Posted in Writings

Sept the Fourth (recont’d) – Untitled Bigfoot Project (56/224)

Sept the Fourth (recont’d)

I had my delicious licorice oatmeal, and it was delicious.

Now, time to write. This is happening, I’m going to do this. I’m really doing this.

Go time.


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

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

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

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

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

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Hallucinations – Convenient Incidents (76/84)

Convenient Incidents
For Johnny

Hallucinations

“Ohhh what the fuck?” Dallas spurts as he stumbles backwards and falls on his ass. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck this is fucking bad, dude, ffuuhhhck…

“What is it?!” Hilter shouts as he runs over to help Dallas up. Dallas doesn’t take the help, he just keeps crawling backwards away from the shack, his butt tracing along the track left by the dragged body. “Dallas, speak!”

But Dallas doesn’t speak, he just puts more distance between himself and what he saw inside that ratty wooden shack.

Gripping the bottle tightly in his hand, Hilter approaches the shack and throws the door open. He raises the bottle above his head, ready to bring it down on the ski mask burglar like the ski mask burglar brought his gun down on Dallas’s brother Johnny, but the bottle just hangs there in the air for a moment as the reality of the situation is processed. Hilter lets his arm fall to his side and he drops the bottle. It lands on a rock but doesn’t shatter.

The ratty shack is a hoarder’s den, there’s no doubt about that. Miscellaneous knickknacks and mundane decor pieces – all stolen from houses on White Road, Barnstatter Path, and Fricker Drive, no doubt – are stacked up haphazardly in the corners and scattered about the uncovered muddy floor. A few things were even hung from the ceiling by thin brown vines, including a handgun which doesn’t seem to have a magazine loaded into the handle. In the center of the shack is a pillar which stands to the height of Hilter’s hip – likely a sawed section of a log the man found along the trail, because there’s no way he could have chopped it himself; hell, Hilter can’t fathom how the man even managed to build this shack – covered in a red tablecloth. At the base of the pillar lies the ski mask burglar, except he’s not wearing his black ski mask. He’s not wearing anything, unfortunately, but his filthy, bulbous body is slathered in a thick coating of mud, so there’s that.

The man is also missing his head, along with a semi-circle of flesh and bone between his shoulders… so… there’s also that.

“What… what in the name of God…” Hilter whispers under his breath, but he knows the answer. The boy who told him about this shack, Cooper, his name was; Cooper told him there was a monster living in the Wanaque Reservoir, a massive mutant thing he called The Serpent which screams a banshee’s wail. Cooper said he found The Serpent’s egg and he stole it from the nest, that he ran and ran and ran with the egg in his arms, he ran so fast he missed the turn that would have taken him back to Fricker Drive, and he wound up here. And the ski mask burglar stole the egg from him.

And apparently, The Serpent stole it back.

“This must have happened recently,” Hilter says as he walks into the shack, letting the door slap closed behind him. He bends low and touches two fingers to the ragged bite mark – it’s still wet, but of course it is, it’s pouring right now, the air is easily moist enough to bring a flow to stagnant blood. “This either happened last night or early this morning… but I suppose it doesn’t matter.” Hilter cleans his fingers with the cloth draped over the log – the altar, as the man who once wore a ski mask surely considered it – and then stands up.

Then, he sees the stone sitting on top of the altar. It’s shaped almost like an egg, probably measures about half a foot long and half as wide. It’s not just a rock though, it’s a white crystal, a white quartz crystal with a small growth of lichen sprouting from one edge. Hilter can’t take his eyes off it.

The room begins to sway around Hilter Odolf Williamson. All the knickknacks expand and contract in their own independent rhythms as if they were breathing, and a mad rush of lightness and pleasant euphoria sweeps through Hilter’s troubled mind. He feels a pinpoint pressure an inch above the bridge of his nose, as if a finger reached out from the center of his brain and pressed against the inside of his forehead, it feels… it feels like the touch of God. The Universe has been speaking to Hilter Odolf Williamson ever since he bought his first house on Fricker Drive, She has spoken and sang and told him all sorts of tricky riddles, She has brought him here to this ratty wooden shack in the middle of the woods for a reason, an unknowable reason, the understanding of which has eluded Hilter for days and weeks and months, which has haunted his dreams and kept his mind spinning wildly out of control like a tornado. But now, after all the turmoil and cognitive dissonance, now that Hilter is standing here in the ratty wooden shack with the moldy plywood door, he finally understands: he’s meant to take this crystal. He doesn’t know why, but he knows he needs to take the crystal, and so he does, and as he slips it into the right pocket of his wet sweatpants, the hallucinations abruptly cease. Hilter is alone, standing here in a moldy wooden shack with a dead body on the floor and a rock in his pocket. And the rain pours and pours. And the wind continues to blow.

And now that he’s fully aware of the present moment, Hilter notices just how pungent the reek of death is inside this old ratty shack.

But still, he stays inside for a few moments longer. He bends back down to the disgusting headless body of the ski mask burglar, but not to speak to it, not to pay any final respects. Laying in the burglar’s open left hand is a leather sheath attached to a loop so one may dangle it from a belt. Hilter picks the sheath up, then steps over the body and crouches down to the right side of the ski mask burglar’s soulless corpse. Here, clenched tightly in the burglar’s rigor-mortified hand, is a black dagger with a partially serrated blade. The hilt of the weapon is designed to resemble a bat; there’s even a little bat head at the top of the handle. It takes some doing, but Hilter wedges the handle of the dagger out of the man’s hand, then sheaths it. Then he leaves the ratty wooden shack through its moldy plywood door, never to return.


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

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

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

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

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

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Sept the Fourth (cont’d) – Untitled Bigfoot Project (55/224)

Sept the Fourth (cont’d)

It’s been an hour and I have nothing. I need some breakfast, maybe that’ll help me think.

Oh, I’ve been meaning to write this down since last month: I figured out the correct way to make oatmeal, you ready?

So you take two packets of Quaker Oats low sugar instant oatmeal, the kind that comes in the variety box with the apple cinnamon flavor, the cinnamon and spice flavor, and the maple brown sugar flavor. Take two packets, any two you want, I like to mix the apple cinnamon and the cinnamon and spice because those old Apple Jax commercials with the Cinna-Mon character, “Here I come I am Cinn-a-Mon, AY!” and you put ‘em in a bowl. Next, you add a cup of milk.

PSYCH! You do not add milk, because you are not a measly milkdrinker! And before you even say it, Journal, you don’t put it into the microwave either. That’s a big no. Big ol’ fat ol’ gargantuan ol’ NO.

What you do, Journal, is you boil a cup of water with a tea bag in it, but not just any kind of teabag. A bag of licorice spice tea. By the time the water is boiled the tea is perfectly steeped, so then you pour the tea into the oatmeal, mix it up like you’re scrambling an egg, let it sit for a minute so you can go on tasting things for the rest of the day, and boom. The greatest, most delectable oatmeal on the fucking planet.

You. Are. Welcome to try it yourself, except you’re not. Because you. Are. A. Notebook, a journal named Journal.

…                                     …                                    …

Good god, the procrastination is real. Why can’t I write this much for my novel?


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

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

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

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

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

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Ratty Wooden Shack – Convenient Incidents (75/84)

Convenient Incidents
For Johnny

The Ratty Wooden Shack

It stands about twelve feet high from the mud-splattered base to the point of the mossy shingled roof. The door is an old sheet of plywood, likely no more than a half-inch thick considering how warped it is, and covered in a rainbow of molds; fuzzy blues, oily greens, hairy whites, slimy oranges, a disconcerting brownish-yellow splotch about three feet off the ground. The walls are made of boards of varying ages and colors – some a faded gray, some a rich dark brown, the rest lost somewhere in between. Some are missing, leaving gaping holes, and some have been reinforced with small squares of plywood. Some have been reinforced with branches, too, and some with tree bark. To the left of the door is a dirty glass window.

“Does… someone really lives here?” Dallas asks, shuddering at the thought.

“You’d be surprised, Dallas,” Hilter answers slowly, unable to take his eyes off the ratty shack. “The human body is a resilient organism; I know a young man who survived on nothing more than weeds and water tainted with lead paint for the better part of his life.”

They stand there as the forest drips rain on them. The ratty wooden shack has an air of death around it; this is a place where the damned come to die, where the lost souls of the world wander to find out just how lost they really are. To enter the ratty shack is to leave the world behind; to leave the ratty shack is a promise to return to it in worse shape. The thick dragged body track leads right to the moldy plywood door.

“Well,” Hilter says, then nervously gulps. It gets caught in his throat like a wad of hair in a shower drain. “I suppose we’d better knock on the door, then. I’ll go first; follow my lead, Dallas, but be prepared to run.”

“No,” Dallas says.

“Excuse me?”

“This is where the guy that killed my brother lives, isn’t it? The burglar?”

Hilter studies Dallas’s face, then nods. “I believe it is. And if my hunch is right, your brother’s dagger is probably in there, too.”

Dallas nods. “Then I’m going first. All my life I’ve just done what I was told, I was always the follower, the quiet one, the kid who stayed in his room unless I was told otherwise. I’m tired of being that guy, I’m sick and tired of it. My brother’s murderer is shacked up in that ratty shack, and I didn’t walk all the way out here through the pouring rain just to let you go first, Hilter. I need to do this. Not just for myself, but for my brother. For Johnny, I need to do this.”

Without a word nor a moment of hesitation, Hilter steps aside. Dallas stands there for a bit, surprised the words came out of his mouth the way they did. Then, he begins to walk. With every step towards the shack Dallas takes, his heart beats harder and harder. Flocks of butterflies take flight in his stomach, his arms tremble like branches in the wind, his teeth chatter like the bones of the restless dead, but still he walks forward.

Suddenly, Dallas is at the door. He places a hand on the handle – it’s soft, much softer than it should be, but it’s still solid, like a fuzzy can of beer – and then closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Opens his eyes.

Then, Dallas opens the door.


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

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

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

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

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

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Sept the Fourth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (54/224)

Sept the Fourth

Good morrow, Journal. Today is the day where one line becomes two. The Face of Fear, here I come!

I’m not even going to waste time writing a lot this morning, I’m’a get right into it. Peace!!


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

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

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

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

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

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Old Logging Road – Convenient Incidents (74/84)

Convenient Incidents
For Johnny

The Old Logging Road

Neither of the men share a single word as they bumble up Fricker Drive through the pouring rain. At first Dallas was enjoying the sensation – down in Florida (in the rare event his Grandmother was asleep and he could sneak outside and experience it), every rainstorm that wasn’t a full blown tropical hurricane felt like a warm, steamy shower – but up here in the Jersey jungle, it’s cold. It was nice at first, but the novelty’s worn off. Dallas is definitely going to be sick tomorrow.

If he makes it to tomorrow, that is. After all, Dallas is blindly following a stranger up the backwoods road he used to live on, a stranger whose house he broke into, an unhinged stranger armed with a breakable glass bottle. All Dallas has is a dusty coaster.

At the top of the steep hill at the back end of Fricker, the bottle toting man goes left and starts across the saturated lawn between the street and the algae-laden pond. Dallas follows. When they’re halfway across the concrete path running alongside said pond, Dallas finally speaks up.

“Excuse me, Sir?”

No answer. He probably just didn’t hear, the rain is pouring pretty hard.

“Hey, Mister!”

Still nothing. Dallas looks to the pond, then back at the man. He’s not that big, if Dallas got him by surprise he could probably shove him into the water. That’d give him plenty of time to get back to his car and drive away forever… but let’s be honest, Dallas doesn’t want it to come to that. Dallas doesn’t like violence, he doesn’t even like thinking about violence. So he tries again, this time tapping the man on the shoulder, the right shoulder, the one with the bottle gripped below it.

“Hey man, hold up. I have a couple questions.”

The man holds up, but he doesn’t turn around. “What? Speak loudly, I can hardly hear you.”

Dallas hustles in front of the man, thinking it’ll help him hear better. It probably won’t, as the man’s hood is plastered to his head from the rain, but now that he’s up front, it would be dumb if he jogged back around. “Well first, what’s your name?”

The man blinks. “Hilter Odolf Williamson. I have a question for you, too: how well do you know the trails back here?”

“Uhh… well enough, I guess,” Dallas guesses. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere I’ve never been to before, but I have it on good authority that the place does exist. Somewhere back along the old logging road there’s a junction that’s rather muddy – if you follow it one way it’ll take you to the Wanaque Reservoir, and if you follow it the other it will take you to a ratty wooden shack with a door made of plywood. From what I understand, it’s quite easy to miss the turn if you’re coming back from the reservoir in a hurry. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

A blank look is all Dallas can muster. Raindrops pour down his cheeks in deep rivers. “I didn’t know there was an old logging road back here, Mister Williamson.”

Hilter blinks again, three times in rapid succession. “It’s just another name for the wide trail, this one right ahead of us.”

Dallas turns and looks into the forest. The low branches of the trees give the mouth of the trail the appearance of a luscious green cavern. “Oh, you mean the quadding trail. Yeah, sorry, I should have known. Nothing else leads to the res’. I think I know the turn you’re talking about.”

“Good. If it’s not obvious to me, you’ll have to point it out. Remember, we don’t want to go to the reservoir, we want to go the other way. The way to the old ratty shack.” Hilter then resumes his plunge into the drenched forest.

“What’s at the ratty shack, Mister Williamson?” No answer. “Do you think my brother’s dagger is really out there?” Again, no answer. Dallas jogs to catch up, then falls into pace with Hilter.

They march past the heads of the trails which zig and zag back and forth through the shallower parts of the forest. They carefully march down the rocky hill, trying not to twist their ankles on the abundance of loose rocks. At the bottom of this rocky hill are three trailheads, two of them much wider than the third. Dallas suggests the rightmost, as the left leads back to Stonetown Road.

The rightmost trail is excruciatingly muddy, as muddy as the hill was rocky, muddier even. Dallas said this is a quadding trail, and that explanation will have to do – the ATVs tear up the forest with their tires, converting well-walked trails into impassable pits of mud which will eventually turn into ponds like the bend they just trailblazed around. Eventually, Hilter imagines, when enough time has passed and enough rain has fallen, these quad trails will become ruts through which rivers flow. That’s all well and good, just as long as they find the ratty shack before it happens.

Both men are covered in mud up to their shins by the time they come to the junction. Dallas doesn’t need to point it out to Hilter, but he does anyway. Hilter ignores him. Pulling down his hood so he can think clearly, Hilter surveys the area – the left bend of the junction is a pool of thick, brown water, while the right is rocky enough to walk through without having to dip off the trail.

“We should go right, correct?” Hilter asks without turning to face Dallas. Dallas hears him clearly, as the rain is much quieter in the woods what with the canopy catching the drops and all.

“Yep. You want me to go first?”

Hilter answers by proceeding over the slick, mossy rocks. He almost loses his footing a few times, eight times to be specific, but he manages to cross the steppingstones without breaking his legs. Dallas follows suit, albeit much more gracefully. They continue along the old logging road, neither party making mention of the thick track running down the center of the trail, a track reminiscent of the shallow rut left behind from the dragging of a body bundled up in blankets and duct tape. Dallas doesn’t notice it – he keeps his eyes on Hilter, just in case the dude decides to turn around and bring that bottle down on his head – but Hilter does, and Hilter knows exactly what made that track. He once saw the serpentine creature in a dream, and though it was under the surface of some cloudy water and he couldn’t get a good look at it, he’d very much like to never see it again.

This last stretch of the old logging road is fairly flat and solid. Dallas and Hilter walk side by side up until the very end, where they both stop in unison. Standing in a clearing twenty feet ahead of them is the ratty wooden shack.


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

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

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

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

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

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Sept the Third (cont’d) – Untitled Bigfoot Project (53/224)

Sept the Third (cont’d)

Well, I have some good news and some bad news, me cully. Which would you like first?

That’s a rhetorical question, of course you want the bad news first. Otherwise the good news wouldn’t be good news by comparison, it would just be… news, I guess. Anyway, here goes.

The Bad News

After writing the beautiful first line of my novel, the ultimate homage to my literary hero Mister Stephen King, I proceeded to not write a single further word.

Not a single fucking one.

But that’s okay; the idea is a big one, so it only makes sense that it’ll take a while to come through from that mysterious other world where stories dwell before they’re written down. The rest will come to me in due time. Not today, of course, because today is over, which brings me to…

The Good News

I faced my fears today, Journal. I returned to The True Commons, and it was absolutely fine.

I couldn’t drive there because my folks somehow managed to snag my keys and hide them from me, but considering how writer’s block snagged me and wouldn’t let me go after the first, like, ten seconds of writing, I had time. So I walked. It was a long walk, a very hilly walk, and the sun is a lot brighter than I remember it being before I hit my head, but I didn’t need sunglasses. Probably has more to do with the fact that I’ve been spending the majority of my time inside over the past few days. The walk was good, though. No rustling in the woods, no delusions about my life being the Dark Tower books, no bigfoots throwing sticks at me. It was just a meditative, borderline therapeutic walk amongst nature. I very much enjoyed it.

Also, to place the cherry on this cake of news, I think I have the title for my novel. I know, kind of sloppy to title it before the actual story is written – especially considering how I don’t actually know what it’s going to be about – but I have a general gist of it. Albey the Mad Poet is following Gobon through the endless wood, and somehow or another, he’s going to come across a cabin. He’ll stay in the cabin, because when he finds it he’ll have been wandering through the endless wood without any food or shelter or anything, and there’ll be a bigfoot(s) in the wood, and they’ll torment him and scare him until he finally has enough and faces his fears.

Now, are you ready for the title? Because it’s goddamn perfect, Journal. Ready??? ARE YOU READY?!?!?

The Face of Fear

BOOM!!! Because, like, Albey is facing his fear, and also, as far as backwoods life goes, bigfoot is, like, the worst-case scenario. Sure, getting mauled by a bear or mutilated by a mountain lion would suck, but to be hunted by a bigfoot? That’s a fate worse than death itself! So, in that way, bigfoot is literally the face of fear, bigfoot is backwoods fear manifested in physical form, and it has a face, an almost human-like face. A face which drives fear into the hearts of those who see it.

The Face of Fear. It’s perfect, it’s sooo perfect, because when I was younger and me and Keaton and C/Karl were still going on our adventures in The Hillside Commons, I would make up all the monsters we would face, and they would always be inspired by my fears. It’s just so perfect, Journal. That’s why I’m not really bothered by the fact that I only got the first line down today – the idea is revealing itself to me a little bit at a time, at its own pace. And I’m totally okay with it.

After all, what choice do I have? It’s not my idea, it’s just an idea. An idea that chose me. Who am I to force it?

…                                     …                                    …

Dang, Journal. Even though today didn’t go quite how I wanted it to, I still had a good day. Does anything else matter? I certainly don’t think so. But I’m tired now, and this wound up being a lot longer than I thought it was going to be. So I’m’a sleep.

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


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

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

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

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

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

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Coaster – Convenient Incidents (73/84)

Convenient Incidents
For Johnny

The Coaster

Dallas doesn’t give the kitchen so much as a passing glance as he flies through it; it may as well be a hallway. When his parents told him about Johnny’s demise at the hands of the burglar, they didn’t tell him all of the grisly details – how his head was caved in like a feral caveman swung a wooden club into it, how a bit of his hair was missing and likely stuck on the murderer’s weapon, how he showed no signs of fighting back because he was so piss drunk – only that he died right here on the dirty kitchen floor in front of the refrigerator. Johnny spent a lot of time on that kitchen floor, more time than he knew Dallas knew about. Dallas spent a lot of time locked in his bedroom when the Hinton family lived in this house, but the walls aren’t soundproof. He heard the yelling and the screaming. He heard the hitting and the whipping. He heard the falling, and the kicking which usually followed it, and then the weeping which usually followed them both.

With one foot on the first basement step, Dallas remembers that he was supposed to check for the coaster, too. He turns to go back, then asks himself, “Am I really going to do favors for my dead brother I saw in a weird dream? Is that really what my life’s come to?”

With the coaster in his pocket, Dallas stands up and brushes the dust off his knees. It falls to the floor in clouds – apparently the new owners of this house don’t clean up much. Whatever, not Dallas’s problem. Dallas’s problem may or may not be waiting for him in the basement. Off he goes.

Boxes are stacked from the floor to the ceiling. Unlabeled, partially collapsed cardboard boxes packed like a hoarder packs plastic bags into a drawer, each and every one of the things full of Johnny’s old belongings, plus whatever crap Dally and his parents left behind before the surprise move.

“Jesus, I don’t even know where to start…” Dallas mutters to himself, but it comes out louder than he meant it to. Just loud enough to be heard by the presence at the top of the stairs.

“You can start by getting the fuck down on your knees. Now!” Dallas starts to turn around, then he hears a course “STOP!” slap across his face like his father’s belt across Johnny’s shirted back, usually when Johnny wasn’t looking. “Don’t turn, don’t you look at me! Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head!”

Dallas stops and gets down on his knees, then puts his hands behind his head.

The man comes down the staircase slowly, exaggerating every step. He walks like he’s at the end of a long journey; each time a foot lands on a creaky wooden stair, Dallas can somehow feel the metaphysical weight of it. A lot led up to this man walking down these stairs on this stormy afternoon, probably just about as much as what led Dallas to kneeling down on the floor.

“I got you now, you son of a fucking bitch. Fourth break-in in a row and you come back to the scene of the second – you must think you’re pretty clever. Let’s see how well your brain works when I bash this bottle against the back of your head!”

“Wait!” Dallas screams out, keeping his hands firmly clasped behind his head. “I’m not a burglar, I used to live here! I’m just… fuck, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Just… please, don’t hurt me! I’m not trying to steal anything!”

The footsteps abruptly stop. “Turn around. Stay on the floor, as you are, but turn around. Slowly.”

Investing a bit of effort into it, Dallas turns himself around whilst staying on his knees. He sees a silhouette of a man dressed in dark gray sweatpants and an even darker hooded sweatshirt. One of the man’s arms ends in a bottle, the other ends in the hem of the sleeve, as if he only has one hand.

“What’s your name, son?” the man asks calmly as the tension begins to thin.

“Dallas,” answers Dallas with a wobble in his voice. “Dallas Hinton. M-my family used to own this house, my um… my older brother is the one who got murdered. But I suppose you already knew that.”

The man folds his arms. The bottle sticks out of the top of the fold like a cigar out of a seedy businessman’s mouth. “I should, I’m the one who found him. What are you doing here? And don’t lie to me, Dallas – I’m a world-renowned psychologist, I can tell when I’m being lied to.”

After gulping loud enough to send a chill down his own spine, Dallas says, “Well… this is probably going to sound really, really crazy, but I… I had a dream. A really strange, vivid dream on my flight up here. I saw my brother, he asked me to come back here and look for a couple things for him, a coaster and a uh… and a dagger. I found the coaster – it’s in my back pocket, I’ll show you if you don’t believe me – but not the dagger. He said it might not be in the house, but that I would find it.” Dallas sighs. “Whatever that means.”

“Where was the coaster?” the silhouetted man asks, keeping his arms folded.

“It was underneath the refrigerator. I’m not a criminal, Mister, I just…” he sighs again, the air heavy with defeat. “Even before I had the dream I told myself I was going to come back here, but now that I’m here, I’m not even sure why I came. I’m just a kid, man, I’m just a lost kid in a young adult’s body. Until I came back to Jersey today I’ve been coasting by on my parents’ dime because that’s all I know how to do, that’s all they taught me. Honestly, that’s all they know how to do, my mom’s Mom is loaded. After they got married, my parents never had to work a day in their life. I don’t know what I’m doing, man, I… please don’t hurt me or call the cops, okay? I’ll leave, I’ll even let you keep the coaster if you want it, I just…”

Dallas doesn’t continue, as he doesn’t know what to say.

The man doesn’t say anything either, at least not at first. He merely stands there with the lost boy in his shadow, letting his overworked and exhausted brain process all this. Then, “All right. Get up.”

When Dallas looks up, the man’s already climbed two stairs. “Wait, what?”

“I said get up,” says the man without turning around. “Come with me, I think I know where your knife is.” He stops walking. “Your dagger, rather. Now come on, we don’t have much time to waste. Not much at all – if it stops raining before we get there, he might hear us approaching.”

One thousand three hundred and thirteen individual questions swarm through Dallas’s mind like the bees hived up in the attic that the current owner will probably never get taken care of (this is the first time he’s come to this house since he bought it), but he gets up without a word and follows the man upstairs. They walk out the front door into the rain, and then head up the street, passing by Dallas’s car without giving it a single thought. Where these two are going they won’t need a car, not that Dallas knows that. All Dallas knows is to follow this man, and so follow the man he does, his mind as silent as his mouth.


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

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

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

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

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

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Sept the Third – Untitled Bigfoot Project (52/224)

Sept the Third

GOOD. MORNING. JOURNAL!!!!

If you cannot tell, I have a ton of energy this morning. A TON of ENERGY! I’m halfway tempted to wash my car, tell you the truth! But I’m not going to do that, Journal! Why would I bother, I can’t drive for at least another five days because my parents are worried I have a serious head injury! All three of them!

Hahahah, just kidding again. I only have two parents, although sometimes I see two Ashleys walking around the house…

Hah

aha

h

Kidding again, sucker. Gotcha!

No, I have a plan for today. I did a whole lot of thinking last night – thinking about my novel, thinking about my experience in the woods, thinking about my life and where I’d like it to go – and came to a conclusion: I’m going to follow the advice of the ‘man whose books I read. My goal is to be just like Stephen King, so I figure I should write like him, y’know? I spend all this time worrying about how planning my book is going nowhere, how I’m having so much trouble getting an outline started, this that and the other thing; I’ve been thinking about everything besides writing the actual book, Journal, and I think I’ve figured it out. You ready for this? Here goes:

In order to write a book, all I have to do is write the book.

BOOM. Fucking. GeNiUs !!!

…                                     …                                    …

But seriously, all jokes aside, I think that’s my plan. I think I’m ju–… no, I don’t think. What I’m going to do is just write the damn thing. Stories aren’t simply made up, not all of them at least; stories exist somewhere as ideas, and they come to our minds and reveal themselves. The story of Albey the Mad Poet pursuing Gobon through the endless wood is definitely one of those stories that exists outside the realm of the human imagination, and in order to translate it from that mystical someplace else, I need to write it. I don’t know exactly what it’s going to be about, I don’t know how it’s going to end, what characters are going to show up, et cetera, but I do know the first line. And maybe, just maybe, that’s all I need to know right now.

Think about it: how are books written? One line at a time, sometimes even one word at a time! And not only do I know the first word, I know the first line of my book. SO, just as soon as I close out this entry, I’m going to write that first line. Then, I’m going to open my mind and the second line is going to come to me, then the third, and then the first paragraph will be done, and then the second, and then, and then, and then…

Journal, I’m going to have this novel done in no time flat. That’s how it’s going to feel, at least, and I just can’t fucking wait. Here’s to me, and here’s to Stephen King for inspiring me to bring this project into reality. I still want to be a poet one day, and poetry isn’t on a different page than prose but in an entirely different book altogether, but at the end of the day, it all boils down to writing. Writing is writing is writing is writing is writing, and I want to be a writer.

Well, I already am a writer, hence this journal, but I want to be a professional writer. I want to be a real writer, one who gets paid for the things he writes, and the only way to do that is to write some things.

Something other than you, Journal. Sorry that I’m not more sorry. Matt’a’fact, sorry that I’m not sorry at all. If this journal ever gets published I’ll be sorry, but it won’t.

So, yeah. SoRrY aNd ShIt!

…                                     …                                    …

One more thing before I go, though. As far as the shit that happened in the woods and at The True Commons goes… well, it was a doozy. A big ol’ doozy. I uh… I honestly do plan on writing pretty much all day today, but if I get a minute I’d like to take a drive down the road and wander out to the campsite, just to be there again, y’know? I had a difficult experience and I’m a little bit afraid to go back there, and I don’t like that. I made that spot all by myself, I put real and actual work into it, and I’m afraid of it now.

And that, Journal, is simply no good.

What if that happens with my novel? What if I spend the rest of September writing for literally twelve hours a day and then when I get to the end, I’m so afraid of what I’ve created that I can’t bear to go back and read through it? What if I throw it out, what if I soak it in gasoline and burn it to ashes, which blow away too? That would be horrible, that would mean all that nonsense I went through the other day would be for nothing. That would mean I flunked out of college not because my path is not down the road I know, but just because I’m a failure.

Well, I’m not a failure. I’m a ‘man, a human, and I have emotions just like the rest of the humans. What separates me, Journal, is not the capacity to deal with those emotions – believe it or not, everybody has that capacity – but the willingness to do so.

So, if I get a minute during the vast majority of the day when my parents aren’t home, I’m going to take a drive down to that little dirt shoulder, I’m going to walk out to The True Commons, and I’m going to stand around until I feel comfortable.

And that will make all the difference.

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


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

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

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

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

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

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

A Burglar – Convenient Incidents (72/84)

Convenient Incidents
For Johnny

A Burglar

When Dallas opens his eyes, the plane is no longer moving. He’s belted into his seat, a stream of dried drool is crusted to his cheek, and his head feels all kinds of fuzzy, but fuzzy in a good way. It’s like someone ran a feather duster through his brain and cleared out some nasty old cobwebs, cobwebs which haven’t been inhabited by spiders since before Dallas got dragged through the clouds to Boca Raton with his folks. He looks over his shoulder and sees into the cockpit – it’s empty. Dallas is alone on the plane.

‘Huh, I guess I was dreaming,’ Dallas thinks to himself as he unbuckles. ‘There’s not even a door up there, how did I not notice that when we took off?’

As he’s stretching his stiff back, Dallas hears footsteps behind him. He turns just in time to see the pilot boarding the plane. “Ah, hello Dallas. Ready to take off?”

“What?!” Dallas says, his facial expression dropping as fast as the pitch of his voice rises.

The pilot grins the most dastardly, toothy of grimaces. “Only messing with you, Dallas. You slept straight through the landing, so I figured I’d take care of the formalities inside and get your luggage and whatnot into the car before I woke you up. You’re all set to go.”

“Oh. Word. Thanks, Mister… uh, what’s your name?”

The pilot says, “You can call me Mister Kyng,” then drops a wink and sits back down in the cockpit.

Dallas thanks Mister Kyng, then exits the Citation and walks off the runway without going through the airport, as the pilot took care of all the formalities for him. He finds his uncle’s car waiting for him in the long-term parking area and climbs in, thanking God it’s not a manual.

A long stretch of gradual downhill road takes Dallas through the forest to County Road 511. He takes this first leg of the drive slowly so he can take in just how green everything is up here in north Jersey. It’s literally a rain forest; well, not literally, as it’s not raining and these woods aren’t quite as impassable as a jungle, as far as Dallas remembers, but still, compared to the golf courses and ocean views of Boca, north Jersey may as well be a different continent.

The drive down the county road is much faster, as the other Jersians on the road with Dallas threaten to rear-end him through the guardrails if he doesn’t drive at least ten over the speed limit, but that’s fine. He’ll have plenty of time to reacquaint himself with the area after he’s found his brother’s bat dagger.

“Wait, am I really gonna go looking for that thing? That was just a dream… wasn’t it?”

Maybe, or maybe not; still, he was planning on going to the old house anyway, so he might as well look. Even if he doesn’t end up putting the dagger behind his brother’s gravestone – if he finds it, and that’s a big if – it would be a nice little memento to have.

Dallas was planning on stopping for a quick walk across the Monksville Dam before heading over to the old house on Fricker Drive, but the moment he turns off the county road, dark clouds move in from the south and the air temperature drops ten degrees. It appears as if a storm is coming – to avoid setting himself up to be struck by lightning on his first day home, Dallas keeps driving. The rain starts a minute later when he turns on to Fricker Drive and matures into a torrential downpour when he pulls into his old driveway, which is empty.

‘Huh, I guess the owners aren’t home. Looks like I’m breaking in, then. Hope they don’t have any security.’

Having missed out on feeling the rain on his skin for the past handful of years (nobody living in the Hinton Boca compound was allowed outside during inclement weather, because what do they need to go outside for? There’s an indoor pool, a movie theater, a bowling alley, I own a greenhouse the size of your parents’ old house for Christ’s sake, Dallas! Why do you want to leave your poor Gram’ma to suffer the pain of her arthritis all by herself?), Dallas gets out and walks calmly through the refreshing storm to the front steps. The front door is locked, but the new owner never got rid of the spare key his parents kept under the mat, probably because his parents never told the new owner about it in the first place. One man’s inconvenience is another man’s convenience, what more is there to say?

Dallas tries the spare key. It doesn’t work. ‘Fuck. I guess I’m going around back.’

Around back, between the old turquoise deck and the kitchen, is a sliding glass door with a faulty lock – if one works the door with enough determination, the lock will loosen and the door will open just wide enough so something skinny (like a spare house key, for instance) can fit into the gap between the door and the catch, thus allowing a burglar the opportunity to get in without breaking any windows. Dallas is no burglar, neither potentially nor actually, and though he successfully breaks in to his old house, he makes one mistake that no self-respecting burglar would make: he triggers the silent alarm which is advertised by the stickers in the corners of the front windows of the house, the very stickers he didn’t notice because of how feverishly the stormy sky is wetting the Earth. Oh well, what you don’t know can’t hurt you, right?


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

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

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

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

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

Be well Commons~