Al Mahdi, 2nd born of the dead

     

For all intents and purposes John Hicks, prisoner of Guantanamo was dead. Rumor had it that he had been reanimated by alien technology. But no one knew with an absolute certainty. He appeared one day in the offices of George Noory , the executive producer of Coast 2 Coast, a radio talk program known for its off the wall, in-depth approach to the paranormal.

When it was medically verified that the John Hicks was indeed dead after his execution, Art Bell assigned one of his top producers and star reporters to do the story. The producer ran into some obstacles when he tried a human interest approach to the story’s spin. He wanted to establish a history, interview family and friends. But John Hicks wanted nothing to do with it. His reason for coming to the world’s attention was to make people happy, he said. His past, his family, his origins were not important, what was important was the truth…and he wanted to share it with everyone.

When the show aired, the ratings went through the ceiling. The Executed man was an immediate success. People loved him. They wanted to invite him to dinner, even if it was only to have him sitting at the table. Politicians from around the world and religious leaders from every denomination wanted to consult with him. They felt that he had insights into life that were given to him by God. What became immediately apparent was that his mere image on the TV screen instilled a sense of happiness and contentment in the viewing audience that was unheard of in the annals of television broadcasting. No one could account for this phenomenon. Corporations were quick to see the value in all this. They asked John to sell their products and wanted his photos for print ads. They offered top dollar, butJohn hicks said he did not need money, and no longer felt the urge to chase that beast. Furthermore, he made it plain that he had not come to sell candy, soda, cereal, or anything else to anyone. He came only to be seen and make people aware of the continuity of consciousness in the Bardo State.

Although he had not given permission, toy makers were manufacturing action figures and dolls in his likeness. He refused legal representation, thus allowing anyone who cared to market his image to do so with impunity. He began to appear in ads all around the world, on trading cards and billboards. The ressurected man was seen drinking beer and eating foods that he had no use for. He had become an overnight celebrity. Hollywood wanted to sign him to do feature films; TV execs wanted him to star in his own sitcom. He refused all offers. Nonetheless, paparazzi and reporters followed him everywhere he went along with mobs of autograph seekers. Fan clubs sprung up on every continent of the planet. Glossy photos of him were in countless households, even in shacks and shanties in third world countries, all of them signed by John Hicks.

No matter where he was seen, or where he appeared, he always wore the same clothes–a white pair of pants, and a white tunic, and a thin black tie with a star and quarter moon embossed upon it. No one knew where the dead man lived. He would simply appear where he was expected, and in places where he was not expected at all. People from all walks of life invited him to come live with them, wealthy individuals offered to build him air-conditioned mausoleums around the world so that he would have a comfortable place to stay no matter where he went. He would have nothing to do with it. It was apparent that he was enormously reticent and valued his privacy above human comforts. Scientists took interest in him because he did not decompose. There was a bright aura and halo emitting from him, but this did not increase over any length of time. He was a true enigma who always sidestepped a question with a shy and wry smile.

When he met with Ratzinger at the Vatican, this press release was handed to reporters:

After many a millennia, the time has come to complete the true, long awaited role of the human species. My presence on the planet at this time is to draw attention to the ressurection that befalls everyone alive today. The time is near when the great culmination that the human race has long expected on a subconscious level is but a sun flare away. The technology is in place; the required number of human beings is in place; the political antagonisms and spiritual malaise are ripe and very much in place. The momentous time has arrived, the sun has returned to it’s place of
origin, only doing so when times like these arise. The great culling of the human race is
about to begin. I am the second born of the dead, pick up your lives and follow me, take
no food, no clothing, no possessions, they will not be needed.

The minions from every nation, every race, every creed, left their homes and domiciles to
search for John Hicks, he was spotted in the Himilayas, or on the Pyramid of the Sun,
or beneath the Denver Airport, he preached to the Liberals and the Republicans, baptizing
them in the Potomic River.

He would appear at bar mitzvahs and family picnics, at Christian baptismal ceremonies, and at pubs and nightclubs where he was seen dancing with delighted females who slipped their phone numbers into his olive green jacket in hopes of a late night rendezvous. Drug addicts toasted him as he passed because they believed he had reached the highest high attainable. Post offices had to open up special divisions for all of the fan mail he received. They had to store all these letters in huge warehouses because Hicks had no known address.

Then suddenly John Hicks made an announcement, he would speak to the whole world on
december 21, 2012. He said he would reveal many truths, and needed the world to listen.

On the night that this broadcast was to occur, everyone was in front of their TV set or radio, eager to hear what he had to say. Soldiers on battlefields stopped for the occasion, crime halted during this announcement, the flow of human semen ceased while sex was put on suspension. All ears and eyes were peeled to hear the second born among the dead.

He told the world, there was now so much more to life, that life extended far beyond our dreams,
that it now extended into the bardo state. The sun had returned to it’s place of origin and erased
the limit we call death. He said “men will seek death and shall not find it.”

No more suffering to die, no more giving up the ghost, all of mankind would now experience
the reality of the universal consciousness. He suggested World Leaders release prisoners
 and stop all wars, and destroy all missiles and nuclear warheads. He told the people they no longer needed food or sustenance, that the ether was all they needed to sustain their consciousness, because it was the very face of god.

Without hesitation, or thinking of the ultimate consequences, The illuminati gave orders to launch missiles of mass destruction at countries that were at the top of their adversary lists. They also deployed troops on their home front to decimate the civilian population. They would not give up their power without a fight. They controlled the womb, and they controlled the tomb. While the sheeple sat in front of TV sets listening to the gunfire and explosions in their cities, they waited patiently for the nuclear, chemical and biological warheads to hit the earth; and they watched John Hicks, the executed second born of the dead on the screen with smiles on their faces, in complete tranquility, as he opened wide the door to heaven.

heroes always remember

I was sitting on the porch when I heard the sound of the dove come from the old millpond. The dove’s mournful call stopped, and then I heard death coming down the country road that ran passed my grandparent’s farm. It broke the Sunday afternoon apart and silenced the dove.

My grandmother’s name was Gloria Roberts. My grandfather was already dead by that fall, finally killed by the gas that began to eat his lungs in the trenches of France in 1918; buried with his Croix de Guerre.

My grandparents lived in the tobacco country of eastern North Carolina, in a place with a name you couldn’t find on a map. They lived in the midst of horizon-to-horizon tobacco fields that grew over my head; hid me in forests of green like the jungles of Tarzan, and where I ran wild, invisible to the world, feeling the hot sand of the fields between my bare toes.

I was ten year old, sitting on the porch of my grandparent’s house and dreaming a boy’s dreams, when the call of the dove stopped.

I heard screaming metal, an engine trying to tear itself apart, howling like a tortured animal. I looked toward the road. I could see the small white dot of my grandmother’s mailbox, atop its post and leaning a little to the right, on the other side of the road.

Then I saw it. It came from the left, a flash of blue. And it began to fly. If left the ground and climbed toward the sky over the tobacco fields, trying to fly over the ditch by the side of the road. The sky and the car were almost the same pale-blue color.

Halfway up the arc of its climb, the car rolled, like an airplane doing stunts. I could see the workings beneath it. They were lewd, as if the car was naked. The car seemed to hang at the top of the arc, its black belly exposed, and then it fell.

The car fell into the ditch and kicked up dirt that floated and drifted in the air around it. It landed on its top and the wheels kept spinning. The roaring engine died when the car hit the ditch and I could hear the spinning wheels. They made a rumbling and whirring sound.

I jumped off the porch and ran. I don’t know why I didn’t run to find my grandmother. She was in the garden in the back of the house, bent over her black-eyed Susan’s. But I didn’t run for her, I ran toward the upside down car, its wheels starting to slow down now, but still spinning. I was thirteen years old and I was running toward death. But I didn’t know it.

There was a breeze ruffling something; making something pink move and dance. I kept running. I saw a woman lying on the white line in the middle of the road. The breeze was moving parts of her pink dress.

I stood in the middle of the road, breathing hard from the running, and felt the heat from the asphalt on the soles of my bare feet, like standing in my grandparent’s fields. I looked down at the woman in the road. She was an older woman; she was a thin black woman dressed in her Sunday church best.

I looked both ways down the road. There were no other cars. The whole world was filled up with me and an elderly black woman in a pink dress lying like a rag doll in the middle of a road surrounded by North Carolina tobacco fields.

Then, a car came. I didn’t know it was there until I heard the door slam and a man came toward me.

“Son?” the man said. “Better get out of the road, boy. I’ll go on down to Pappy yoke’s Store and call an ambulance. You’d better get out of the road, son.”

“I know,” I said.
“You Van Robert’s grandson?” the man said.

“Yessir,” I said. Now, I wanted to cry. As long as it was just me and the woman lying in the road, as long we were all there was in the world, I didn’t think about crying. But now, I wanted to cry.

“”You’d better get out of the road, son,” the man said again. “You come on with me; there ain’t nothin’ you can do for her.”

“No,”” I said. “”Somebody’s got to keep the cars from running over her.”

“You reckon you can handle that, boy?””

“Yessir,”” I said.

The man looked at me and said, “I reckon you are Van Robert’s grandson. You just stand on the side of the road and wave ‘’em down. There ain’t likely to be any on this road on a Sunday, and I’ll be right back.”

“The store ain’t open on Sunday,” I said.

“”I know, son, but they live in back and I know your gramma ain’t got a telephone.”

The man got into his car and drove toward Pappy “yoke ’s Store, but I didn’t watch him go. I didn’t watch him drive around the woman lying in the road.

Because I saw the woman’s eyes. Maybe they were closed before; maybe that’s why I didn’t see them sooner.

Her eyes were open and she was staring at me like I was the only thing in the world. Her mouth began to move, too, like she was talking. She was staring at me, her eyes wide-open and not blinking – staring at me and her mouth opening and closing. She was talking to me, but she couldn’t make the words come out.

I looked up and down the empty Sunday road; I don’t know what I was looking for. Maybe just for someone to come and take this woman away, to rescue me from her staring eyes and her silent moving lips.

But, I had to look at her, to look straight back into her eyes – I had to – because I knew that if I looked away it would be like I just left her to die. So I looked back into her eyes, trembling and wanting to cry again. And her mouth kept moving. Talking to me. Telling me not to leave her. I felt that inside. I didn’t have to hear it. I knelt beside her and held her hand and would not leave her.

When I heard my grandmother holler, I jumped. For a second I guess I thought the sound came from the woman on the road. But it was my grandmother.

She was waddling down the dirt road from the house as fast as she could go. She hollered again; “”Lawd God a-mighty!” as she came, trailing little clouds of dust at her feet. My grandmother was a great fat woman with huge all-encompassing breasts and upper arms as big as a pro-wrestler’s. She could envelope the whole world, hold it all tight against those huge bosoms. “”Lawd God a-mighty!”” she yelled again, even though her mouth was bulging with snuff.

Then my grandmother stood next to me on the road, breathing hard. She put her hand on my shoulder. “”Charlie?”” she said, and I started to cry. If she hadn’t put her hand on my shoulder and called my name I would have been all right. But now I was crying.

The woman lying in the road kept looking at me, her eyes never leaving my face.

“”We got to get out of the road,”” my grandmother said.

“”No,”” I said, and my grandmother kept standing in the road beside me until the man came back from Pappy Yoke’s store. The ambulance was right behind him. The highway patrol came too and the road was full of cars, blue and red lights flashing; all gathered around the old black woman lying broken in the road in her pink dress.

They put the woman on a stretcher. She didn’t move until they rolled her into the ambulance and she turned her head a little so she could keep looking at me. I heard one of the ambulance attendants say; “Nice Chevy. Too bad she tore it up like that.” Then they were all gone. All the cars drove away and the flashing lights were gone and silence fell again, like a blanket, over the tobacco fields. Not even the sound of the dove over at the old millpond. The woman couldn’t look at me anymore.

Nobody ever taught me how to pray. But I tried to learn that night. My grandparent’s farm was nine miles from Snow Hill and at night it was swallowed in darkness. I could lie at night and hold my hand to my face, almost touching my nose, and not see it.

That night, in my feather-bed, I looked at the blackness over my head and tried to pray. “Dear God, please help that poor old negro woman,” I said. But my prayer didn’t seem to go anywhere; it just went up into the darkness over my head and disappeared.

I don’t remember how long I prayed like that. But I do remember why I stopped.
I stopped when I saw the woman’s eyes, shinning in the dark above my bed. Luminous, and staring at me. The woman’s eyes stayed in the darkness above my bed until morning; they melted away with the first dim light that seeped into my room.

I watched them all night. I could have reached up and touched them. But, I just lay there and looked back at them until morning came.

It was when the first filmy rays of light broke into my room, when things were just beginning to turn into clumps of gray, that the woman spoke to me. “”My name is Marlie Robinson,”” she said. “”You remember my name,”” she said. I said I would remember. Then the eyes and the voice were gone and the day had come.

I told my grandmother the woman’s name.

“”She tell you while she was layin’ in the road?”” my grandmother said.
“”She told me,”” I said.

My grandmother didn’t know any Robinsons. She said they must be from over in Yellow Springs, or maybe Greenville.

After a while, I quit thinking about the woman. Sometimes, in high school, when I talked about her my friends laughed, punched me in the arm, and said; “”bullshit!”

But, I could close my eyes anytime I wanted to and see that pale-blue Chevrolet on its top, its wheels spinning like the legs of a bug on its back moving and trying to find the ground. I could close my eyes anytime and see the woman’s pink dress blowing in the breeze that came softly down the road that Sunday afternoon. It was a memory I would always have. And I would always have the woman’s name too. And every time I heard a dove’s cry, I remembered.

Even though I never once doubted the eyes and the woman’s voice that night were real, they never came back again. Many times I wondered why I wasn’t afraid that night. The woman’s eyes were soft and brown, with the whites of her eyes shinning bright, and her voice was soft too. – “You remember my name.” Other than that, I don’t know why I wasn’t afraid. In 2001, I went to the woman’s grave. It wasn’t hard to find, there was only one black cemetery in Yellow Springs. I took some flowers and laid them on her grave, in front of the stone that had her name carved on it.

I was wearing my uniform. I was in the Army and on my way to Iraq. I knew I would run toward death again; toward bodies tossed like rag dolls and lying broken on the ground…..I knew I was looking down at my own broken body. I looked up to see Marlie Robinson standing above me looking down at my broken body, I asked her not to leave me. I asked her to remember my name. Marlie Robinson held my hand, she never left my side.

Posted by graceofgodgoI at 12:26 PM 0 comments
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Birthing the Lucifer star, Book review
Do We hear the call?? In our everyday reality, the great spirit calls us to redeem ourselves and those around us from the ruler of this world. If you heard the call, what would you choose. For many are called, but few are chosen. Those who hear and answer the call do so to the peril of their very soul. Follow the woman of the wilderness and the hero, a great warrior of the first nation, as they risk life and limb to redeem first themselves then all of turtle island…

A sparse, my…more Do We hear the call?? In our everyday reality, the great spirit calls us to redeem ourselves and those around us from the ruler of this world. If you heard the call, what would you choose. For many are called, but few are chosen. Those who hear and answer the call do so to the peril of their very soul. Follow the woman of the wilderness and the hero, a great warrior of the first nation, as they risk life and limb to redeem first themselves then all of turtle island…

A sparse, mythical writing style and complex storytelling ensure the success of D. E. Bartley’s portrayal of a celebrated Native American warrior who rediscovers his divinity, and a Brooklyn daughter of Jacob who wanders the wilderness trying to answer the call.

EXCERPT:

Chapter 15: Secret Bilderberger Meeting
The Lords of Belgium sat in conference, reviewing the current state of the economy around the world. Sir Rothschild was receiving the reports of his lesser chief, the royal crown of England.
“My faithful servant, what is your report?”
“Sire, I bring disturbing news from the American sector. The production targets on the flu vaccine are being met, but industrial progress is slow. Asia, meanwhile-they are much closer to their targets and have been making greater progress.”
“What should I see as disturbing in that last report?”
“Sire, if you will recall, the Americans are leaderless, their President, is our puppet, so no one really takes him seriously %u2026 They have been making these improvements on their own initiative. As they clearly are outstripping India and China, where there are strong leaders in place, they are gaining pride in their own progress, their own initiative.”
“I see. That could be grave. The dollar has not yet reached its intrinsic value of zero. Confidence in their own capabilities could cause them to resent the taxes and levies they pay to us %u2026 damned Americans refuse to be subservient.”
“In fact, sire, there have been inquiries regarding certain levies of ours. Complaints have been made that certain line items are excessive.”
“Then we need to take action. Tell me: has their progress been steady?”
“For the most part, sire, yes. However, in the last reporting period, we note a leveling out. Some discontent with this is evident in the tone of the reports; there have even been rumors that certain states want to create their own greenbacks.”
“Then we have our window of opportunity.”
“Sire? I don’t understand.”
“My faithful servant,” the Lord Rothschild said, a tone of deliberate patience in his voice, “please recite for me the mantra of progressive evolution.”
“Evolvement is not a steady upward curve, but is a series of steps punctuated by periods of little or no upward movement, known as plateaus. When a table is reached, it is important not to forsake the methods bringing progress, but to persevere and accumulate the incremental improvements that will finally break out of the plateau and once again bring upward mobilization.”
“This is what brings us our opportunity to institute change to our benefit,” the Lord Rothschild stated.
The queen was clearly perplexed. “Change, sire? I thought the mantra of progressive evolution dictated steadfastness, patience, and perseverance?”
“Recite for me the mantra of reconstruction.”
The queen stood silent, at a loss. Across the table from her, Warren Buffett stood up, smiling smugly. “Reconstruction is good when instituted and controlled from above. Altering the status quo from below becomes good only when it is accepted and taken under direction from above.”
“Very good, Warren; you may sit down. Now, explain how this fits the current situation.”
Ben Bernanke stood, was recognized, and then spoke. “The current situation allows us to invoke the mantra of reconstruction to our advantage. We can accomplish our objectives by instituting a change of our own that will co-opt their change and bring it completely under our control.”
“Most excellent, my loyal servant. I see that you, at least, have been paying attention. Put yourself in for a raise. I will approve it.”
“Thank you, sire!” Bernanke wiped a tear of gratitude from the corner of his eye.
Lord Rothschild gestured, and his underlings sat down. “The Americans cannot be allowed to continue to self-govern and question our legitimate rule.” He smiled coldly. “Therefore, we need to create a large enough altercation to shake their little world. The silly mass shootings being blamed on Muslims are just not viable; the Americans are seeing through these black ops. However, there will be a new sun in place by the time the current plateau is overcome, and we’ll see that the credit for this incredible feat or progress falls to us. Thus, we will reassert our control, and the questioning of our levies will cease. George, when does Cassini II launch?”
“It launches in just 7 days-a most wise plan, sire,” said George Herbert Walker Bush. “We will show them our power and confirm our control.”
“Thank you, George. The Cassini is equipped with two tons of plutonium; we have directed the ship toward Jupiter, and hopefully the nuclear fission will be enough to create a sustainable blaze, creating a new sun. It is imperative that we get this right. Does anyone have any questions? No? Good. Then this meeting is officially adjourned.”

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Labels: Ben Bernanke, George H. W. Bush, George Herbert Walker Bush, India, Indigenous peoples of the Americas, Lord Rothschild, United States, Warren Buffett
Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Heroe’s always remember

I was sitting on the porch when I heard the sound of the dove come from the old millpond. The dove’s mournful call stopped, and then I heard death coming down the country road that ran passed my grandparent’s farm. It broke the Sunday afternoon apart and silenced the dove.

My grandmother’s name was Gloria Roberts. My grandfather was already dead by that fall, finally killed by the gas that began to eat his lungs in the trenches of France in 1918; buried with his Croix de Guerre.

My grandparents lived in the tobacco country of eastern North Carolina, in a place with a name you couldn’t find on a map. They lived in the midst of horizon-to-horizon tobacco fields that grew over my head; hid me in forests of green like the jungles of Tarzan, and where I ran wild, invisible to the world, feeling the hot sand of the fields between my bare toes.

I was ten year old, sitting on the porch of my grandparent’s house and dreaming a boy’s dreams, when the call of the dove stopped.

I heard screaming metal, an engine trying to tear itself apart, howling like a tortured animal. I looked toward the road. I could see the small white dot of my grandmother’s mailbox, atop its post and leaning a little to the right, on the other side of the road.

Then I saw it. It came from the left, a flash of blue. And it began to fly. If left the ground and climbed toward the sky over the tobacco fields, trying to fly over the ditch by the side of the road. The sky and the car were almost the same pale-blue color.

Halfway up the arc of its climb, the car rolled, like an airplane doing stunts. I could see the workings beneath it. They were lewd, as if the car was naked. The car seemed to hang at the top of the arc, its black belly exposed, and then it fell.

The car fell into the ditch and kicked up dirt that floated and drifted in the air around it. It landed on its top and the wheels kept spinning. The roaring engine died when the car hit the ditch and I could hear the spinning wheels. They made a rumbling and whirring sound.

I jumped off the porch and ran. I don’t know why I didn’t run to find my grandmother. She was in the garden in the back of the house, bent over her black-eyed Susan’s. But I didn’t run for her, I ran toward the upside down car, its wheels starting to slow down now, but still spinning. I was thirteen years old and I was running toward death. But I didn’t know it.

There was a breeze ruffling something; making something pink move and dance. I kept running. I saw a woman lying on the white line in the middle of the road. The breeze was moving parts of her pink dress.

I stood in the middle of the road, breathing hard from the running, and felt the heat from the asphalt on the soles of my bare feet, like standing in my grandparent’s fields. I looked down at the woman in the road. She was an older woman; she was a thin black woman dressed in her Sunday church best.

I looked both ways down the road. There were no other cars. The whole world was filled up with me and an elderly black woman in a pink dress lying like a rag doll in the middle of a road surrounded by North Carolina tobacco fields.

Then, a car came. I didn’t know it was there until I heard the door slam and a man came toward me.

“Son?” the man said. “Better get out of the road, boy. I’ll go on down to Pappy yoke’s Store and call an ambulance. You’d better get out of the road, son.”

“I know,” I said.
“You Van Robert’s grandson?” the man said.

“Yessir,” I said. Now, I wanted to cry. As long as it was just me and the woman lying in the road, as long we were all there was in the world, I didn’t think about crying. But now, I wanted to cry.

“”You’d better get out of the road, son,” the man said again. “You come on with me; there ain’t nothin’ you can do for her.”

“No,”” I said. “”Somebody’s got to keep the cars from running over her.”

“You reckon you can handle that, boy?””

“Yessir,”” I said.

The man looked at me and said, “I reckon you are Van Robert’s grandson. You just stand on the side of the road and wave ‘’em down. There ain’t likely to be any on this road on a Sunday, and I’ll be right back.”

“The store ain’t open on Sunday,” I said.

“”I know, son, but they live in back and I know your gramma ain’t got a telephone.”

The man got into his car and drove toward Pappy “yoke ’s Store, but I didn’t watch him go. I didn’t watch him drive around the woman lying in the road.

Because I saw the woman’s eyes. Maybe they were closed before; maybe that’s why I didn’t see them sooner.

Her eyes were open and she was staring at me like I was the only thing in the world. Her mouth began to move, too, like she was talking. She was staring at me, her eyes wide-open and not blinking – staring at me and her mouth opening and closing. She was talking to me, but she couldn’t make the words come out.

I looked up and down the empty Sunday road; I don’t know what I was looking for. Maybe just for someone to come and take this woman away, to rescue me from her staring eyes and her silent moving lips.

But, I had to look at her, to look straight back into her eyes – I had to – because I knew that if I looked away it would be like I just left her to die. So I looked back into her eyes, trembling and wanting to cry again. And her mouth kept moving. Talking to me. Telling me not to leave her. I felt that inside. I didn’t have to hear it. I knelt beside her and held her hand and would not leave her.

When I heard my grandmother holler, I jumped. For a second I guess I thought the sound came from the woman on the road. But it was my grandmother.

She was waddling down the dirt road from the house as fast as she could go. She hollered again; “”Lawd God a-mighty!” as she came, trailing little clouds of dust at her feet. My grandmother was a great fat woman with huge all-encompassing breasts and upper arms as big as a pro-wrestler’s. She could envelope the whole world, hold it all tight against those huge bosoms. “”Lawd God a-mighty!”” she yelled again, even though her mouth was bulging with snuff.

Then my grandmother stood next to me on the road, breathing hard. She put her hand on my shoulder. “”Charlie?”” she said, and I started to cry. If she hadn’t put her hand on my shoulder and called my name I would have been all right. But now I was crying.

The woman lying in the road kept looking at me, her eyes never leaving my face.

“”We got to get out of the road,”” my grandmother said.

“”No,”” I said, and my grandmother kept standing in the road beside me until the man came back from Pappy Yoke’s store. The ambulance was right behind him. The highway patrol came too and the road was full of cars, blue and red lights flashing; all gathered around the old black woman lying broken in the road in her pink dress.

They put the woman on a stretcher. She didn’t move until they rolled her into the ambulance and she turned her head a little so she could keep looking at me. I heard one of the ambulance attendants say; “Nice Chevy. Too bad she tore it up like that.” Then they were all gone. All the cars drove away and the flashing lights were gone and silence fell again, like a blanket, over the tobacco fields. Not even the sound of the dove over at the old millpond. The woman couldn’t look at me anymore.

Nobody ever taught me how to pray. But I tried to learn that night. My grandparent’s farm was nine miles from Snow Hill and at night it was swallowed in darkness. I could lie at night and hold my hand to my face, almost touching my nose, and not see it.

That night, in my feather-bed, I looked at the blackness over my head and tried to pray. “Dear God, please help that poor old negro woman,” I said. But my prayer didn’t seem to go anywhere; it just went up into the darkness over my head and disappeared.

I don’t remember how long I prayed like that. But I do remember why I stopped.
I stopped when I saw the woman’s eyes, shinning in the dark above my bed. Luminous, and staring at me. The woman’s eyes stayed in the darkness above my bed until morning; they melted away with the first dim light that seeped into my room.

I watched them all night. I could have reached up and touched them. But, I just lay there and looked back at them until morning came.

It was when the first filmy rays of light broke into my room, when things were just beginning to turn into clumps of gray, that the woman spoke to me. “”My name is Marlie Robinson,”” she said. “”You remember my name,”” she said. I said I would remember. Then the eyes and the voice were gone and the day had come.

I told my grandmother the woman’s name.

“”She tell you while she was layin’ in the road?”” my grandmother said.
“”She told me,”” I said.

My grandmother didn’t know any Robinsons.  She said they must be from over in Yellow Springs, or maybe Greenville.

After a while, I quit thinking about the woman. Sometimes, in high school, when I talked about her my friends laughed, punched me in the arm, and said; “”bullshit!”

But, I could close my eyes anytime I wanted to and see that pale-blue Chevrolet on its top, its wheels spinning like the legs of a bug on its back moving and trying to find the ground. I could close my eyes anytime and see the woman’s pink dress blowing in the breeze that came softly down the road that Sunday afternoon. It was a memory I would always have. And I would always have the woman’s name too. And every time I heard a dove’s cry, I remembered.

Even though I never once doubted the eyes and the woman’s voice that night were real, they never came back again. Many times I wondered why I wasn’t afraid that night. The woman’s eyes were soft and brown, with the whites of her eyes shinning bright, and her voice was soft too. – “You remember my name.” Other than that, I don’t know why I wasn’t afraid. In 2001, I went to the woman’s grave. It wasn’t hard to find, there was only one black cemetery in Yellow Springs. I took some flowers and laid them on her grave, in front of the stone that had her name carved on it.

I was wearing my uniform. I was in the Army and on my way to Iraq. I knew I would run toward death again;  toward bodies tossed like rag dolls and lying broken on the ground…..I knew I was looking down at my own broken body. I looked up to see Marlie Robinson standing above me looking down at my broken body, I asked her not to leave me. I asked her to remember my name. Marlie Robinson held my hand, she never left my side.

The truth is in there…December 21 2012 and the great Sunspot event

By faith Enoch was translated that he should not see death; and was not found, because God had translated him: for before his translation he had this testimony, that he pleased God” (Hebrews 11:5).

Enoch experienced “rapture” — before the judgment of the Flood. What Enoch experienced is exactly what we are waiting for! We hold to our Savior’s promise that He will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel and the trumpet of God (I Thes. 4:15-17). Therefore, I would suggest that Enoch has excellent qualifications to inform and prepare us for the events of the end time.

The words of the blessing of Enoch wherewith he blessed the chosen and just, who will exist on the day of tribulation when all the wicked and impious shall be removed”

“And then answered and spoke Enoch, a just man, whose eyes were opened by God so that he saw a holy vision in the heavens, which the angels showed to me, and from them I heard everything, and I knew what I saw, but not for this generation, but for the far-off generations, which are to come.

“Concerning the chosen I spoke and conversed concerning them with the Holy and Great One, who will come from his abode, the God of the world.

“And from there he will step on to Mount Sinai, and appear with his hosts, and appear in the strength of his power from heaven.

“And all will fear, and the watchers will tremble, and great fear and terror will seize them to the ends of the earth. on the mighty day of the lord.

“And the exalted mountains will be shaken, and the high hills will be lowered, and will melt like wax before the flame.

“And the earth will be submerged, and everything that is on the earth will be destroyed, and there will be a judgment upon everything, and upon all the just.

“But to the just he will give peace, and will protect the chosen, and mercy will abide over them, and they will all be God’s, and will be prosperous and blessed, and the light of God will shine for them.

“And behold, he comes with myriads of the holy to pass judgment upon them, and will destroy the impious, and will call to account all flesh for everything the sinners and the impious have done and committed against him” (Enoch 1:1-9).

The light of the Sun is pouring forth like no other time in remembered history.  We are facing great cataclysm, and the dark forces on the earth know about this and they are positioning themselves to take power before  the great Sun event comes.  Those dark forces are only vying to take their followers to the pit….the center of the milkyway galaxy, as the sun’s corona rapes the earth, it will burn off the dross, and Korah will lead the blind into the pit. This great cleansing is for a spiritual purpose, and flesh and spirit will sear together translating humanity into light.

Anytime the light of creation is used for destructive purposes, there is an end to it.  All forces in the world both light and dark are always sucked back into the light where it is defined and then spewed forth into the blackest of holes.  The negative sun spots have been sucking up the darkness on the earth and spewing it forth into the inky black ether of void.

As the Sun’s spots get bigger and bigger the earth’s crust will move and jerk and the axis shall shift.  There will be cries in the outer darkness and the nashing of teeth. The next negative sunspot event is april 19, 2011, be ready.  People need to think like Noah, have boats, and food reserves because the tsunamis are coming, and every nuclear reactor will be in total meltdown, because the sun has come back to take it’s own.

Admiral Byrd was contacted by those who have lived in the hollow of the earth.  They built their machines so that they could visit the top of the earth to see what the mad men of this world were truly up to.    Dark Forces  released the angel of the lesser light in the smallest unit of form in this world of formation, seen as E=MC squared and the abomination that makes desolate was set up.   “Satan has come down to us, knowing he has but a short time. The destructive force of  light, is when light is used for negative purposes.  Now we shall see the Sun’s corona destroy all nuclear weapons, and bring those who are filled with light in to the light of the eons.

Below is a page from Admiral Byrd’s diary in full.  He was met by those who have built spaceships to watch the top of the world.  They gave a fair warning.  Now is the time to take heed because 2012 fast approaches……

/

mysterious hollow earth

//

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{

–>

 

the secret diary of admiral Byrd

 

Admiral Richard B. Byrd’s Diary (Feb. Mar. 1947 )

 

The exploration flight over the North Pole

( The Inner Earth My Secret Diary )

 

I must write this diary in secrecy and obscurity. It con
cerns my Arctic flight of the nineteenth day of February in the
year of Nineteen and Forty Seven.

 

There comes a time when the rationality of men must fade
into insignificance and one must accept the inevitability of the
Truth! I am not at liberty to disclose the following documenta
tion at this writing …perhaps it shall never see the light of
public scrutiny, but I must do my duty and record here for all to
read one day. In a world of greed and exploitation of certain of
mankind can no longer suppress that which is truth.

 

FLIGHT LOG: BASE CAMP ARCTIC, 2/19/1947

 

0600 Hours- All preparations are complete for our flight north
ward and we are airborne with full fuel tanks at 0610 Hours.

 

0620 Hours- fuel mixture on starboard engine seems too rich,
adjustment made and Pratt Whittneys are running smoothly.

 

0730 Hours- Radio Check with base camp. All is well and radio
reception is normal.

 

0740 Hours- Note slight oil leak in starboard engine, oil pres
sure indicator seems normal, however.

 

0800 Hours- Slight turbulence noted from easterly direction at
altitude of 2321 feet, correction to 1700 feet, no further turbu
lence, but tail wind increases, slight adjustment in throttle
controls, aircraft performing very well now.

 

0815 Hours- Radio Check with base camp, situation normal.

 

0830 Hours- Turbulence encountered again, increase altitude to
2900 feet, smooth flight conditions again.

 

0910 Hours- Vast Ice and snow below, note coloration of yellowish
nature, and disperse in a linear pattern. Altering course foe a
better examination of this color pattern below, note reddish or
purple color also. Circle this area two full turns and return to
assigned compass heading. Position check made again to base camp,
and relay information concerning colorations in the Ice and snow
below.

 

0910 Hours- Both Magnetic and Gyro compasses beginning to gyrate
and wobble, we are unable to hold our heading by instrumentation.
Take bearing with Sun compass, yet all seems well. The controls
are seemingly slow to respond and have sluggish quality, but
there is no indication of Icing!

 

0915 Hours- In the distance is what appears to be mountains.

 

0949 Hours- 29 minutes elapsed flight time from the first sight
ing of the mountains, it is no illusion. They are mountains and
consisting of a small range that I have never seen before!

 

0955 Hours- Altitude change to 2950 feet, encountering strong
turbulence again.

 

1000 Hours- We are crossing over the small mountain range and
still proceeding northward as best as can be ascertained. Beyond
the mountain range is what appears to be a valley with a small
river or stream running through the center portion. There should
be no green valley below! Something is definitely wrong and
abnormal here! We should be over Ice and Snow! To the portside
are great forests growing on the mountain slopes. Our navigation
Instruments are still spinning, the gyroscope is oscillating back
and forth!

 

1005 Hours- I alter altitude to 1400 feet and execute a sharp
left turn to better examine the valley below. It is green with
either moss or a type of tight knit grass. The Light here seems
different. I cannot see the Sun anymore. We make another left
turn and we spot what seems to be a large animal of some kind
below us. It appears to be an elephant! NO!!! It looks more
like a mammoth! This is incredible! Yet, there it is! Decrease
altitude to 1000 feet and take binoculars to better examine the
animal. It is confirmed – it is definitely a mammoth-like ani
mal! Report this to base camp.

 

1030 Hours- Encountering more rolling green hills now. The
external temperature indicator reads 74 degrees Fahrenheit!
Continuing on our heading now. Navigation instruments seem
normal now. I am puzzled over their actions. Attempt to contact
base camp. Radio is not functioning!

 

1130 Hours- Countryside below is more level and normal (if I may
use that word). Ahead we spot what seems to be a city!!!! This
is impossible! Aircraft seems light and oddly buoyant. The
controls refuse to respond!! My GOD!!! Off our port and star
board wings are a strange type of aircraft. They are closing
rapidly alongside! They are disc-shaped and have a radiant
quality to them. They are close enough now to see the markings
on them. It is a type of Swastika!!! This is fantastic. Where
are we! What has happened. I tug at the controls again. They
will not respond!!!! We are caught in an invisible vice grip of
some type!

 

1135 Hours- Our radio crackles and a voice comes through in
English with what perhaps is a slight Nordic or Germanic accent!
The message is: ‘Welcome, Admiral, to our domain. We shall land
you in exactly seven minutes! Relax, Admiral, you are in good
hands.’ I note the engines of our plane have stopped running!
The aircraft is under some strange control and is now turning
itself. The controls are useless.

 

1140 Hours- Another radio message received. We begin the landing
process now, and in moments the plane shudders slightly, and
begins a descent as though caught in some great unseen elevator!
The downward motion is negligible, and we touch down with only a
slight jolt!

 

1145 Hours- I am making a hasty last entry in the flight log.
Several men are approaching on foot toward our aircraft. They
are tall with blond hair. In the distance is a large shimmering
city pulsating with rainbow hues of color. I do not know what is
going to happen now, but I see no signs of weapons on those
approaching. I hear now a voice ordering me by name to open the
cargo door. I comply. END LOG

 

From this point I write all the following events here from memory.
It defies the imagination and would seem all but madness if it had
not happened.

 

The radioman and I are taken from the aircraft and we are re
ceived in a most cordial manner. We were then boarded on a small
platform-like conveyance with no wheels! It moves us toward the
glowing city with great swiftness. As we approach, the city
seems to be made of a crystal material. Soon we arrive at a
large building that is a type I have never seen before. It
appears to be right out of the design board of Frank Lloyd
Wright, or perhaps more correctly, out of a Buck Rogers setting!!
We are given some type of warm beverage which tasted like nothing
I have ever savored before. It is delicious. After about ten
minutes, two of our wondrous appearing hosts come to our quarters
and announce that I am to accompany them. I have no choice but
to comply. I leave my radioman behind and we walk a short dis
tance and enter into what seems to be an elevator. We descend
downward for some moments, the machine stops, and the door lifts
silently upward! We then proceed down a long hallway that is lit
by a rose-colored light that seems to be emanating from the very
walls themselves! One of the beings motions for us to stop
before a great door. Over the door is an inscription that I
cannot read. The great door slides noiselessly open and I am
beckoned to enter. One of my hosts speaks. ‘Have no fear,
Admiral, you are to have an audience with the Master…’

 

I step
inside and my eyes adjust to the beautiful coloration that seems
to be filling the room completely. Then I begin to see my sur
roundings. What greeted my eyes is the most beautiful sight of
my entire existence. It is in fact too beautiful and wondrous to
describe. It is exquisite and delicate. I do not think there
exists a human term that can describe it in any detail with
justice! My thoughts are interrupted in a cordial manner by a
warm rich voice of melodious quality, ‘I bid you welcome to our
domain, Admiral.’ I see a man with delicate features and with
the etching of years upon his face. He is seated at a long
table. He motions me to sit down in one of the chairs. After I
am seated, he places his fingertips together and smiles. He
speaks softly again, and conveys the following.

 

‘We have let you
enter here because you are of noble character and well-known on
the Surface World, Admiral.’ Surface World, I half-gasp under my
breath! ‘Yes,” the Master replies with a smile, ‘you are in the
domain of the Arianni, the Inner World of the Earth. We shall
not long delay your mission, and you will be safely escorted back
to the surface and for a distance beyond. But now, Admiral, I
shall tell you why you have been summoned here. Our interest
rightly begins just after your race exploded the first atomic
bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan. It was at that alarm
ing time we sent our flying machines, the “Flugelrads”, to your
surface world to investigate what your race had done. That is,
of course, past history now, my dear Admiral, but I must continue
on. You see, we have never interfered before in your race’s
wars, and barbarity, but now we must, for you have learned to
tamper with a certain power that is not for man, namely, that of
atomic energy. Our emissaries have already delivered messages to
the powers of your world, and yet they do not heed. Now you have
been chosen to be witness here that our world does exist. You
see, our Culture and Science is many thousands of years beyond
your race, Admiral.’ I interrupted, ‘But what does this have to
do with me, Sir?’

 

The Master’s eyes seemed to penetrate deeply into my mind, and
after studying me for a few moments he replied, ‘Your race has
now reached the point of no return, for there are those among you
who would destroy your very world rather than relinquish their
power as they know it…’ I nodded, and the Master continued,
‘In 1945 and afterward, we tried to contact your race, but our
efforts were met with hostility, our Flugelrads were fired upon.
Yes, even pursued with malice and animosity by your fighter
planes. So, now, I say to you, my son, there is a great storm
gathering in your world, a black fury that will not spend itself
for many years. There will be no answer in your arms, there will
be no safety in your science. It may rage on until every flower
of your culture is trampled, and all human things are leveled in
vast chaos. Your recent war was only a prelude of what is yet to
come for your race. We here see it more clearly with each
hour..do you say I am mistaken?’

 

‘No,’ I answer, ‘it happened once before, the dark ages came and
they lasted for more than five hundred years.’

 

‘Yes, my son,’ replied the Master, ‘the dark ages that will come
now for your race will cover the Earth like a pall, but I believe
that some of your race will live through the storm, beyond that,
I cannot say. We see at a great distance a new world stirring
from the ruins of your race, seeking its lost and legendary
treasures, and they will be here, my son, safe in our keeping.
When that time arrives, we shall come forward again to help
revive your culture and your race. Perhaps, by then, you will
have learned the futility of war and its strife…and after that
time, certain of your culture and science will be returned for
your race to begin anew. You, my son, are to return to the
Surface World with this message…..’

 

With these closing words, our meeting seemed at an end. I stood
for a moment as in a dream….but, yet, I knew this was reality,
and for some strange reason I bowed slightly, either out of
respect or humility, I do not know which.

 

Suddenly, I was again aware that the two beautiful hosts who had
brought me here were again at my side. ‘This way, Admiral,’
motioned one. I turned once more before leaving and looked back
toward the Master. A gentle smile was etched on his delicate and
ancient face. ‘Farewell, my son,’ he spoke, then he gestured with
a lovely, slender hand a motion of peace and our meeting was
truly ended.

 

Quickly, we walked back through the great door of the Master’s
chamber and once again entered into the elevator. The door slid
silently downward and we were at once going upward. One of my
hosts spoke again, ‘We must now make haste, Admiral, as the
Master desires to delay you no longer on your scheduled timetable
and you must return with his message to your race.’

 

I said nothing. All of this was almost beyond belief, and once
again my thoughts were interrupted as we stopped. I entered the
room and was again with my radioman. He had an anxious expres
sion on his face. As I approached, I said, ‘It is all right,
Howie, it is all right.’ The two beings motioned us toward the
awaiting conveyance, we boarded, and soon arrived back at the
aircraft. The engines were idling and we boarded immediately.
The whole atmosphere seemed charged now with a certain air of
urgency. After the cargo door was closed the aircraft was imme
diately lifted by that unseen force until we reached an altitude
of 2700 feet. Two of the aircraft were alongside for some dis
tance guiding us on our return way. I must state here, the
airspeed indicator registered no reading, yet we were moving
along at a very rapid rate.

 

215 Hours- A radio message comes through. ‘We are leaving you
now, Admiral, your controls are free. Auf Wiedersehen!!!!’ We
watched for a moment as the flugelrads disappeared into the pale
blue sky.

 

The aircraft suddenly felt as though caught in a sharp downdraft
for a moment. We quickly recovered her control. We do not speak
for some time, each man has his thoughts….

 

ENTRY IN FLIGHT LOG CONTINUES:

 

220 Hours- We are again over vast areas of ice and snow, and
approximately 27 minutes from base camp. We radio them, they
respond. We report all conditions normal….normal. Base camp
expresses relief at our re-established contact.

 

300 Hours- We land smoothly at base camp. I have a mission…..

 

END LOG ENTRIES.

 

March 11, 1947. I have just attended a staff meeting at the
Pentagon. I have stated fully my discovery and the message from
the Master. All is duly recorded. The President has been ad
vised. I am now detained for several hours (six hours, thirty-
nine minutes, to be exact.) I am interviewed intently by Top
Security Forces and a medical team. It was an ordeal!!!! I am
placed under strict control via the national security provisions
of this United States of America. I am ORDERED TO REMAIN SILENT
IN REGARD TO ALL THAT I HAVE LEARNED, ON THE BEHALF OF
HUMANITY…. Incredible! I am reminded that I am a military man
and I must obey orders.

 

30/12/56: FINAL ENTRY:

 

These last few years elapsed since 1947 have not been kind…I
now make my final entry in this singular diary. In closing, I
must state that I have faithfully kept this matter secret as
directed all these years. It has been completely against my
values of moral right. Now, I seem to sense the long night
coming on and this secret will not die with me, but as all truth
shall, it will triumph and so it shall.

 

This can be the only hope for mankind. I have seen the truth and
it has quickened my spirit and has set me free! I have done my
duty toward the monstrous military industrial complex. Now, the
long night begins to approach, but there shall be no end. Just
as the long night of the Arctic ends, the brilliant sunshine of
Truth shall come again….and those who are of darkness shall
fall in it’s Light..FOR I HAVE SEEN THAT LAND BEYOND THE POLE,
THAT CENTER OF THE GREAT UNKNOWN.

 

Admiral Richard E. Byrd

United States Navy

24 December 1956

 

Related articles

• The Ascension of Enoch. (greatriversofhope.wordpress.com)
• Enoch, Ruler and Teacher. (greatriversofhope.wordpress.com)
• Enoch, Resurrection and Faith (idkh.org)

The Mayan Prophecies and sunspots

 

Our sun is a giant magnetically based electric generator.

As the angular momentum of the planets pulls on the sun’s equator, it also pulls upon,
and distorts the magnetic forces within the sun.

This tug from the planets takes one complete lap every 87 days. The effect of this is a
winding of the magnetic forces within the sun.

From the sun’s north or south pole, this effect (if we could see magnetic lines of
force) would resemble the ‘swastika’ symbol.

This is an important note as all the ancient cultures of this planet used the
swastika as a symbol at the core of all of their ‘end times’ myths. This symbol did
not originate with the NAZI movement in Germany, and was deliberately
chosen by them due to its fundamental importance to humanity, and civilization.

As each ‘arm’ of the magnetic winding crawls up the surface of the sun, it will pass the
‘magic’ number of 19.45 degrees of latitude. This number is magic as that is where the
sun spots happen, and coincidently where all the storms happen on the gas giants, and such
interesting places as Hawaii happen here on earth. This number is magic as it is also
the point at which the internal hyper dimensional merkaba (interlinked tetrahedrons) will
contact the edge of the sphere we perceive as the sun.

The sun spot cycle is so named as this point of contact between the merkaba and
the manifesting reality of the sun’s surface is where sun spots develop.

These sun spots are to the ‘heart’ of the sun, what a ‘pulse’ is to the heart of a human.

To continue, as the ‘winding pressure’ increases on the sun over time by each 87 day lap,
a larger structure of magnetic pressure is created both internally, and externally to the sun.

This larger pressure builds within the huge forces tugging on the magnetic structure of the
sun over a period in excess of 11,500 years.

The result of the pressures is a level of chaotic ‘tension’ in the magnetic structure
of the sun. As the pressures bend the magnetic arms of the sun, and they crawl up
the sun like windings of string around a ball, they will cross the 19.45 latitude. If they
happen to do so when the internal rotation of the merkaba is coincident, a sun spot will
form and it will continue as long as the winding arm is synchronized with the rotation, usually
about 25 days or so.

As the forces pressuring the magnetic structure of the sun increase with time, the pressures
can naturally be expected to build until a ‘breaking point’ is reached. ALL of the ancient
warnings via myth and symbols point to the ‘breaking point’ of the sun spot cycle as
THE KEY indicator of a pending pole and crustal shift here on earth (as well as other planets).

The reason that the pressures on the magnetic structure of the sun results in a pole, and
crustal shift here on earth is due to our own planet’s magnetic nature.

Our planet is basically a ‘dirt and water covered’ magnetic generator similar to the
core of the sun.

The magnetic health of our planet is directly tied to the sun. As a note worthy fact,
the magnetosphere protecting our earth has weakened constantly these last 10,000 years.

No longer healthy, as in the above graphic, our magnetosphere is both

weak, and full of holes that are growing over these last few years.

As the sun’s magnetic structure nears its ‘breaking point’ relative to the pressures exerted
by the angular momentum, it will expand in a spherical fashion outward as the 11 (there
is that number again, hmmmm?) centuries of stress are ‘blown off’.

The following graphics illustrate this process.

Any resemblance between these illustrations and recent crop circles is entirely
a meaningful coincident manifestation of reality.

As may be expected, having the magnetic sphere of the sun expand and bulge out
past the orbits of the inner planets likely will have an impact on earth since we are
one of the inner planets.

The thinking is that a magnetic ‘bow wave’ will be followed by a Coronal Mass Ejection
(CME), which is what the PowersThatBe seem most afraid to encounter.

However the real danger to the planet comes from the magnetic bow wave itself.
Especially when we have a diminished, and weakened magnetosphere.

The impact of the magnetic discharge from the sun will overwhelm what is left of earth’s
protective magnetosphere and initiate both a pole and a crustal shift. Details of this process
may be found in Geryls’ books.

The effects will be profound.

As the inner core of the earth rotates due to the impacting magnetic solar discharge, the
actual physical alignment of the earth will change from our current positions.

Pre Shift:

Potential Post Shift:

Other view:

Coincidentally (curious, eh?) the pyramids at the Giza plateau are in the exact center
of the planetary landmasses. This begs the question of why? As a marker perhaps as to
the center of rotation of the planet under such circumstances as a free floating crust?
Bearing in mind that there is no ‘down’ in space, when the crust of the earth rotates, its
position and point of rotation will be determined by gravity as determined by what
object in space is closest to the ‘center of mass’ of the earth, conveniently marked by
the Giza pyramids. The two candidates that we have to specifically affect our rotation
are the moon, and the sun. Though smaller, the moon is closest, and if it may be
a primary determinate for how these periodic crustal spins resolve themselves.

Summation:
It can be seen from the illustrations above that such a mechanism would account for
the multitudinous effects that are currently manifesting in our solar system, as well
as the previous fossil, and geologic records of such cataclysms, and it does so without
requiring any extra-solar system spatial or positioning inputs or energies.

Further it can be noted (from reading Geryls books) that the math involved is both precise
and predictable, for us as well as our ancestors.

Geryls book, and web site,

http://www.howtosurvive2012.com/,

both contain strategies as well as ancient
historical reference from humans who have survived. This of course, is the personal key
to all of this. NOTE: Humans have survived this in the past. Your very existence is living
proof of that. No reason that humans can’t survive it again. Of course, time is very short
(as of November 3, 2009, less than 1144 days remain if the Mayan long count is accurate),
and energies and resources must be used very intelligently in the time remaining.

What if Geryl (and us nutters here at HPH) are wrong? Well, then the solar system is
still seriously disturbed by *something*. As are all the planets. And earth is clearly in
crisis, and getting worse. So the question then is, if we are wrong, how are we injured by
preparing for a crustal shift (in the immediate future)? Hmmmm. Let’s see, store food…ok,
that works either way. Have an unsinkable boat…ok, that can be a pocket cruiser if not
needed as our planetary life boat, and can be used if civil chaos descends to stand off shore.
Or can be used as an emergency RV if earthquake….et cetera.

And all the while noting that the level of stress on the planet is rising toward
some form of crescendo….

and ThePowersThatBe both know about it, and are constantly telling you about it. If you
are American, pull out the 1/One dollar bill. This note from the private elitist organization
known as the federal reserve bank which is not part of your federal government, has no
reserves, and is not a bank, but *is* hugely tied to all kinds of secret societies, tells you every
time you handle its 1/one dollar note, that they know what is coming. Look to the back of the
bill, look under the pyramid with the strange symbol of the floating eye above it. There
you will see the words ‘novus ordo seclorum’, which actually translates as ‘new order
of the ages’. Note that it is wrong to think this means ‘new world order’, rather the
word ‘ages’ means ‘astrologic or zodiac ages’. And the pole and crustal shift is intimitely
involved with a new ordering of the zodiac ages. Such symbols about what
ThePowersThatBe actually do know are everywhere, and are a fascinating study in and
of themselves, but we simply don’t have the luxury of time for that any more.

The facts of the matter are that such pole and crustal shifts have happened repeatedly in the
near and far past, so denial of the potential under these circumstances is more willful than
scientific. And it only takes observation of the global chemtrail agenda, or the visual changes
in the sun over these last 10 years to understand that big transitions are occurring. Plus, even
the mostly gutless NASA folks are actually saying that solar cycle 24 will be exceptionally
active. And solar cycle 24 coincidentally peaks in….2012. Hmmmmm?!

If the sun spot cycle mechanism is accurate, will there be pre-cursors? You betcha’. No
doubt about it. And it can be postulated that the cracking of the Indo-Australian tectonic
plate in the tsunami causing earthquake of 2004 is within the expected precursors. Other indicators
are (will continue to be) increasing earthquakes, and other tectonic plate cracks. Further signs
will come from solar behavior as well as the impacts of solar radiations here on earth.
The radiation impacts will include damages to plants, and animals. Further as the pressures
within the sun continue to build in the last days (perhaps weeks, maybe even months)
before the energetic release, there are likely to be predictable effects throughout the solar
system. Most of these will be of electric or magnetic nature and may include truly bizarre
problems such as rapid changes in magnetic and electric properties of metal things here on
earth. Further, the sun’s magnetic output would predictably become increasingly subject to
‘fits’ of chaotic expulsions (CME’s), as well as, very erratic sun spot activity as the magnetic
fields become distorted to extremes. The electrical problems here on terra would include
our communications satellites going wonky, perhaps even to the point of failure. This should
happen some months prior to the energetic release by the sun. Other predictable electric
effects will include strange ‘ground’ properties and static discharges of note at specific
spots on the planet (internal hyper dimensional locations). It would seem likely that the
planet would also continue to heat up internally in spite of atmospheric cooling. Thus the
oceans will continue to warm, and the ice melt at the poles, even as large snow masses
begin to build in formerly temperate zones. It seems likely that a large ice release from
Antarctica is probable in the last year or so prior to the shift. This will be related to an
increase in ‘energies from space’ that should have (in general) 2009 be ‘warmer’ in
the northern hemisphere winter, with both 2010 and 2011 exhibiting exceptionally odd
warming patterns, especially at the poles. This will lead to some spectacular ice ‘releases’
in both north and south poles.

Scifi sunday’s present’s “A snatch hatch catch

One thing Daniel could never accustom his senses to was the foul air found within the confines of most stables. The stench of animals and their excretions sent him for the door in a hurry. Unfortunately the job of guarding his employer’s trade wagon put him in contact with stables on an almost daily basis. He reached the outside air and took in a deep breath hoping to expel the lingering stench that filled his lungs.

Mr Walker emerged from the stables shortly after, a wide smile playing on his face. He was the wagon driver and he was a few years older than Daniel. From their frequent conversations, Daniel had found out the man was married, though it wasn’t an overly happy union. Mr Walker was also a man who loved his drink, claimed it helped him forget, but at the rate he drank, he should have forgotten everything years ago.

“This is the best part of the day.” Walker’s smile never left his face. “The work is done and the inn is open.” Without bothering for a reply, he plunged down the street towards the inn they had spotted during the ride through town.

Daniel took one last glance at the stables. One of the hands was already locking the doors. They had already dropped off the cargo, but he never felt quite safe leaving the wagon in the hands of local stable hands. Of course the alternative was to remain in the stables to watch it, which meant enduring the smell of the place for an entire night. No, he’d take his chances that the wagon would be there come morning.

He took off after Walker and the two soon found themselves at the inn. Before entering, Daniel took a quick look around. Nothing struck him as out of the ordinary, but an older woman, with grey streaks in her dark hair, was giving the two of them a strange look. There was something to her slight grin that did not sit well with him.

He put a re-assuring hand on the grip of his weapon and turned to enter the inn. He was not worried about being robbed, the gold they secured from the sale of their goods would be collected in the morning, but a bad feeling began to build inside him. His instincts did not always prove right, but one could never be too cautious when in a strange town.

They found an empty table and soon were enjoying local brewed ale. They ordered food and drank while they waited for it.

“Piss.” Walker said with a frown.

“Excuse me?”

“My wife says all ale tastes like animal piss.” Walker emptied his first glass and motioned the barmaid for another. “I always wondered how she knew what animal piss tasted like.”

Oh great, Walker was going to complain about his wife the entire evening. The nearer they drew to the end of another delivery, the more vocal the man’s distaste for his wife became. And once he became intoxicated…the demon’s swarmed around him.

“Ignorant obese chum feeding great white……” Walker was growing impatient at the time it was taking the waitress to deliver his next drink.

Did he mean his wife or the barmaid? He never met the man’s wife, but the bar maid wasn’t that fat…well, nothing a few drinks couldn’t fix. Daniel sighed, it wasn’t even dark outside yet, it was far too early in the evening to have to begin to listen to Walker’s rants.

The barmaid came over with another ale and Walker’s smile returned. He seemed to settle down some as he dove into his second glass.

The door opened and Daniel glanced over, he had a habit of checking out newcomers to the room he was in. This time he was in for a shock, it was someone familiar to him. Shiela Doolittle the prettiest girl in Dodge. What could she possibly be doing here?

She looked around the room and her eyes locked on him. A smile formed on her face as she made her way over.

“Daniel ! Am I glad to run into someone I know!”

“Hello Miss Doolittle.” He motioned to an empty chair. “Have a seat.”

She sat down and after smiling to Mr Walker she turned her attention back to Daniel..

“So what brings you here?”

“My father has business in these parts and he had to take care of a few problems. I felt like traveling with him, sometimes Dodge can be so boring…”

Daniel nodded in agreement. “Where is Mr. Doolittle?” Her father was wealthy, but he was a fair man, Daniel had much respect for him. When a terrible drought had hit the town a few years back, Mr. Doolittle delved into his personal finances to help everyone out and never asked for any of it back.

“He retired early; the long trip has worn him out.”

“A long trip can do that…” Traveling could be a chore, but it could also be exciting and visiting new places was never dull. “Shame, I would have liked to have said hello.”

“Perhaps you’ll run into him in the morning.”

“Maybe.”

Mr Walker put his glass down and stretched his arms before standing. “I have had enough for tonight.” He winked at Daniel, knowingly,. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He walked out of the inn, no doubt heading for another. The man could complain, but he had the forthwith of thought to excuse himself so Daniel could deal with his newfound female companion without interruption.

They enjoyed a few drinks and Daniel regaled her with his tales of life on the road. She did not speak much and seemed hesitant to mention any of her recent exploits. This seemed rather strange to him for she was usually a talkative person. He attributed it to her strange surroundings.

As the night wore on it was obvious she was growing tired as she began to yawn frequently. She made no mention of it, so he realized he should broach the subject.

“It is late and I should get some sleep, I do have an early morning.”

She looked disappointed. “Would you mind escorting me to where I am staying? I have a place at an inn a few blocks away.”

“Of course.” He stood up and after throwing some coins on the bar to cover the tip, he helped her to her feet and led her out of the inn.

It did not take them long to reach the place she was staying and she invited him to see her to her room. He obliged with little hesitation.

When they made it to her door, she suddenly jumped into his arms and kissed him on the mouth. He was somewhat taken aback by her aggressive demeanor, back home she shied away from any sort of physical contact. He wasn’t going to complain however, this was a moment he long dreamed about.

“Would you like to come inside?” She said after finally breaking away from the kiss.

“Sure…” He was able to say after the moment sunk in.

She led him into the room and closed the door. With a wide smile on her face she unfastened her blouse and let it drop to the floor. Her exposed breasts were a sight to behold; he could not wait until he was fondling them. She loosened her skirt and it fluttered to the floor. She had sensational legs and as his eyes roamed upwards, his brain locked as he was witness to something quite unnatural. Did this woman really have a…..penis!??

He couldn’t finish the thought as she came in and struck him hard in the jaw. The force sent him backwards and he collapsed in a heap. Despite her diminutive size it felt like he had been kicked by a mule. Everything began to grow blurry as he tried unsuccessfully to stand.

She stood over him, something quite unmentionable dangling between her legs. But it did look like a Vagina, a Vagina with teeth, and it kept smacking it’s lips. This must be that snapping pussy he once heard about. Just moments ago she was exploring his mouth with her tongue…he felt nauseous. Her face had changed; it was no longer that of Sheila. He tried to place it and after a moment it came to him, she was the old woman who had been watching him outside the inn. He could not understand what was going on.

“Your intelligence is limited…but I must have something to sustain myself.” She leaned down and placed her hands on his shoulders pinning him to the floor.

He struggled with all his might, but he was unable to break free. She…he…whatever it was…it possessed incredible strength.

“Such a primitive species…” She smiled. “I am going to have such fun. Oh, if only you saw the look on the men who freed me. They thought they had stumbled onto a long forgotten treasure, instead they found me.”  She laughed.  “I am still weak…and this town provides little sustenance. Your wagon will take me to a greater city, with powerful people…power I will consume…”

“What…is that?” Daniel asked pointing to her body part?

“I call it my snatch hatch.”

Her smile elongated as her vagina twisted into an impossibly large formation. Her legs opened exposing a row of sharp teeth. She lowered her body down and her vagina continued to expand until it was nearly as large as Daniel’s head. The last thing he saw was darkness as she slurped his entire head inside her snatch.. There was a loud snap and then nothing.

–

Mr Walker drummed his fingers on the side of the wagon. He checked the reigns on the horse for the fifth time. He sighed and shook his head when he saw someone come around the side of the stables.

“What took you so long?”

A sly smile was Daniel’s only reply.

Hasting returned his grin. “You better tell me how last night went.”

“Oh believe me; I plan to tell you all about it., every Gorey detail.”

Rice Crispy Treats on Scifi Sundays

A small town in more innocent days was a fine place to grow up. Children were free to wander and explore, without many of the fears we have these days. I took full advantage of such freedoms. Any one’s back yard was everyone’s backyard. I could be away from home for hours and, although I was out of my parents’ sight, the watchful eyes of a caring community would protect me.

However, this was not a life without rules. “Yes sir” and “Yes ma’am” were among the required dialog, but I understood why and truly felt the delivery of respect such words imply. Politeness was a necessity, glue that kept neighbors and friends at peace, but these gestures were never a struggle, never done without feeling. The spirit of sharing lit the town in ways that sunlight never could yet I was never to actually ask for anything from a neighbor. It all had to be offered first, whether it was a glass of water, the use of a phone to call home, cookies from a newfound recipe or, even, Rice crispie treats..

Perhaps, it was a gimmick to get housewives to try something new for sprucing up homemade desserts or just a wild idea by some marketing specialist in a high-rise office many miles away. The world had suffered with plain cereal long enough. No more s’mores of brown and white. The Waldorf salads just weren’t colorful enough. There just had to be a way to make a mug of hot chocolate look prettier and nothing could stop the inevitable. The recipes were on the shelves in Back water, North Carolina, and they were all the rage, why everyone was making them.

I was eight at the time and often went to the mayor’s house to play basketball. We had a yard of our own, but ours had sand and grass for a court, while the mayor’s was paved with concrete. I really don’t remember the mayor at all. I suppose he was always off doing whatever it was that mayors do. There was a son or two, but they were older and friends of my brothers. The lady of the house, Mrs. McNeil, was always home. She was one of the many adopted grandmothers a young child acquires in a small town. Anyone over 60 and friendly became an automatic grandparent. It may or may not have been a law back then, but it probably should be on the books today.

From a young boy’s point of view, it would be difficult to describe Mrs. McNeil. At that age, everyone is either young or old. It isn’t a disrespectful perception, but rather a child’s way of comparative thinking, categorizing people by groups for future reference. Mrs. McNeil fit into the “old” category, in a sweet and affectionate way. She was just a nice old lady.

One particular day, I’d been playing basketball by myself when she asked me if I’d like to come inside for something to drink. The kitchen welcomed me in with a strangely pleasant combination of cinnamon, cooked beef and floral scents that only works in a setting like this. It was a beautiful place with detailed, hand carved cabinets, antique tables and sense of importance. I’d been in this room many times before and every time it seemed new, as if you could only take a fraction of it in with each visit. With all the stains and varnishes, the room had a rich, brown hue, but on that day, something broke the color pattern. On one of the many countertops, was a plated piled pretty with rice crispie treats. My eyes widened at the amazing sight. It was almost magical. Marshmallows weren’t among my favorite treats, but these puffy, crispy treats were something, and I just knew they had to be special. Surely, Mrs. McNeil recognized their beauty and made them on this particular day, they must be very special, after all her husband was the mayor, almost royalty.

“Aren’t those cute?” she asked, looking back as she stirred something on the stove. She walked over and held the plate of Heaven up before my delighted eyes, as if to let a better light reflect off of it. “Who would have thought of such a thing?”

She had seen the look in my eyes. Why was she taunting me? Maybe she wasn’t so nice after all. I finished my water, thanked her, and headed for the door.

“Wait,” she called out.

A few minutes later, I walked in the front door of my own home, with a basketball under one arm and a bag of Rice Crispy treats clinched in the other hand. Supper was cooking, and my mother stopped me as I walked through the house evading the tugging and pulling of my brother’s and
sister’s little hands, wanting to know what I had in the bag.

“Their all mine.” I yelled at my little brother, and gave him a shove to reinforce my statement.

“What’s that?” she asked, looking at the bag filled with my heart’s desire.

“Rice Cripsy Treats,” I replied proudly, lifting the bag high into the air. “Mrs. McNeil gave them to me.”

“Did you ask for those?” she interrupted, angrily.

“No, ma’am,” I answered, but it was too late. She surely thought that no one could possibly hand out something as rare and special as these treats, unless someone asked for them.

“You can’t go around asking for things like that!”

“Yes, ma’am”.

“You wanted them,” she said, “so I guess you can have those instead of supper. All of them!”

It seemed like a great idea at the time. What kind of punishment was this? These were rice crispy treats, lots of them, 22 of them, wow what a meal I thought. This was just like giving Charlie the key to the chocolate factory. I sat down at the dinner table and started gobbling down rice crispy treats, before she had a chance to change her mind. I was the luckiest kid in the world.

But something strange happened about halfway through my dinner. The magic began to disappear, the treats didn’t seem so unique anymore and now were harder to chew than shoe leather. . It became painful to finish the 10 or so that were still on the plate. I remember sobbing as I ate the last ones, not from the punishment but rather the disappointment. I was sickened by the sweetness, and now they were hard and no longer enjoyable.

My eyes were bulging by the time I filled my mouth with the last dreadful bite of Rice crispy Treats. I swore to whatever God might be that I would never eat another Rice crispy treat again in my life.. My stomach was distended and if someone lit a match under my butt It would have
become a blow torch.

I was holding my stomach and crying, My dad was taunting me, “You’re going to need your
stomach pumped for sure” He giggled.

But instead Mama grabbed the enema bag, “This is what happens when you beg for food.” “This is what
happens when you don’t share.” She beamed at me.

After shoving those ‘treats’ down my throat, and then getting an enema shoved up my ass, I knew there
was a lesson for me somewhere in all of this. A Treat can be very deceptive

a hero’s welcome on scifi sundays

Early. A sound in the distance, different to the ever present cannon-fire and musket, but familiar. She wondered if it could be morning birdsong, but upon the war-ravaged wasteland of this battlefield, she wondered if there were any birds left here.

Knocking. Staccato, almost frenzied in its intensity. What could be so important to be delivered to her personally, instead of her generals? She had been up late discussing matters of state with her advisors, possible trade alliances with neutral countries and would-be allies. She was ill-equipped to deal with some unexpected dignitary, at some ungodly hour before she had a chance to bathe and prepare for their visit.

But if such urgency was any guide, perhaps it would not matter her somewhat less than regal appearance. There was a war going on, of course.

Her servant appeared by her bedside like a puppet in a shadow-play, suddenly sliding into her vision. “Your Highness, someone stands without, seeking to speak with you directly. Shall I send him away?”

“No. It may be important. I should probably speak with him, but he should not mind my unprepared state.”

Candice, her servant released a slow smirk.”

“It is a common soldier, my Queen. Of no rank to speak of, yet he seeks to speak to you directly. Let me dispose of him with haste.”

She wondered what it all meant. Why would a common soldier wish to speak with her? Didn’t he know that his chances of seeing her were remote at his rank?

“Why does he wish to talk to me? Perhaps I can spare him a moment if the issue is relevant?”

“He refuses to speak of it, your Highness. He just keeps repeating that he wants to talk to you. Nothing more, nothing less. He is not some gentleman playing at being a soldier either, he is low born, that is plain enough. His manners are brusque and blunt.”

She was at a loss. Things like this just didn’t happen. People knew their place. In the social order of things, this soldier just didn’t exist in her world of courtly intrigue and global state-craft. It was — inconceivable.

Everything within her told her that she should leave things as they lay, to ignore this visitor and get back to her duties, as laborious as they could be. But her curiosity was not sated, it burned within her to learn why this man had done this unusual thing.

“I will meet him at the door, guarded of course. I will ask him his purpose in coming here, and I will see what is going on.” She half said this to herself, and half to Candice, but her servant reacted and quickly dressed her and applied a modicum of powder and rouge appropriately, yet hurriedly.

Soon she was striding stately towards the front door of headquarters. The door was flung open at her approach, she looking somehow still regal without her accoutrements and fanfare.

The light was dazzling from without the headquarters, shining into her eyes, making her visitor a mere silhouette. Surrounded by that shining dawn, like some angelic messenger from the higher realms.

But no, he was just a soldier. Ragged yet repaired fatigues, he’d obviously shown her some respect by keeping himself clean and tidy to meet with her, as she had extended a similar courtesy, yet in her case, it was more in keeping up appearances.

For a moment his rough features stayed frozen, as if he was shocked to actually get his audience with his Queen. But then he got to his reason for being here, direct and to the point, he said, “I am not fighting for you any more.”

Such a damning statement. To refuse to fight in your country’s army was treason. They had enough soldiers running away in panic and hiding away somewhere behind enemy lines, a dangerous and often short existence. The enemy hunted them for their former allegiances, and her forces hunted them because they had deserted her cause. In both cases, the result of capture was death.

He’d just admitted his treason, to his own Queen no less. Such openness unnerved her, and it seemed as if he had a death wish, to tell her of this treason in her house. But why? Why did he feel the need to admit his desire to desert? Knowing that a traitor’s death awaited him?

Did she know him? Irrespective of Candice’s comments, she studied his features and demeanour, searching that perhaps he was some sort of unlanded gentry, a noble son from the ashes of a once-proud family. He looked familiar, somehow, something nagged her about his face, and especially his eyes, looking directly at her. Impolite to say the least, but there was no fear of what would happen to him in those eyes, nor any fear of her.

She quailed inside to be so confronted. But it could not be seen, she was the Queen, not just some girl, barely out of maturity. Born to rule, born to command. She felt new strength enter her, as she recited her bloodline back within her mind.

This is just a man, just a soldier. Just like every other soldier under my command.

“Come in, and we will discuss your decision.” To her guards she nodded slightly, and approached the soldier, patting him down for weapons or anything suspicious. For a man with an obvious death wish, he could have some suicidal agenda of killing his Queen before being killed in turn.

The door shut behind him, he was as he seemed, unarmed. They slowly went down the long narrow hall, her guards falling in step behind him as Candice went ahead opening the doors for her.

“I’ve wondered who’s the woman for whom we all commit such wonton murder.”

His carelessly thrown comment stopped her, stopped the whole assemblage in its tracks. She tried not to show how hard the comment had struck her. He did not understand the war, the reasons behind it. The big picture. She wasn’t responsible for anyone dying, war was war. Soldiers died on both sides, it was acceptable.

People died.

She deigned not to respond to this blunt statement, carrying onto her sitting rooms to receive her strange visitor.

They sat down within the sitting room, with the fierce and bright red tapestries draping the walls against the grey, utilitarian walls.

She was composed, but within her sanctum, he somehow lost some of his power, his strength that he showed in the hall. His eyes searched right and left, not staying upon her for more than a heartbeat as his vision searched for something he could not find within the fiery-hued tapestries, confusing him as the flame confuses a beast.

This was her territory now, and he was starting to realize the folly of his visit perhaps? With a word, nay, not even that, a gesture, he would die.

He found his voice again. “I cannot do this any more. I am sick of killing, and for what purpose, I do not know. I am told to kill these people whom I have never met, never held a grudge, and I do not wish to be here. I feel I lose something of myself with every life I take, with every life I see passing.”

He looked directly at her now, and she could see the pain in his eyes, he was a strong man, a brave man, but he was filled with such sorrow … no more did she see the arrogance and impertinence within him that he showed at the doorstep.

His resolve firmed in his eyes again, again masking his emotions. Hard and cold, he looked at her again, and spoke again, just as hard and cold: “I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will. No more will I be a killer. If you want to have people killed, you can do it yourself. Not make others to bloody their hands on your behalf!”

“Why have you even come here? What you speak of is desertion, and you know the penalty. You come to me, admit that you will refuse your duty to your country, and that you will leave tomorrow. Surely you know that I cannot allow this to happen?”

“It doesn’t matter any more.” His eyes changed again, and there was a brooding loss reflected now within. “I don’t care anymore, I just want it to stop. I look down and I see that blood on my hands. Only first I am asking you why. That is why I came. I wanted to know why before I left. Why do we kill? What purpose is there in it? Thousands are dead, and I am no general, but I see no point in it. I just see people dying. Too many people.”

“I see you now, and you are so very young. You do not look like that when we had parades, before the fighting was so fierce. You seemed so much older back then, all far away. I expected some bitter crone with no love of life, feeling the touch of death upon her to be so cruel with human lives. Not a young woman as yourself.”

“I know I am not some ancient veteran in this war, but I’ve seen too much. Right there, up close, and I’ve lived through it. But I’ve seen more battles lost than I have battles won. I’ve been a survivor, and it’s been painful. To know that you were the only one of your friends to survive, your fellows, people just like you, and to know that they are dead and you are alive. It makes me feel guilty sometimes, since what right do I have to cheat Death while it claims them?”

He gulped, and his body shook slightly. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to loot the friend you had for food and gunpowder, knowing just a few minutes ago he was alive. One minute you are talking with him, the next minute he?s just some thing that you steal from to keep yourself alive. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to do that … and that shames me. That now I cannot even remember the dead, people I knew and talked with that are now feeding the crows.”

She was still the Queen. There was more at stake here than this soldier knew. War was Hell, but she knew that it was needed, even if he could not. But some small part of her cried to hear of the casualties in her war, not just the dead, but the horrors that had been inflicted upon this soldier. Were they all like this?

But she never once took the crown from her head. She had to be strong. Sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. There was more at stake here than human life.

His demeanour shifted, looking at her, her eyes as implacable as cold diamond. “Do you even know what it’s like to witness someone dying in front of you? Have you ever even SEEN any of your dead soldiers, doomed by some military planning mistake? Do you realize how many have died for you, for this stupid war you’ve started? I’ve got this intuition, says it’s all for your fun. If we were defending our country from some invaders, I would be proud to die for my country. We are here, strangers in a strange land, waging war, invading another country, and for what point? They defend themselves as we would defend ourselves.”

He shook his head, as if he was clearing some bewildering thought from his mind. “Will you tell me why?” he asked her, impassioned and angry.

She fixed him with an arrogant eye, her Queen faade unbreakable, strong. “You won’t understand, and you may as well not try. This is beyond your comprehension. You are just a soldier, and you do not see the big picture. If you did, you would understand why these men need to die.”

Briefly her mind flashed with visions of dead soldiers, scavenged by humans and carrion eaters alike, abandoned in overrun trenches, unburied and forgotten, and not knowing why they fought. Why they had to die.

Not as unbreakable a faade as she thought. Her lips began to quiver, her eyes kept their imperiousness, but she started to shake, imagining the dead spirits of the soldiers just asking her “Why?” as this soldier did now. A question which she could give no answer.

He looked at her, and within his eyes, some of his anger and hate had receded. There was a sympathy, a pity for her and the weight of her crown. He saw that she was a young woman, of whatever birth, forced into a terrible position.

He saw her nakedness, he saw before him a sinful creature, a weak kneed slip of a woman, not courageous to stop war and suffering and death, he saw a coward

God in Heaven. That was the point. The point of this long, bloody war. After the King and Queen had died to the foul disease that had torn a swathe through the country, she was abruptly left with an entire country to run, just barely out of girlhood. She had to deal with responsibility of the crown and the grief of losing her parents all at once.

Her advisors said that the country was in a dangerous position. That foreign eyes would see her as weak and vulnerable, and the country in turn as ripe for occupation. So, she had struck first against the country that had the greatest threat, bringing the war to them before they could strike. Her savage assault had been bloody and victorious in the beginning, but now it had become a siege, waiting out and small skirmishes lowering both sides’ numbers with gradual attrition.

He would not understand this. He only saw the small problems, the lower levels. Not the two countries facing off like dogs in a street, seeking to cow the other into submission. War was Hell, and soldiers died in it. She knew what she was doing, even if he could not understand.

She raised her defences again, closed. She could not be seen as weak, to this simple soldier or her enemies. If she was vulnerable, not only would she die, but so would her country. She had to remain strong.

He wasn’t fooled. Damn him . She’d shown him the cracks, and something between them had changed. She felt that she had lost the upper hand for good. But, curiously he did not lord his victory, or gloat how he had seen his enemy humbled.

“My Queen …” he said it with respect, almost with reverence. She thought he could not see her with the same eyes as the angry young man that had entered just a short time ago. In showing her weakness he no longer felt the need to be strong either.

“My Queen, . I am just a simple soldier. But I see the pain your position brings you, the seriousness which you take things. I can see that you suffer.”

He gulped once, his eyes bright. “I came in expecting someone very different. I came in expecting someone that would not care. I came in,” he smiled wryly, yet somehow bittersweet, “expecting a fight. And it started as such, I guess. But now, I cannot feel that you are my enemy. I thought you were inhuman, callous. But I won’t march again on your battlefield. I may respect your humanity, but I do not understand why you do what you do. I cannot be party to it. I am leaving and taking my division with me.”

As he had plainly spoken his feelings of her, she felt her own thoughts come up and betray her. She could not help but respect this man, his belief and his empathy. She shuddered inside to feel what this empathic man would have felt and thought each time someone had died from his own hand. To feel the blood splash upon his clothes, to see a man die, watch his death throes slow and painful and to feel that connection. He was no soldier, even if he wore the uniform, even if he had been conscripted into service, her service. He did not wish to leave because he was a coward, he had shown courage coming and speaking of his treasonous desires to her, in full earshot of her staff. He didn’t even see the men he had to kill as his enemies, that’s how he could walk away with no regrets. No bad blood.

“If you were not a soldier, what would you be? What do you want out of your life?” she asked, meek and curious, her walls breaking down, unable to keep up the act as she spoke to him, as he could not keep up his own, almost in tears.

“I want to live as an honest man. I want to follow some trade perhaps back home. I don’t mind working for someone else, I was a good worker back home, hard worker, I didn’t complain, I just did it as long as I was treated right. I didn’t want much. ‘To get all I deserve and to give all I can.’ was our family’s unofficial motto, you could say. We put all of ourselves in our work and people respected it. I guess, my soldier days are not quite that. I haven’t been able to put my heart into this work. I just keep on imagining that the other fellow is just like me. They look different a bit, but we are all of the same sort of age.” He held his head in his hands. “I don’t want much out of life. If you promised me the world to kill another man, I don’t think it would be a fair trade. I don’t want much.” He repeated.

He slipped into some sort of reverie, somehow forgetting he was in the presence of his Queen. “I always miss that I never got to get to fall in love. A lot of the other men have women waiting for them back home.” He smiled self-consciously. “I’ve never really had the knack I suppose. I’m sometimes a little shy, and I do not know what a woman wants from a man. I try, but maybe I’m not doing it right.” The faint trace of a blush suffused his cheeks, she could see now that they were not far apart in age, his eyes had seen too much, but he was still a young man, just out of boyhood.

She sighed deep within her soul, he wanted such simple things, his world was simple. Little goals, and little trouble achieving them. While she wore the weight of nations upon her shoulders, and yet, she could still not achieve what he sought either. And she’d only managed to stop him from achieving it in turn. Not deliberately, of course. But she had, he’d never known any woman back home. No one to return to, triumphant and glorious, no hero’s welcome to reward him as he set foot on those far off shores.

She envied his simple dreams, and she wished that she could have her world miraculously change so that she could have them, some easy life with honest toil, with a wonderful man that would make her heart rise and fly with joy. But it was not to be. She was alone, and destined to marry some ally country to cement their partnership. Her advisors gave her advice, but she could not talk to them about anything beyond rulership and the war. It would not be seemly. Candice gave her the responses which she had coached to say by her teachers from her finishing school, not from her heart.

He sighed. “Why can’t my life be simple like that, like I wanted it to be? Why can’t your life be the same? Wouldn’t it be easier to stop all this and just be happy? That’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I’m sure that this war has made no one happy. Not even you.” Pointed observation.

“Your Highness, your ways are very strange.”

Not my ways, she thought, just what I am forced to do. She had as much control over her life as he did. Maybe even less, since he was determined to leave this situation he did not believe in. There was no one to take her place, an only child, and her country would suffer if she abdicated now in the middle of a war.

At that moment, she wanted to toss her crown, throw it away far from her, to hear it shatter and smash upon some unseen stone. It was too much to bear, she wondered how many other young men had thought this way, wanting a simple life, and she had stolen their destinies to die in a far off land, unmourned and unnoticed. The casualties of war. She couldn’t think of them just as numbers on a report, they were living, breathing and real. She’d met one now, and seen his depth, his essence, as simple as it was.

But what could she do? Stop this war, even though her enemy would continue it in retaliation? It was too late. Too many had died. The only thing she could do was to win, to show to herself that it hadn’t been a waste of those men. That the killing had a purpose. That the death had a purpose. That the war was not in vain. Even if it claimed thousands more.

She breathed heavily. The crown was so heavy on her brow. But she had to keep it upon her, to make everything worthwhile. There was no choosing, it was her fate. No choice at all for her to make. Inexorable. There could be no changes.

“What do you think so sadly about, my Queen?” His voice broke her musings.

“I was just … thinking, how complicated things are. That simple life you describe seems so wonderful, I wish it was mine also …”

“Why cannot it be? Why can you not just set aside the war and marry someone that you love, and rule your kingdom with a fair and just hand?”

“There are no choices I fear. But I will do something to help me understand your words. I will talk to the other soldiers when you have gone.” The lie caught in her throat, but it came out smoothly nonetheless, just an ever so slight pause. “If you can escort me to your fellows now, with my guard and servants? You have opened my eyes to the common soldier. Before you go ?”

“Of course, my Queen. Nothing more would give me pleasure. Maybe something can be done, that we can all go home.” His eyes sought out her face, but she could not meet his gaze. “Even yourself, and perhaps you can have that simple life that I seek also.”

Her heart leapt uncontrollably, but she forced it down. She was still Queen, she never took the crown off, it was with her even as she slept. “I will be back soon, I will only be a moment inside.”

She left him out there, on the doorstep of the headquarters. She looked to her guard, the regal composure once again, and made a short, sharp gesture. The shot rang out, and the door shook with a thump. She didn’t want the door to be opened, to see his heart’s blood staining the door and stoop, to see his shocked expression on his frozen-dead face.

He would not be looted, not have the crows eat his flesh. He would be buried with honours. It was the least she owed him. Forgive me.

She retired alone to the crimson tapestried room again, sitting down slowly, as if she would break like glass. He was just a soldier. Just one man. Thousands have already died, what is one more? The war must be won, no matter the cost. There is more at stake here than human life. She rocked slowly backwards and forwards as she sat, telling herself that over and over until his words stopped echoing within her mind.

The young soldier’s battalion watched the guards gun down their Commander, they in turn one by one committed suicide with his name upon their lips at their last breath.

The Royal Guard informed the young princess that hundreds of her loyal soldiers had just committed suicide.

“It’s time for tea”

 

Crossroads of the Loa

 

The Shop Keeper’s spirit meandered down the dusty road like an abandoned cur, stopping here to look at a dead person alongside the road. His feelings were
like something soaring out of nightmarish dreams. Shading his eyes from a tremendous January sun, he peered off to the right where a wounded psyche lay being baked into something calloused and hard and no longer part of the poor soul from whence it had come. To his left, where he didn’t have to shade his eyes because the sun was hot on his back, stood a huge mountain of broken walls and windows. Tears the size of his hand tumbled down its weathered slope to drop into a swirling vortex of death, which reprocessed it back to betrayal, forever recycling the sadness of man’s treachery. The Shop Keeper, closed his eyes and sighed as old Sol began its final plunge behind the broken spine of Port Au Prince, the whole of Haiti had become a Wanga, the result of Petro magic perpetrated by the white devil. “I can’t do this.” No answer. The Shop Keeper expected none. But it wasn’t silence which greeted his declaration, not at all. Faint moans of anguish could be heard over the tormented pleas of a small child. Male? Female? He did not know. It mattered not. The pain was real. Yes. He withstood the sound better by keeping his eyes closed. He realized that the faint moans were coming from himself. The catastrophic events were familiar. He had never been here, though. Not in this life. That was the thing, then. Since everything here seemed twisted, the whole world upside down, the Shop Keeper had to ask the question

 

. “Am I going to die like this?” Far away he heard shattered hope screech. “Will I get out of here alive?”

Raucous laughter issued from wickedness. The shopkeeper had heard it before. Wickedness never showed its face. Coward. Instead it played out it’s evil game through the sonic booms hitting the ocean floor. The reason you can never see it is because it is the darkest side of you. This rather unusual event was familiar in an obscure, unfamiliar way. Since early this morning, or was it yesterday morning, oh, no matter. Since he’d found himself suffocating in this place, he recognized certain . . . things.

 

Nothing he could put his finger on and say, “Look, I remember this from . . .” No. Nothing like that. There was a surreal quality about certain things which defied definition. Although some of the things he knew he had never seen before but  still, he knew what they were. Like the stench of thousands of bodies, swelled in death, baking in the streets. Was he next? Then he wailed as loud as he could and stopped with a wimper as the dust filled his parched lungs. He knew not why he was naked nor where his clothes were. He shivered. It was approaching nighttime and he recalled it had gotten cold last night. The shopkeeper swooned in and out of consciousness. Soon he came upon a wooden bridge built over foaming, raging rapids. He stopped, fearful of crossing the bridge. He took a tentative step. The bridge creaked, gave somewhat to his weight. Another step. Groans from the timber. He froze. After a deep breath he took five very fast steps and was about in the middle of the bridge when he heard them. He stood, naked, afraid, and alone. Debating whether he should go back or go forward. Instead of doing either he placed his hand on the bridge’s railing to keep his knees from giving way and causing him to collapse from the terrifying dread. He leaned forward trying to steady himself and the noise became ferocious. He knew he should not, but still, he looked into the rapids. But actually, the foaming water was not rapids. What was probably a languid little stream normally, was foaming and churning because of the drowning libidos and accompanying egos, a cacophany of raging souls caught up in the electromagnetic field created by the vortex of souls, ‘gro-bon-ange,’ being forced from their clay bodies, by the ‘bitter loa.’

“Please, what do you want from me?” He stared into the horrible scene as hundreds, no thousands of perishing libidos screamed out for one more chance at life’s breath before being taken into the void. Defiant and lustful to the absolute end is mankind’s absorption with ego against skin. The Shopkeeper lingered his eyes on the tempestuous torrent below because to not do so he would have had to look into himself. Taking a few quick, very intense mouthfuls of air, he leaned further over the railing and stared into the turbulence below as if he were seeing the very last thing on earth. Rank odor emitted from the air, an odor which could mean only death and decay. All of a sudden he saw something scurrying from the stream. Then another. And more. Egos were making a mad dash for . . . where? Where  could an ego go if it had no body to prod and to push? Still. They were leaving the earth by the thousands and they looked so comical that the traveler laughed in spite of his own dire situation. What had been fetid odors wafting from below gave way to a different fragrance, the lingering smell of all the lovers he had known. The combined smell was at first pleasant and satisfying. Taking the Shopkeeper back to better times and the sensuousness of women’s caresses. Faces flooded his thoughts. . “See?” The Baka spoke. “I am your lover, can you not see that? I am the only thing you have ever loved, I am you.”

 

The Shopkeeper screamed. Then he ran and ran and ran, the road abruptly becoming as straight as it was crooked before. He could not escape from himself, though. He understood that. The woman thing was gone but it still lived as surely as he took the next gasping breath, and it did so because it was him with all the warts. A forlorn, solitary howl interrupted the Shopkeeper’s perverse musings. Such a sad and lonesome wail could only come from a horse. The shopkeeper took it as a warning. A cautionary howl for strangers who walk among the remnants and distasteful ingredients which make up mankind. He needed to shelter himself from this pale beast.

“Why?” He startled himself with his question. Shelter because he was, or would be, cold. Shelter to hide his nakedness. He was ashamed of his slightly rounded stomach, his slightly sagging breasts, his slightly receding penis. Shelter to hide his imperfections. Oh, my. The pale horse was there with him, pressing his cold, wet nose against his bare leg. Oh, my. The horse walked ahead of him. He was, of course, not a horse A beast though. He was that. A beast that spoke. “I am here to take you there.” Actually the shopkeeper did not see the beast’s mouth move when it talked, but he knew that it must have.

“Where?”

“Follow me.” The baka loped off but the shopkeeper did not run after it. Soon  the horse was out of sight. He did continue walking though. What else was he to do?  There was no where else to go. As he walked, he was met with ghostly images from his past. Only they were not spirits. Unless spirits could touch and feel and bleed and sob and scream into his face all manner of fearful words and screeches and claw his backside and frontside and attack his genitals, especially his genitals. He could not defend himself because somewhere without him being aware, his arms had become paralyzed. So, he was at the mercy of these agonized, brutalized entities and they went about the job of making him pay for his indiscretions. Still, through it all, he walked, and as he did so he found that he desired to forgive his persecutors even though it seemed they had held onto their grudges. Now he understood. He knew now. They were all gone and in their wake, left the parts of themselves they blamed the shopkeeper for destroying. Hearts, broken hearts were the most prominent but there were also minds unstable and potential destroyed. Potential destroyed was the most awful of them all. He had heard of potential his whole life and had never known exactly what it was. Now that he was looking at potential destroyed it was all he could do to keep from screaming. Potential destroyed was a dreadful thing to behold. Potential destroyed was a small golden sphere approximately the size of a small green pea when it fell from those now gone. When they touched the ground there was an audible gasp and then no more sounds. The golden sphere morphed into such a lovely child, a child of no particular sex but a child of innocence and a child desirous of guidance, someone to attach to and grow into love personified. It was not to be, however, because the lovely child’s skin began to peel from its body and as it did its eyes stared straight into the shopkeeper’s and the eyes said, “I never had a chance to grow into my potential,.” Then it turned into a caricature of an old hag, the kind you see in fairy tales as witches and melted back down to the pea size it used to be, then melted back into the ink dark ether of void. When that happened, the shopkeeper had to turn away, the horrible stench and penetrating stare was just too much for him, as his senses were assaulted by the Marasa, the contradictory forces of the universe. He stumbled down the road, half running, half walking; stumbling. A huge, intense, bright light blinded him and caused him to lurch sideways and finally collapse onto the sandy road, and just before he passed out he heard the moans and shrieks and screams of all the broken bodies suffocating under the broken structure that was once his home.

His eyes opened to the loveliest woman he had ever seen. She had been wiping his forehead with a cool, moist rag. She smiled, the world smiled too, and was happy. The shopkeeper was in bed. Not his bed. She poured a sparkling glass of water and touched it to his feverish lips and before he sipped from it he knew that it would be the best water he had ever drank. It was. She sat the glass on the small table and stood to leave.

“Oh, please,” the Shopkeeper said, “don’t go. Where am I? What is your name?”

The Zanj smiled. The world smiled again. “You are here. My name is Over.” With that she turned and left him alone. But no. Someone else was here. The Shopkeeper sensed another presence.

“How do you feel?” The voice, like the girl’s, just saturated him with breathtaking sensations. A rich baritone voice full of wonderful . . . ambiance.

“Tell me what I am doing here, please.” “My name is Cross,” the voice answered. You are being prepared.”

“Why, am I–”

“Yes. You are dying, . You are in the hospital room in the city where you reside. We have been preparing you for the transition.”

“Oh.”

“Fear not, we will treat you kindly.”

“But the crossroads, and oh, the people and all the–” “That is part of the transition, an unkind part to be sure, but necessary.” “Why? To show me my past sins?” “No. Everybody thinks that. It is a cleansing. Not everyone gets caught up in the vortex, you did not, because you were a good person….” “But the earthquake, all those people trapped, then being caught up in that  torment…I witnessed it….” “you are dead now. My companion and I will assist you the rest of the way.” The young woman appeared beside the bed. “Take her hand, now mine.” The shopkeeper saw the voice standing beside the ‘Hounsi’ they both wore long, flowing white robes many thousands of departed children were hanging on to them, and when he took their hands he understood the significance of their names. Cross over.

Basic Training on scifi Sunday

It was wash day. Earlier on the hapless recruit had been caught cat napping,, while all the rest had been washing their clothes he had been found sitting against the court yard wall sleeping.

Dirty clothes or articles of clothing that were in need of washing were placed in a canvass satchel at the head of the bed. On Sundays we’d take them downstairs to the deep stone troughs and scrub them clean. This was great during the summer, but during the winter it was murder. The water froze in the pipes, and our fingers would be raw and bleeding.

The grunt’s satchel at the bed end had been empty. This however was not due to it all being clean, as there was a distinct shortage of clothing inside his locker. He couldn’t be wearing four pairs of pants and socks? Not in mid June, that was for sure.

Because he hadn’t been seen washing anything, it had caused a bit of a stir with the rest of the recruits. When they spotted him sleeping, they all wanted to get their heads down too.

After a brief but swift search of his bed space, they had found his soiled clothes under his mattress. Shit stains and skid marks abounded. His under pants had these bright yellow stains where he had farted and then must have followed through.

It was near impossible task to keep your underpants clean. They were after all cotton y-fronts and white at that. The diet didn’t help, lots of beans and vegetables (cheap filling up foods). As you tended to fart a lot because of the change of diet, when not in the toilets having the world fall out of your asshole that is.

The problem was that they were not just wind related they could be a bit moist shall we say. or at the other end of the scale wet, and very wet ones at that. That’s why you scrubbed them, once a week, regular like (for some of us in the beginning it was a case of once a night, every night).

The grunt was now standing on top of the six foot gray metal locker, his hands cupping his bollocks, not quite managing to hide the stain that was slowly spreading across the front of his pants. He was pissing himself with fear, literally.

The Corporals stood around the base of the locker shouting at him and punching his legs. They kept asking if he should be wearing a diaper. Every time he didn’t answer they punched him again. Punch, question, no reply punch again, they should have been in the band, they had rhythm.

He was trying to speak, but due to the sobbing it was just incoherent nonsense. The pair of y-front underpants that he had on his head didn’t help either. The soiled, shit stained portion of the pants had been stuffed in his mouth. yummy. They asked him if he wanted his mommy, then told him to suck on his underwear.

The idea being that he was to suck the shit stains out of the pants and clean them this way. Having failed to take the opportunity that had been given to wash them in a normal traditional way.

Hey, he voluntarily joined this gig. It was not an idea that he would have considered a year or so ago, (Back on the streets, you just beat the fuckers up. Plain and simple) but he was learning new methods every living moment. We were waiting to go for the evening meal. Spike and I had decided to sit next to the poor bastard at chow time.

Eventually the call for the evening meal stopped the torment for the moment. The hapless volunteer was pushed off the locker by one of the corporals. Where upon his meeting with the wooden floor produced once more a bit of a swift kicking by the section corporals.

Hopefully the ordeal he had just been put through (prior to being kicked half to death). Would not scar him for the rest of his life, but perhaps just long enough for him too not to feel hungry during the approaching meal.

We weren’t going to associate with him and express any sympathy towards him. That would be unwise. But Spike and I would sit on either side of him at the evening meal. It was more of a selfish reason we had. Nothing to do with the idiot who had just been beat up.

Where Spike and I would offer our support, would be that we would ensure his ration didn’t go to waste. After all apart from his taste buds being a bit out of action, the loss of a couple of his teeth probably meant he couldn’t chew. We were learning to survive the hard way. Life at the moment was pretty shitty. We always did our patriotic duty and cleaned the plate, no matter what was on it. Fortunately we weren’t eating shit at the moment.

It was only done once. But the rest of us got the message. You washed your clothes, or stopped wearing them. (underpants). Then you didn’t have to wash them.

The grunt was a real gamer though, his mother sent him brownies to make him feel better, and he shared them with all the corporals. Actually they confiscated them. But that was okay because they were filled with ex-lax, boy talk about basic training being shitty.

.

“Al Mahdi” Freedom Fighter

I leave this testament as a warning to the future, if there is a future. The infection spreads across the world, corrupting all that it touches. I do not have the power or courage to stop it, I do not know if anyone does. I have seen it claim my friends and family. I shall not let it claim me. Death shall claim me: unsullied, strong, pure. The poison that I have administered is quick and painless – death before dishonour, you could say. I pray I find death and it will still be there.

I have seen what the scourge has done to the world and I do not wish to become a part of it. It is no longer my world, but a mockery of all we held dear.

It started so very innocuously, as such world-altering events often do. A military raid in a little place called Ghazni, you’ve probably never heard of it.

OFFICER’S REPORT: August 17th. Vagrant; male, Moslem. No ID at time of arrest, no name given or forthcoming from questioning. Ragged clothes, no shoes, no money at time of arrest. Vagrant was very happy, however, and very co-operative in nature. Believed to be intoxicated: at least we can’t see why he would be so damned happy, considering his circumstances; perhaps deranged? He was found wandering in a poppie field. (cf. psych report) When questioned about his incongruously happy state (i.e. what drug he had taken), vagrant laughed; stated “I got the TRUTH! You want some, man?” Vagrant was subsequently searched again for drugs; none found. Tests were inconclusive, seemed to be clean. Locals call him “Al Mahdi”

How wrong they were. They just couldn’t detect it, that’s all. If they would have gotten rid of that vagrant then, they could have saved the world.

OFFICIAL MEMO, August 21st, from the desk of Sergeant Murphy.

Re: Gitmo Protocol. No officer is allowed within 3 feet of Prisoner Hicks. After the severe attitude change of Officers Sanchez, Williams and Carpenter, we believe that Hicks still has a quantity of Truth and is disseminating it – his continued state of happiness testifies he has enough to feed his own addiction as well as spreading it to others. If you are exposed to his preaching, you shall be dismissed as have Sanchez, Williams and Carprenter. This is a message for your OWN PROTECTION. Prisoner Hicks, a converted Christian is dangerous and his religious beliefs are dangerous.

You see, it started to spread, like some inexorable cancer. Just as hard to stop – no cure; a suppression; a remission. But it still lay there, like a silent serpent, to lunge when defenses were lowered. They tried, as I tried, but they failed, as I failed.

OFFICIAL MEMO, August 25th, from the desk of Sergeant Murphy.

I have interviewed Prisoner Hicks and after careful deliberation I have violated my own orders. Prisoner Hicks has shared his incredible insights with me, it has made me so happy, it has made my life complete. All the officers whom I have dismissed I welcome back with open arms; I apologize, please forgive me. All of you, please visit Prisoner Hicks yourselves but be quick; since he will be released on the 28th. Join me in sharing this great tiding!

Thankfully, Sergeant Murphy was quickly relieved of command by Internal Security. Some noble individual obviously reported his treasonous activities to the proper authorities. Prisoner Hicks was not released as promised. When Internal Security stepped in and saw the threat to our great nation, they locked down Gitmo and had their top scientists work on the nature of his contagious truth. Believing his words to be some lethal edict against This great country, Prisoner Hicks was declared a Terrorist and was sequestered away in a hermetically sealed cell. None of this took his euphoria away. This proved how dangerous his truth was. Hicks was put through extreme torture. Water boarding, sleep deprivation, hours of exercise that would have weakened any ‘normal’ man.

PROGRESS REPORT: Special Agent Beck.

We have been compromised. The hermetic seals have been sabotaged, we have infiltrators within our ranks. Guantanamo is psychically affecting our black ops officers. Too many of our agents have gone rogue; colleagues whom I have depended on for years suddenly have changed their ways. A break-out by key infiltrators was attempted last night and almost succeeded. Hicks-afflicted rogue agents seem to be particularly peaceful and non-confrontational. If they weren’t I believe we would all be dead by now. It’s like we’ve been invaded by flower children! More on this as it breaks. We must stop this, the consciousness of our new world order depends upon it!

(This, however, is Special Agent Beck’s last report. He is believed to have gone rogue also. Within the month all agents at the facility became afflicted, inexplicably listening to the Imam who was preaching to the prisoners at Gitmo. All agents were removed for detoxification and rehabilitation; a new squad of Internal Security was deployed to secure Prisoner Hicks.)

Something had to be done. Euphoria was spreading all over the country; no one could stop its relentless advance. Everyone forgot about the depression. Entire groups of people, everywhere, without any definable connection with one another were being addicted; calling themselves “Seekers of TRUTH”. They networked; they grew in strength, an insidious infection upon our country. Fortunately wiser, rational people held the reins of power and sought to behead this Moslem viper before it could strike.

PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS: March 22,.

Due to his treasonous activities threatening the social fabric of our fine nation, Prisoner Hicks is sentenced for execution by lethal injection on July 4. His beliefs have become a scourge upon our streets – everywhere can be seen the happy, smiling face of the Seeker of the ressurection. Removing the leader of this corruptive, criminal syndicate that promotes widespread and frequent use of Moslem propaganda should halt this terrible plague which he has unleashed upon us. Ladies and gentlemen; I promise I shall stop the spread of Moslem conversion that is corrupting our youth and destroying the fabric of our society. Our Truth shall march on, by any means necessary. My government and I shall save you, loyal patriotic citizens that you are, from exposure to the religious fanatics who call themselves ‘truth seekers.’ . And I say to you; truth has no place in this great country of ours or anywhere else in the world.

A voice of sanity against the tide of madness.

The frequency of break-out attempts by the Seekers intensified a hundredfold, they did not succeed in Prisoner Hick’s release at Gitmo. Political groups argued in court long and hard for his sentence to be revoked, but a presidential decree has too much weight for such insignificant attacks to make any difference. Prisoner Hicks was executed at his appointed time. However the Seekers of Truth had gained in Hick’s sacrifice the very model of a modern martyr – he went to his death with joy suffusing his features – we couldn’t take that away from him, no matter how hard we tried. I’m afraid that his rapture did make me somewhat wistful, I hoped someday I would experience such bliss, even for just a moment. But that would mean accepting his beliefs, his religion, his god awful truth – and I did not want such taint upon my soul. I could not relate it to anything I already knew, it was so different to the established order. Perhaps I was just content with what I had, unwilling to risk my worldview by exposing myself to the possibility of Euphoria without monetary means.

THE TIMES, July 7,
Although the President expected the death of Prisoner Hicks to paralyze the Seekers of truth it seems that membership of this strange group is steadily increasing. Whole towns have joined this seemingly tranquil movement. Peaceful demonstrations have been held; BRING “Allah” TO THE PEOPLE, one of their more popular slogans. It seems the death of Prisoner Hicks, while meant to stop the Seekers of truth has actually accelerated their cause, there are now Photos and Billboards of “Al Mahdi” embellishing highways and roads across America, his name is everywhere, the internet is humming with the return of the great savior.

It was true. We cut the head off the snake, not knowing it was the Hydra of legend. A multitude of heads appeared; too many cells of resistance to be put down. Racing across the country like raging wildfire; spread to all nations. We were the best hope of the world, perhaps the biggest lie, but we could not stop the power of free will, which is the basis for the Moslem religion..They say it is the will of Allah. But we knew better, it was personal free will, the crux of the ressurection. Sure we pushed Reincarnation, but the sheeple just wouldn’t go for it.

Too little, too late.

What is the truth? Is mine the same as yours? It must be very addictive, beyond the siren’s call of heroin or cocaine, the stuff the government has been feeding the sheeple to keep them subservient. It must be very powerful, leading these addicts to fight, maim and die for their belief in it. However, some have resisted its enticing seduction, they speak of such terror and agony that it has brought them, haunted night after night by tortured dreams. Free will seems to be a paradox, pleasure and pain hopelessly combined together.

My children, my spouse, my friends. All joined the burgeoning tide – all Seekers of truth. This leap of faith has taken all I held dear away from me by their willing surrender to what has possessed their souls.

I know they feel pity and sorrow for me because I have not joined them; I feel pity and sorrow for them because they have been warped and twisted to unrecognizability by their faith. They are no longer what they were before, they are no longer patriotic, they are no longer willing to pick up arms and kill. They are no longer on the side of the Zionist Jew.

The thing that pains me is that they are so happy. They cry “the truth shall set you free!” and perhaps, for them, it has. I can feel myself dying as I write this, mercifully the torment will end soon.

Gentle reader, you have read my account. I chose to refuse the offer of this truth, Suspicious of what it would do to my ego, to my way of life…seeing it as the total demise of our great nation, how can we truly say “In God we trust,” if we allow this nonsense to continue?