YES

In two weeks, I will retire from my national public service volunteerism and will finish up these tales of mine.

I really enjoy the way that YouTube has been producing movies shown in the serial/chapter format.
That speaks well of them.  It's of their ilk to do it in such a way.

I've been waiting for you Googs to catch up to me on this path.

Now to do some thinking about how to pursue that...

and get back to my bone-deep need to write.

---willies out

Never The End, TRVTH

Thank you to our almighty Google, for allowing these tales that I have written to continue to exist here.

I will post more of these, once I get finished with the work I am doing now, for Tribes.

Caveat: I always let work become my priority.  I think it is a dual combination of addictions:

1. I am passionate about my work. It really will help many people across the planet.

2. i am addicted to writing.  It is only important to me.  yet, it can't be helped.  

Friends have told me that I should choose between the two and make a name for myself.

ya know, that shit don't matter to me. 

But I cannot deny the lure of the call of Erato, my favorite Siren.  

oh hell yes, and also,

Dionysus, (or, Bacchus, if you so prefer)

...because enjoyment of life reigns with a simple taste of wondrous elixirs.

Now to get back to work.

be well, do well, and protect each other, me included.

.

The Island Chapters CH 7 Ocean Mist Ghosts

She framed our escape home on the hill overlooking the bay with her own hands,

...and with those of neighbors who discovered that they truly enjoyed her company.  

We, her children, also discovered this.

Finally.

Their divorce lasted a little while, but she did go back near the end, when he was dying.  She helped him.

 

Chapter 7 

OCEAN GHOSTS   

The trees erupted with bright colors of sunset; a final hurrah before the black and white death of winter.  Angry steel-grey clouds glared down at us.  They pushed us to get things done.  we lived at the behest of our local environment, and that is the best way to go about doing anything.

Once properly founded, a structure must be clad and then adorned.  There is truly only one way to do this.  You know how to do this for yourself, don't you?  If you haven't yet discovered this, then no worries.  You will find it out for yourself.  

Trust.

I was always the last one to hush all of the oil lamps.  I always stayed up late in the creaking hill-side house reading or attempting to scribble or jot or draw on fair paper.

(Good, heavy stock paper would appear years away, as well as a favorite pen.  Never erase nor delete anything.  It might come in handy later.  As for hoarding; chuck extra weight so that you are a light traveler.  You have many places to discover, many foods and drinks to savor, and you need to deal with what is hanging onto before you walk with a focused, intentional step.  Try to see the world through your own eyes instead of staggering about with your cell-screen in front of your face.  You might miss things.  What you bring with you simply must be the ocean glass, the books and the writings and the images of what it means to be you.)

The rattling from the window pane next to my bed awoke me.  I looked out and saw my wide-eyed reflection, and it jumped me.  I grabbed my book that was written about a wrinkle in time and closed it.  I set it next to the oil lamp and hushed the light.

(This is done by cupping your hand near the top part of the other side of the glass chimney and saying, "HA."  Be mindful to never spit on a hot glass oil lamp chimney.  It will explode into shards.  Take care of yourself and others whom you hold dear in such a manner.) 

My eyes adjusted to the night.  I looked out across the bay down beyond the bluffs and the hill below my window.   The ocean tossed and roiled with steam like it is before you throw pasta in a pot.

The moon above shined from within her a black cloak of winking glints of forgotten memories and important things to write down.  

Those angry clouds grumbled and flashed their fangs from the edge of the world across the boiling bay like white knuckled fists.  

Down the slope, I saw the mist from the bay coil up into shapes.  Gusts of the approaching storm blew those shapes up the hill.

I saw this, I swear to you.  It looked like an army of ghosts on horseback in full charge.

Why did I want have my bed against this window?  What had I been thinking?

The fog-horses galloped up the hill with white figures atop, and they rode to my window.  The moon winked out of view, covered in her soft black shroud.

I saw skeletal faces flash in my window.

It was too much. 

I was not a man.

Not yet.

The windows rattled and the light was out and I helplessly listened to the stampede from beneath my knitted afghan all night long.

In the howling wind, the clanking window panes, thunder and flashes of might,  no one could hear the sounds I made.

No one 

---willies out.

Reboot and Emeralda

Another year, how about that?

The reason that I have not written anything here for an entire year that I have refused to write the next part of the tale that it wants.  yes, it wants me to write the next particular series of events in a specific way, and I have not been able to bring myself to do it.

It is the worst thing, to me.  I find it abhorrent.  It is so callous, It comes across as hack.  But it is not that.  It is the idea that once written, then I will know that I am capable of writing something so atrocious.  I keep placing the blame on the story, or the characters, but they come from me.

I am the one who caused them to occur, and it's from me that they find themselves in their situations, and I tend to care for them, odd as that sounds.  And then, one of them is quite captivating, and she takes ahold and runs off into her own adventure, her own perspective of the tale.

Emeralda is the one who will do something quite vile, if the tale is to proceed.  After two and a half years, it now appears that if I am to finish this tale, then it is up to her to open the door to the next part.  I've acquiesced to her before, and it worked.   The tale flowed again.  And then this time, I was the bottleneck, again.

This is not about killing your darlings.  This is about eating your own baby in order to save its soul.

Andd that is the worst thing that I will have to write.


Rrrrrrrgh.   Blecch.


---willies

Lenny Sustenuto Revisited part 1

Let’s go see Lenny Sustenuto, shall we?

*Ahem*

Well, it’s been a year and a half since I got derailed by a darling.

 

Yup.  It happens to the best of us, or the worst of us, like this here old punk rocker.

Kill your darlings.

Make your story strong and lean: no fluff.  (But dammit, Emeralda was so very tasty. I will miss her.)

The Down Town   by Days of the New   

Here we go, anon.  Now to return to the end of that ugly and guileful megalopolis called Fuckno.

This will not end well.   Yet, as always, this is a story about redemption.  There is, indeed, a happy ending.  You simply need to follow me through the boneyard, and if you do, we will dig our way out of the grave, into the sunshine above.  The best tales make you earn a happy ending.

LENNY

SUSTENUTO

REVISITED

We head forth form here.  If you’d like to find out what the fuck is going on in this part, then Gawd hepp you.  But this LINK will give you a clue, my dear.

Now please keep up, if you would like to read some TRVTH.

---willies on his way forward.

I Just Want the TRVTH, Baby    by  Born Cages     

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Killing Your Heroes

No, not terrortits.

This is good humor and enjoyment of the art of literature. I truly believe that we are here for a short time, on a tiny blue marble, spinning alone in the edge of our own galaxy, and so every moment is dear.

Enjoy it while we have it; do not harm others.  Do not destroy.  Try to make something good for the rest of us.  Attempt to contribute something while you are here.

I have come from oppression, and I still face it to this very day.  But I do not kill others for a promise of something better.  That's bullshit.

It is complete bull shit.  Shit under the sandal.


...

Well, after a year and a half of writing on another format and spending all of my time there (marvelous site indeed) it has come time for me to face the TRVTH. 

My writing of a tale (that was quite enjoyable to construct) was side-railed by a character who captivated me.  De-railed.  Derailleur.  

At one time, I’d thought that Emeralda was the way to go.

However, she is a character who needs her own story-line, which I most certainly will follow.  But it should be in another line; a separate tangent.  (I friggin love that character Emeralda and her power, her prowess.)

Before she occurred to me, the original story was at the point of connection between the armies of blue ghosts and the young punks rockers, and of our lost friend who became quite vile.  Others came form far away, but there were entities from a place that is in between, and also, eternal.

It’s my own idea, and now I will continue this tasty tale, for me.

Good bye, Emeralda, in this here tale.  

This will be how I use my time now, instead of the other place.  Time for me.  And for you, vicariously, my friend.  You are vicariate.  Indeed. 

TRVST.

---willies out.

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Sizing Myself Up For The Task Ahead

Blogger is my external hard drive.  I hope that it always will exist.  Even after the satellites fall from the sky, and our tiny sun named Sol becomes a giant red dwarf and consumes our planet, along with Mercury and Venus. Nothing will be left of us.  No tombstones, no books, no love letters, no carbon. 

Yet, we have sent off Voyager One and Two to sail along into the ocean of stars, as minuscule space travelers beyond our heliosphere, as a record that we have existed.

Our transmissions, our radio and television programs, our cell phone calls, and our texts and tweets,

Well,

They will be dissipated by the heliosphere outside of our tiny solar system, lost alone, on the fringe of the arm of our own galaxy.

So live how you will.

Write how you will.

Enjoy this opportunity to be here.  The idea of a fresh fruit, of first love, of pleasure from reading:

It means that there is indeed, something more.

Perhaps?

Now for songs for the next part.  Now to get writing this thing.  There are so many songs to hear out there.  I’ll just try to keep up.  I’ll try to select one or two.  It’s hard work, but it’s a lot of fun.

Please consider purchasing the songs of these artists. Hell, at least watch the advertisements and consider purchasing those wares as well..  It keeps all of this free to view.  Ya know?   

TUNES

FOR LORELEI:

https://youtu.be/4TINBQPpVi0

Underwater Love   by Jerome Isma-Ae    

https://youtu.be/lBomWfXrBUo 

Heaven   by JES   (Myon Remix)   

For the rest of us damned Punks:

https://youtu.be/41Pj8gcrJxU 

Learn From The Fall    by Noah   

https://youtu.be/r-48Q8HCJ5g 

Going Gets Tuff   by    The Growlers    

https://youtu.be/uLifSFBs_Lk 

Wrong Way   by Sublime

 

https://youtu.be/qeTmnHquqqo  

Out of Control   by Hoobastank     

https://youtu.be/cbixLt0WBQs  

Ink    by Coldplay   

https://youtu.be/I8piMHsOya4 

That’s When I Reach for My Revolver   by Mission of Burma   

https://youtu.be/IyruoeGcFr8  

Dead Man Coming    by Evil Nine  

https://youtu.be/iZ9TxC4LEcs 

It Gets The Worst at Night   by Lucero  

https://youtu.be/E7x-80GA1jk 

Hen House   by Ray Wylie Hubbard  

https://youtu.be/icehffFWOck    

Say Something   by James

https://youtu.be/oo55vzpL85w   

Lonesome Street by Blur    

Music is my food.  I will partake of every dish at the buffet.

VERSION ONE

Have to get back from here:

http://williesthestories.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-fuckno-wars-tfw-ch-23-sven-awakens.html 

We damned punks held together as a Tribe, come what may.  That was our only saving grace.

So many opportunities to explore now.  The world is a vast sea, and we have small boats.  Our pens are our oars.  The sea is made of black ink.  The sand on the beach is where we write our experiences, to be washed away by the tide.

But do it.

Write, even as the stars fall from the sky.    

To Be Continued…

---willies in, again

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Placeholder for me

It's been four months, and I really need to do this.  It's for me, but I share it with the intention of creating honest, original creative work, as is the spirit of the original Arpanet.  Google will protect me because of this.  I truly acknowledge this.  YES.


This is the beginning of the second part of the Trilogy

TUNES

VERSION ONE

THE RIDE BACK Part One

Inventory of supplies:

People:

Joey, my best friend, a smallish man with an angry temper, who could hold his own in a fist fight with giants.  He was the Instigator, but he never bailed from what he had done.  He simply loved to engage, to stir up the mud and see what laid beneath.  More often than not, he laid many fine mistresses of his own encounter.  It was this:  Joey sought Trvth.

Sean, my other best friend, who tried to control everything, if you let him have the chance.  He needed to be thwarted at every misstep, or he would take over.  He did this because he was very capable of being correct most of the time.  He was a large, muscular man who also engaged, instead of whimpering in fear.  However, he was now taken over by a Walk-In named Seen.  He was gone from our enclave.  Seen Walked along the dark heart of Fuckno, and he was the one who would cause all ruin.

Tellesco was a large man who searched for Sean like a lost puppy dog, but for good reason. The good Sean, still encased within his own body, but held by Seen, has once saved Tellesco.  He was also the savior of the lost, much as he was.  He would save them from the ugly, despicable actions and behavior of them Purple Robes, even though he cried all the time.  Perhaps that was his raison d’etre.  Who knows?

Sinister Minister Glinty McFlintlock, a long dead cowboy preacher from the days of the Wild West.  He also perished at the hands of them damned Purple Robes, who now owned and controlled the hell of Fuckno.  His flock was now those who also perished in such a manner.  He sought to lead them to redemption.

Fat Jerry the purple-haired punk rocker who was a large angry baby.  His anger created the winds of vehemence.  This would lead to the destruction of Fuckno.  We simply did not know this at the time.  Hell, even he did not know this.

Me.  A whimpering coward.  I always made this sound when encountering something that I really did not want to do, but would have to do it anyway. Rrrrrghhhh.   I am a Red Man.  But I was lost in the desert, away from my Tribe that held residence on the islands of a mighty River in the east of what is now known as the USA. 

Katheena.  She was my true love.  She died at the hands of them Purple Robes, in a car crash during a rainy night in the desert, trying to chase us, to protect us dammed punk bastards.  Now she was back, and her fury could create icicles form the water vapor in the air.  Figuratively.  But also, literally. 

Lorelei.  She was my rebound after Katheena dropped me when that one became infatuated with an Alderman.  Lorelei was also German.  She taught me how to be a punk.  Yes she did.

That was my new Tribe, there in the desert.  The rest of them were from the other side.  Some would join us.  Some would be our mortal enemies.

The most curious one is Emeralda.  She was the one who held all of the knowledge and history of them fucked Purple Robes.  We had yet to meet her.  She was now a Walk-In, and a cannibal one at that.

Sven Slindlivrinn was the most evil, despicable man to ever exist, from the behavior and path of his life, and also for creating the opening to the gates of Hell, and causing the Walk-Ins to become cannibals upon Earth.

Lenny was to become Sven’s compatriot, his own personal hellion.

There was an angel, arisen from a dusty grave under the first mansion of them damned Purple Robes, buried after her own slaughter next to her own mother, but not buried with her.

She is young Avison Talon Wenonndinay.  She is the heroin of this story, as we get to the meat of this old tale.  http://williesthestories.blogspot.com/2012/09/the-fuckno-wars-ch-11-avison-talon-and.html 

This is the first chapter in the second part of this trilogy.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

Need to continue to research my tale to get back into this.  Yup.

Also, thank you Google, and my friend YES, for allowing me to write this out of me addled head on this fine Blogger site, for free.  I enjoy the fact that it will exist for perpetuity.

I also do my best to view 15 and 30 second advertisements of folks showing me their wares, for that is proper.  The longer ones are also, quite often, very entertaining as well.

Nice work there.  Indeed.

  

.

Emeralda: Resurrection

Keep Me Alive   by All We Are          

Emeralda ran back to her body lying there on the ground and pulled it over, front-side down.  It was quite heavy for a lithe, toned body, like pulling a bag of wet sand.  She thrust her big, meaty hands into the tiny rear pocket of the pants to grab the vehicle keys inside.

This startled her.  It felt like she was touching a part of her own body that had fallen asleep, like when you awaken in the night to discover that your arm has gone numb beneath you.

Such a cute little behind.  Hell, she’d worked out on her body after the two kids she birthed, and she did it for the right reason: to be strong and healthy for come what may.

She felt like a pervert on her own body.  That was also quite weird.  It is the bane of the new Walk-In to find their own dead body, from the vantage point of the new, borrowed body they now inhabit.  It can cause shock. A drop in blood pressure, cold sweats, and dizziness…

She began to feel faint, but she growled and she pulled those keys out and she stood right the hell up.  She breathed in a deep breath to chase the sparkles of fainting away.  She saw folks running towards her from the side of the house.

Fight or flight?

She made the wrong decision minutes before, and she wouldn’t let this happen again.  Her wrong decision was a late decision.  When you wait too long, then the decision will be made for you.

She ran to the vehicle and reached it and fumbled with the keys to slide the right one in and unlock the door.  This time, it worked.  She did not drop those keys.

She slid her huge body in and found that the front bench seat of the Suburban was pulled way up close to the steering wheel.

She slammed the door shut, locked the door, and pushed the key into the ignition and started the engine.  It growled: alive.

That was when the hungry cannibals arrived at the vehicle and began to try to bust the windows to get at her.

Her baby cried, it wailed in its carrier on the seat beside her.  It was hungry.

Everyone was hungry, all around her.

Then she saw their heads turn to the rear of the vehicle.  Through the busted-out window of the smashed rear-end, her baby’s cries rang loud and clear.  

An opening?  A way inside?

She saw them run to the rear, to climb in, to devour her baby. 

Her panic made her want to drive off, but they would chase the heavy vehicle, and some would clamber inside.

She made an executive decision that only a mother can do.

She waited for a moment as they pushed against each other and clawed to get back there, as she slid the transmission gear into reverse, and held one foot on the brake pedal, and hovered the other over the accelerator. 

She held her breath, biting her lip, and she resisted the urge to cry.  It was too much.  How could this be happening?  Was this truly the end times?

 

Fuck all, she thought, if I just pushed my own dead body over to get my own keys, then I am either losing my mind, or this is all too real.  Either way, we are all fucked.

Those bastards had killed her other daughter in that damned house---

NO.  (push this thought away for now, just make it through this...)

She began to shake as she waited for two seconds that felt like a pebble drifting downward in a far of honey. She pushed panic away.  (For just a gawd dayamned minute or two, pleeeease)

And then a change in her occurred.

How dare they?

How the FUCK Dare They?

  

WHO THE FUCK DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?

She growled low and long. It came from her guts, and she did not even know that she was doing this.

She saw that they were en masse behind her, fighting to be the first to climb inside.

She screamed, and it roared from the diaphragm of the large man whose body she now inhabited.

She said, “FUCK YOU TO HELL.”

Emeralda stepped on the throttle.  The tires squealed and the huge vehicle leaped back in a burst of speed. 

The thump of faces smacking the metal and the smack of heads hitting the asphalt made her grin.

She kept going, feeling their bodies tumble under the chassis in a dance with each other; a tango of bloody roses.  The large vehicle hopped and bounced in angry joy.

She skidded to a halt with bloody, wet tires, and she saw them writhing in pain.   It was a red salad of broken bodies trying to untangle, to crawl back onto the lawn with smashed arms and legs. 

She saw flattened faces with tire treads on them.

This made her smile even more.

Other people ran from across the street and dove at this mess, and pulled flesh up to their mouths.

Emeralda said, “Huh.  The end times have come.  There is nothing left.”

Then she pushed the transmission into Drive and she ran over the crowd of hungry Walk-In cannibals, and she drove off down the sunny lane.

+   +   +   +   +   +   +   +   + 

Up on the north part of the ugly megatropolis of Fuckno, where the air blew fresh and sweet, we damned punks rode in a huge white utility truck, stolen from the electrical power company.

Indeed, only a couple of us had witnessed the army of blue ghosts that stretched off in a line a mile wide.

Katheena had brought them to us.  Glinty McFlintlock was their preacher, and their savior.  He revealed the door to their salvation, but it was war that held the key.

After how they had each perished at the hands of them Purple Robes a century ago, they were ready to make war.  It was time for retribution.

Joey looked at me and said, “Weeeeeee-ill.  You up for this shit?”

I said, “Joseph, I am up for this shit.”

---willies out.

In The Heat of the Moment   by Noel Gallagher  

.

The Two Become One

Moonlight would be their savior.  Would they survive?

Moonlight by Hanni El Khatib, a truly badass punk-rocking Bluesman.

We continue from here.

   

(Funny how a career, I mean, real life gets in the way of the muse.   Sorry about that, muse.  Many apologies to you, my friend, you magnificent Reader.)

Let’s go now.

The eyeless man died in her hands. 

It was more than she had wished for him. 

She’d intended to let this bastard die alone, in pain, in misery, and then he would go away forever, from this here mortal coil.  He would be lost alone, floating in the black emptiness of eternity, according to her teachings.

That, my friend, is truly Hell.  Lost alone, with the thoughts of what you have done.  Hopefully, you have done more of the good things and less of the bad things.  There are no virgins waiting for you there.

But his laughter at this woman who was missing her daughter and wanting to find her,

Well,

this was too much for her mother bear instinct. 

She killed him because of that.

But, further:

What had she done?

She had opened the door for him to enter the plane of the eternals, the Walk-Ins.

In her anger, she had allowed the bastard this opportunity to return to this earthly plane of existence. 

Why had she done this?

It didn’t occur to her that in her new condition, she could do such a thing.   If she put some thought into it, she would realize that this eyeless, toothless man with his head on backwards

…had turned her into a Walk-In of the cannibal sort. 

Anger.

Kill.

Mother Bear.

Emeralda turned the man’s head around on his neck until the skin split and the tendons showed.  She let him drop to the bloody grass and…

then she heard her little girl. 

In the back of her mind, she heard her daughter’s voice.   It said, “Is this a dream?  Is this a game?  I miss you!  Why didn’t you come get me?”

She brushed the thought away as she rounded the side of the house towards her vehicle. 

“Mommy!”

It sounded like her daughter had shouted right into her ear.

Indeed, she heard her own daughter.

She rounded the corner with her daughter screaming in her ear.  “Mommy!  Mommy!  Don’t leave me!”

And do you know,

It was her little girl.

Do not read further.  

Spoiler alert.

Yeah, don’t do it.

C’mon, truly.  I’m not going away.  Just check out the next part in the series that will be up this weekend, but not the spoiler below.

You summina bastidge

All righty then.  It’s all your own fault, gawd love ya

The mother had just killed her own daughter.

It was no cause upon this mother.  She had busted out, escaped, and driven off to look for her daughter, and she risked her own life.

Do you know, the new daughter went into the body of the little baby, her own sister, to protect her, to protect them both.

That is what a Walk-In can do.

Of course, they were now both cannibals, and could not talk.

Dude, you should not have read this last part.

ARRRRRR!

---willies out.

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For You

I had an interesting discussion tonight with a fellow writer who had also run up against the ole brick wall.  Odd that we haven't spoken with each other in a week or so.  You see, while he has his own tales to tell, in his own writing style,

well,

he said that he appeared to be forcing the tale.


Now, it must be said that he also invests much brain work into each thing that he puts out.

He actually mentioned the word "emit" when he described it.

Ya know, like a fart.


After I laughed and he did after he smelled what he'd expelled, our communal discourse began to cover grounds that we had not before yet discovered.

Hell, it ranged from the idea of the muse, the subject of the subconscious and its function in our sleep: Dream State (and also lucid dreaming and how when one discovers that they are dreaming, that is when they awaken) and sleep paralysis and its own function in our brain's information processing,

and then on to particle theory and the recent discovery of a particle form another dimension from the Large Hadron Collider (yeah, old joke about misspelling that; we are juvenile in our enjoyment of writing)

And we came up with a final distillation, which I will share with you now, for what it's worth.


The reason that tales might sometimes be unsatisfactory

could be due to this consideration:


Consider your reader.




That might be it.



What does this mean?


Does it mean that we have to write toward a certain policy point?  Are we searching for a large audience?  Are we looking toward selling a million books?  Are we in this to make large cash?


I will leave it up to you for your decision about that for yourself.  You go and write however you will, for whatever your reason, and if you find that sort of thing to be your muse, then do what you will.


We did not worry about that in our discussion about the almighty muse (although we spoke at length about formulaic writing: such as romances with dirty parts in it, much as our grandmothers would subscribe to those little monthly books that spoke of

married doctors/ airplane pilots/ wealthy philanthropists

and the nurses/ airplane attendants/ Peace Corps volunteers who loved them)

no,

we spoke of the Muse.


Why do we write?



Well, it appears that our best friend, our Reader, our BFF

is You.





We decided that we must not pander to the prurient interests of the Reader for that sake alone.


Prurient is excellent, but it shouldn't be an ends to a mean.



We have to do two things, no matter if we write a comedy or a romance or a tragedy.


We have to give you closure, which is that point after the arc when you finally get to let your breath out and say, "Ahhhhhh."



Then your shoulders go down, you shake off the shivers, the tears, or the smile after it's all been settled.


And the second thing is:



We have to give you hope.



If you have followed this diatribe this far, then you know what such a thing means to us; we, as a collective.


We speak now not of formulae.  Fuck hacks.


We speak of being true our human intent.


We survive as a species simply because we wish to connect to each other, to communicate our experience with each other,


in the hope we have (innate in our DNA)

that we can survive bad things, rise above the horror that others might do, and help each other find the way out of the darkness.




However this happens, no matter what we each may have done,

we must believe that there is a reason to hope.


Ya know.



---willies out.






.