannies in it, it’s not flat. Not perfectly solid. Some kind of plaster maybe? Probably couldn’t walk on it. You’d have to be pretty small to even attempt it, the ceilings in this place aren’t thick. One could probably hide stuff up there if one was so tempted. Dally is tempted to hide himself in the ceiling, but he knows that wouldn’t work. The floor would be covered in bits of ceiling tile, it would be a dead giveaway.

No, he has to face this thing head on. The car is on its way, the heist is officially in motion, and the plan is a good plan. There’s really nothing to worry about. But yet…

Laying on the bed isn’t helping, ceiling be damned. Dally swings his legs away from the window and forces himself to stand. He walks into the corner of the room that functions as a kitchen and dips the tip of his pinky finger into the coffee. Cold.

“It’s going to work, it was Sally’s idea and Sally is smart. Otherwise your niece would be a demon, and she’s not a demon. It’s going to wo–”

Tires crunch pebbles into asphalt as the car rolls into the parking lot. Dally peeks through the window – yep, it’s them. He assumes his position on the couch. Not much time left now… so what are those ceiling tiles made of?

Mom’s Coffee Mug

“Whose coffee mug is that?”

Miss Gretta’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Her back is all hunched up. Her jaw is hanging low, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze blowing in through the window. She’s not pointing – the woman needs all her strength to hold herself upright unless she’s sitting in a chair with a back, and even then she slouches down – but there’s only one coffee she could be talking about.

“You don’t recognize the Tigger mug, Mom? Melinda gave it to you last Christmas, you use it every day.” Dally hops up off the couch and picks up the mug. “Yikes, feels like it’s cold. You must have poured this before you and Sally went out this morning.”

“Me and Sally…” Miss Gretta mumbles, then she licks her lips. “Yeah, me and Sally went to pick up Melinda. Sally said they were coming over for visit.”

In a way it really kills him, but Dally still forces himself to smile. “I think you heard it wrong, Mom,” as he pours the cold sludge down the drain. “You and Sally went for breakfast this morning, now she’s dropping you off so she can go pick Melinda up from her piano lesson.”

Miss Gretta looks around. “But what are you doing here?”

This smile hurts less. “Well I heard the girls were coming for a visit, so I thought I’d stop by too.”

“The girls are here??”

“One is,” as Sally walks in. “Dallas, what are you doing with Mom’s coffee mug?”

Dally turns on the sink and fills the mug, then starts swishing the water around. “She made coffee before you two left, it’s cold. I’m’a make her a new cup.” He arbitrarily hits buttons on the coffee maker next to the sink. “Sallas.”

“Oh, all right. Good.” Sally looks to her mom, then back to her brother. “Good. I um, I’m going to go pick up Melinda. I’ll be back soon, and um… we can all have a nice visit.”

“That sounds like a wonderful time,” Dally says, but he’s not smiling anymore. Nor is he facing anybody, just himself in the little mirror hanging over the sink. Coffee falls through the filter and into the pot, drop by drop.

“Well what about me?” Miss Gretta asks. Sally had almost gotten to the door, too. Just a few more steps would have done it.

Dally turns around and the room brightens. “What about you, Mah? I know Sally’s the golden child, but we can hang out just you and me for a few minutes, can’t we?”

Miss Gretta looks about the room. First to Sally’s face, then to Dally’s. Then about the room again. “But… but what are you doing here, Dally?”

Playfully rolling his eyes gives Dally a headache, but he does it nonetheless. It’s a good plan, it’s going to work. “What, am I not allowed to visit my own Mah?” He turns to face Sally. “Hey, can I get a word before you go?”

Sally looks at her mom. Her mom looks blankly about the room. “Sure. Come on.”

A Visit

Miss Gretta’s sitting on the edge of her bed. Her back is all hunched up, but at least she’s not slouching. Her mouth is hanging open, but not because she can’t close it. She’s just confused, poor old Miss Gretta. She’s in her living room sitting on a bed, but usually she sits in an old rocking chair. And the walls aren’t blue anymore, they’re beige. The area rug is gone, too, and somebody took up her nice hardwood floor and replaced it with tile. The funny thing is, Miss Gretta doesn’t remember any of the work getting done. There are a lot of things Miss Gretta doesn’t remember these days, but Miss Gretta is getting up there. She supposes forgetfulness is just part of the aging process – when her mind feels up to supposing things, that is – but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

Something starts beeping across the room. It’s the mug, the odd yellow coffee mug with the happy tiger on it, it’s… no, it’s the coffee machine next to the mug. Where did that coffee mug come from?

“Whose coffee mug is that?”

“You don’t recognize the Tigger mug, Mom?” Dally asks as he walks in from the hallway. “Melinda gave it to you last Christmas, you use it every day.”

“Oh, oh that’s… yes, that’s right. Me and Sally went to pick up Melinda. Sally said they were coming over for a visit.”

Dally is smiling, but Miss Gretta doesn’t think the smile is a very happy smile. She starts looking about the room so she doesn’t have to look at it.

Dally says, “I think you heard it wrong, Mom,” then explains where Sally is. Miss Gretta asks Dally what he’s doing here. He looks into the little mirror hung above the sink. “Well I heard the girls were coming for a visit, so I thought I’d stop by too.”

Hello Commons, this has been The Heist, the flash fiction story attached to the Tigger mug from rePurpp, the official store of The Hillside Commons. Click here to go to the store and check it out for yourself.

I also write fiction books, all of which you can read for free on my website. Click here to see the list.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Deji – The 2020 Event |The Sideshows| (6/82)

Universe W-78: Beautiful Minds 2

Old Friends

A warm breeze rustles Deji’s spiky black hair. The crescent moon glows a gloomy orange through a hazy layer of clouds as mist spills down and coats the surface of the reservoir. All the candy in the world couldn’t beat this, a peaceful summer’s night on the dam.

With his back leaned against the cold concrete divider, Deji sits in the shadow of a streetlight with a busted-out bulb. The working streetlights to his right and left provide Deji with just enough light to see in front of him, yet there’s enough darkness for his eyes to pick up the stars; the lake has never looked more beautiful than it does right now.

A car drives by and beams bright lights out of its windows, an army of photons marching in step right over Deji’s head. He hears a voice calling out, “Dee-Jay! Dee-Jay, where are you?”

Where indeed; there not but there, existing unseen as one with the inky blackness of the night that so many admonish for lack of understanding. Not our Deji though; the darkness has always been a second home for him. It accepts him, understands him.

The calling fades as the search party drives further and further away. Whoever DJ is, Deji sure hopes he’ll be okay.

Shortly after the air slows to a calm, it’s shattered into pieces by a sportscar of some kind coming from the opposite direction as the last car. Had they passed each other? The resulting wind reaches over the divider and gently taps Deji on the head. He smiles and looks down to the end of the bridge to watch the headlights follow the road back into the forest. Maybe that was DJ, tearing asphalt on his way home from some nightclub mere moments after his family left to go looking for him. A distant streetlight shakes as the car rumbles by.

Deji has quite a history with this dam, he used to go for midnight jaunts to this very spot with his old gang of friends all the time. They would meet up in the woods and play together all day just to sneak out at night and go for their long, serene strolls above the water. They were all so close, Deji shared everything with his friends… except for his candy. Deji’s caretakers would never let him share his candy, not even with his roommate Koncho.

“Koncho takes his own candy,” the caretakers would always tell him. “Your candy can’t help him, Deji. It’s only good for you.” Don’t they know that sharing is caring?

A motorcycle passes. The rumble from the muffler tickles the inside of Deji’s ears. He’s always liked being in spots where nobody could see him, it makes him feel safer. Less alone. Maybe DJ drives a motorcycle, that would be radical.

Deji looks down to the other end of the bridge and the shaky streetlamp goes out with a flash of light when the biker leaves it in his dust. Deji hears the biker pick up speed before he hits the steep uphill of the mountain road.

‘Uh oh,’ Deji thinks to himself. ‘It’s about to get dark.’

Deji hears voices coming from the forest on the other side of the dam, the side that he came from. Very faint voices, echoes really, the whines of a tribe of concerned humans. Deji scrunches down a few inches further below the concrete divider as a big truck with booming music flies by, what a busy night. On his right side, a little yellow frog crawls out of a crack in the sidewalk and leaps over the divider into the road. When Deji peeks over the divider, the frog is gone. Maybe DJ is a missing pet frog, what a twist that would be.

Unperturbed, Deji sits back down and gazes out across the water. He’s used to seeing things that aren’t there, or rather, things that the other humans can’t see. Nobody could see his friends but him; well, him and his parents. His parents never liked his friends though, they would always try to keep them apart.

By the same effect, Deji’s friends would always tell him not to eat the candy his parents gave him, and Deji would often listen. The candies are kind of nasty anyway, they never taste like anything. His parents didn’t like that though, and neither do the caretakers – it’s been quite a few years since Deji’s seen his parents. Even longer since he’s seen his old friends.

A pair of effervescent eyes peek through the trees near the peak of the mountain, catching Deji by surprise. Headlights probably, and they’re coming down the road in his direction, too. He scrunches down further in anticipation, but… nothing. A few minutes pass and they never hit the bridge. Where did they go? Did they accidentally run DJ over?

Deji scans the dark mouth of the bridge, waiting for the car, for movement, anything. Another streetlight goes out, the furthest one, the one closest to his home.

Then another, and another.

He looks back towards the other side of the bridge and the same thing happens, one by one down the row the streetlights go out with a brilliant flash. Darkness encroaches down the bridge towards Deji, leaving him surrounded, stranded alone on an isle of the unknown that is swiftly being swallowed up by a tsunami of oily blackness. But… is it the unknown?

A knowing smile spreads across Deji’s face. “Hello old friends, I’ve missed you.”

The last two streetlights go out.


Hello Commons, this has been the second story from the second chapter of The 2020 Event |The Sideshows|, a satirical short story anthology about Existence and the universes that float within it. |The Sideshows| is the final book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Sideshows| 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 |The Sideshows| and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed paperback copy (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) paperback copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~