August it is...

So, I figured that today I would take a break from wondering about the Loch Ness Monster's sex life and the other crap that usually runs through my head and instead jot down a few thoughts about the upcoming book.

For those of you who are unaware, the good folks at Immortal Ink Publishing have been good enough to get behind Infernal Machines and we are pushing through with an August release date. So here is the first of many times that I will be linking to their launch page.

http://www.immortalinkpublishing.com/books.php?id=13






At this particular moment in my life it feels like I'm stepping off of a platform into space. I mean that in the very best way, I'm beyond grateful for everything that has happened, and at the same time I have no idea what's going to happen next. It's really pretty crazy.

This is probably the most serious and straightforward that I'm ever going to be on this blog, but I really wanted to get this out, because I get the feeling that more and more people are probably going to be checking this page out as the book gains momentum. So, I just wanted to put out to anyone and everyone that comes here that life is a pretty amazing gift provided that you make sure to take advantage of every day that you get.

The truth about me is that I've had my fair share of bumps in the road. I've worked about every kind of crap job you can imagine, from pest control to telemarketing to bouncing at strip clubs, which might sound kind of fun but it gets tiresome. Trust me. I've been homeless, too. In fact there was a 5 month period where I lived in a pick-up truck with my dog. Anyway, all of this stuff pretty much blew chunks while it was happening, but I wouldn't change it on account of how it got me here.

And here is a pretty good place to be. Like I said, I don't know whats about to happen.Infernal Machines may sell a million copies or I may labor in anonymity for the rest of my life, but I'll never stop writing. And if you're reading this and you have something in your life like that whether it's writing or playing the harp or interpretive dance or even tax accounting then wake up every day and go after that shit. And then go home and give your family a hug.

Later y'all

Falconing

Life's gotta be pretty awesome if you're a falconer. I don't know whether it's the giant leather gloves or the large, predatory bird that you get to carry around on the glove. I mean, I'm sure it's gotta be the bird, but that glove is pretty cool, too. It's probably like 85% bird, 15% glove.

The great thing about the falconing glove is if some old-timey European guy ever challenged you to a duel, you wouldn't even have to wait until dawn to count paces, turn and fire. All you'd have to do is let that guy come at you with his little lace glove. You've seen that move, right? They do the thing where they slap you in the face with the glove, and then it'd be your turn. You'd just pull out that massive leather monstrosity and then five across the eyes - Bam! I bet you could knock a guy's wisdom teeth right out of his nostrils if you hit him hard enough with a falconing glove.

Don't believe me about how awesome falconers are? I understand. How about some photographic evidence:






That's a pretty compelling argument right there. This is a guy who's ready for anything. Look closer. I'll bet you didn't even notice the fact that he

A: Does not have a mustache

B: Not only is wearing he wearing a man-purse, he's actually wearing two man-purses, and just daring you to say anything about it. I'll bet the first purse is to hold his flint-lock pistols, grapeshot and gun powder, because not reloading after every shot is for nancy-boys. The second man-purse is actually just a containment unit for his massive, brass testacles.

I bet if I was a falconer, I'd never have to worry about a cocktail party pissing contest again. People would know that I mean business if I was a falconer. What could anybody ever say that could trump suck a thing?

"Well, I'm in acquisitions, and last fiscal quarter I managed to-"

And you'd just cut them off like, "Dig dude, I'm a goddamn falconer."

They'd probably try to stutter something back, like "Well, even in a down market my venture captital firm did-"

And you'd be like, "I don't give a fuck what you do man, I call down hot screaming muscular death from the sky at will!"



"YAHHH MOTHERFUCKER!!!"





That'd be pretty awesome.

Shepherd's Crossing

Shepherd’s Crossing
By Will Millar

There were beds at the Inn, and he had plenty of coins in his pocket. Red was leaving, nevertheless. The whiskey had fortified him to an agreeable state, and Home was not far off.
“It’s cold out,” said Molly. “Watch you don’t stand still while you’re pissing, lest somebody find you in the morning, frozen to the spot.”
Red grunted. “Mind your business, cooze.” But he said it with a smile, and Molly laughed back and bid him goodnight.
It was colder than he’d expected, but the whiskey and the exercise were good for Red, and he’d known his fair share of cold nights. A fog had settled over the moors, and he cinched his scarf tight around his neck and moved faster than usual, wishing to keep the damp air from winding ‘round his bones.
At Shepherd’s Crossing, he heard boots echoing behind him, and he picked up his pace. A tight heavy band had gripped his chest. The footsteps grew louder. Red was old, but raw-boned and roughly hewn. He stopped to see who followed.
The mist parted for a tall, gaunt man in a black hooded shroud.
“I know you,” said Red.
“Aye,” said the Pale Man.
“I ain’t coming quietly,” he said. “Ye shan’t have me easy.”
The Pale Man’s mouth split into a thin, cruel smile. “If it’s a fight you want then you’ll have it.” He darted forward, and his cloak flapped like the beating of great wings.
Red feinted and threw an overhand right that smashed into the Pale Man’s face with a satisfying crunch. Hot blood slicked Red’s knuckles.
The Pale Man stumbled, and fell on his ass. He was shaking his head and grinning ruefully. He spat. “I haven’t been hit that hard since I don’t know when,” he said.
Red was still circling, when he saw the dead man on the ground. The Pale Man took a knee and stood, dusting himself off. Red lowered his fists. His chest didn’t hurt anymore.
The Pale Man offered Red his hand. Red took it.
___ ___ ___
The elders had long shunned Shepherds Crossing for a ha’ant. Children were warned away, which naturally drew them in greater numbers, and from broader reaches. Abel and May had heard such tales, but it was too bright a day. Sunshine and birdsong polished the trees to a high gloss, and even the leaves in the muck bore a certain delicate grace. May hopped from puddle to puddle and saw what looked like a pearl in the mud.
Her chubby little hand plucked it from ground and May felt a sudden lightness as she heard what sounded like a snowdrift collapsing in the first light of spring. Her brother was already disappearing over the hill, but May didn’t care. There was nothing in Shepherd’s Crossing for her to fear. She was interested in what she had found in the ground; not a pearl but a long, white tooth.
When the Pale Man stepped out of the woods, May held it up to him like a prize. He asked her if she knew how long he’d been searching for that very tooth.
“A long time?” she asked.
“Longer than long.” He took the tooth from her outstretched hand, screwed it into his mouth and grinned for the little girl. She giggled.
Now her mother flew down the hill at a dead run, frightening May with banshee sounds. Her once beautiful face was contorted into a witch-mask of pain and grief.
May instinctively shrank into the man’s black robes, away from her mother and Abel.
“Would you like to come with me?” asked the Pale Man.
May found that she very much did. She took his hand and let him lead her away from the strange screaming hag, the little lost boy, and the tangled pile of spun gold that already, she didn’t recognize.

Greetings and Salutations Pt II

Hi, my name is Will Millar and I wrote a book last year called Infernal Machines. Some people have read it, and they seem to like it, at least enough to bandy about the word "publication" when exchanging e-mails with me. So, it looks like the book will see the light of day shortly, and for that I'm extremely grateful.

I'm reopening this blogsite for people who have either read the book, or some of my other stuff, and I'd like to say hello, and welcome. I'm really glad you stopped by. This site will probably serve as a repository for some of my more bizarre musings that won't fit onto twitter, where I also live under the not-so-original moniker @willmillar1.

At this particular moment, my brain feels kind of mushy, on account of I've been working simultaneously on 2 non-fiction articles, and some final edits on the book. If you're interested in seeing some of my other work, here are the links to some pretty great anthologies that I've been fortunate enough to appear in.

The March 2012 issue of Cover of Darkness






http://sdpbookstore.com/recentreleases.htm

And the Bleeding Heart Cadaver anthology






http://www.amazon.com/Bleeding-Heart-Cadaver-magazine-September-December/dp/1467910201

Anyway, thanks again for stopping by. I'll be back soon.

Bugs and Fishes,

Will

Requiem for a Crackhouse

As I still haven't figure out how to convert myself into pure energy, I am required to do things like pay bills and eat, so I work. Sometimes my job requires me to do very unpleasant things. Case in point: I've had the pleasure of spending the last few days cleaning out a condemned apartment building in a fun little section of West Phoenix known as Sunnyslope. The odor inside of some of the units inspired the following story:

Once upon a time there lived a fat dirty hippie who hated soap so much, that he outlawed it from ever crossing his doorstep again. Years went by, and the smell finally got so bad that the 14 feral cats who lived with the hippie decided that they'd had enough, and split. This made the hippie very sad. So, in remembrance of his beloved ferals, he dumped all the water out of his 4 foot bong and filled it with cat-piss instead. Then he loaded the bong and smoked it. Naturally, this killed the hippie, and he began to rot on his couch.
Some time later, the bong grew self aware. It celebrated its new-found sentience by eating the hippie's dead body. Then the bong took a dump on the couch, shut off all the air-conditioning and left.

The End.

Welcome to Maryvale...

14 years ago I moved to Phoenix without knowing a whole lot about the different areas. My mode of transportation was a Royal Blue 1970 Dodge Adventurer which had about 250 million miles on it. The engine had this quirky habit of bursting into flames without so much as a warning light, so for the first few days I stayed at a Motel 6 just of 51st Ave and the I-10, otherwise known as Maryvale. On the 3rd or 4th night I was awakened by what cursory experience as a Marine allowed me to identify as an Uzi going off for a full 2 minutes, just outside my motel room. 2 minutes doesn't sound like very long, but in Uzi-time, it's a while. I moved the next day.

Over the years I've found that most people who've spent a day or two in Maryvale have similar stories.

Today through the course of my day-job I found myself in Maryvale again and noticed that in an effort to improve the place they've taken to putting up signs that read: Welcome To Maryvale... A Vibrant Village!

I liked the signs. They were and colorful and kind of gutsy. Only a few of them were gang-tagged. However, I felt that perhaps they didn't capture the true spirit of Maryvale, so I've come up with some suggestions for an alternative slogan. City Council members please feel free to help yourselves.

1 - Welcome to Maryvale... On the other hand some of the prostitutes are women.

2 - Welcome to Maryvale... For your safety, please roll up your windows and lock your car doors.

3 - Welcome to Maryvale... Now (mostly) West Nile Virus free!

4 - Welcome to Maryvale... We don't know what that smell is, either.

5 - Welcome to Maryvale... Would you like to buy some crack?


6 - Welcome to Maryvale... DUCK!!!

What does it all mean?

I started this page as a means of randomly capturing thoughts that I might want to refer back to at some point. Then I used it as a way to communicate with personal training clients. Now that I am no longer in the business of training people, I find that I still might have a need - strike that, perhaps compulsion may be a better word for it - to express thoughts and feelings in this format. I guess a lot of people do, otherwise the word blogging might have come into existence as some horrendous sexual euphemism.

So if anybody accidentally comes across this page at some point, or especially if some of my former clients check up on this page to see if I'm updating (Dave, Cheri, Kari, Paula, etc.) I have a word of warning:

Please do not take anything you see written here even a little bit seriously. Any advice I may post, it would probably be a safe bet to do the exact opposite from here on out. Also please don't judge any bad grammmar or misspelled words too harshly. Thank you, and enjoy your lunch.

Bugs and Fishes, Will