Thursday, December 30, 2010

The Hogshead of Homburg Tale (revised)


The Hogshead of Homburg Tale

((or, The Gastronomical Duel, at Homburg Castle)(of Medieval Germany))



The August moon came out bright over the castle, of the Duke of Homburg, it was a medieval year, and by legend, it was the year upon which a large amount of mischief would transverse the German countryside of the Homburg Castle. So the rays of the fable had fallen upon the land. Summer was at its peak, and summer fever soon followed, with festivities. The meadows were yellow and green with life, and trade in the villages nearby the castle had its buyers and sellers. The air was warm and mild, fountains were plentiful with water.
The windows of the castle were open, the castle inhabitants, and soldiers, and royal family alike, were seated on a high stoop in the center on flat mats, in the castle grounds.
In one of the windows on the second-floor, front windows was the Duchess of Homburg, the wife of the Duke, the heat of the late afternoon went into the Duchesses room.
At perhaps 9:00 p.m., she came out to join the lectures and festivities, in the keep’s main area. A servant carried her scarf, on his arm and as he walked by several people, bumping into them, he apologized for disturbing them, as he tried to select each step as he walked.
The Duchess was surprised the August Moon was out, a gibbous moon at that, the night had softened her breast for her servant, a young man of twenty-three, she was all of forty or more.
“I heard ye heart beat,” came the oral words from the Duchess. As they went around into the long corridors on the other side of the rotunda, she spoke again, “Kiss me foot,” and he did, feeling it was as cold as ice.
“Duchess,” he said, “ye are cold as ice.”
“Oh, but this is surely an insult to my appetite, when I ask for a kiss I get a slur.”
“I am sorry,” said the servant who had only been a servant a short while.
“Ye run down politeness, is like taking the mortar out of the castle bricks, which is your livelihood, is it not?” she commented.
“Tis no more than exercising a truth, my lady!” said the young servant boy.
“Ye have brought the pig’s face out into the open into the warm windy night, have you not? —who cares for truth, when pretense is the christened with wine a pleasures for the night—”
The young lad arose heavily to his feet, there was something in his manner that warned him, he was not as he was before. The corners of his mouth had changed, his nostrils had widened, his feet had turned into hooves like, and he snorted when he tired to talk, crockery and tin ware like. He felt his face, it was a Pig’s face “It is,” he said, what he was thinking it was.
He knew now, the Duchess was no novice with black magic, with repartee, and then she pulled out some bacon, from where only she knew, and dangled it as if it was a magic wand.
He knew not what would follow next, but he feared it would be him being an entrée.
Triumphantly he ran turning over a washbasin, and a loud wailing scream followed him, it was a 700-pound sow; she searched high and low for him. The hopes of the Duchess were that the sow would bring the gastronomical duel to a close.

At the castle doors, leading out to the mote that circled the castle, were a standing guard, listening to the crash of the carts and utensils and so forth of the two hogs chasing one another.
“I wonder, shall I go up and stop the ruckus?” he asked the Duchess, as now she had stepped to the side of the guard.
“You will not.” She replied, “Let the folks have their fun, they get but a few pleasures in life. ‘Twill not last long. We’ll just have to buy more dishes tomorrow.” And just then a loud scream came from below a stairway, betokening some dreadful fear, or awful end.
The guard walked hastily in the direction of the noise, as the Duchess, in the other direction. And the guard shortly afterward, returned with the news that, her servant was dead, that the sow had eaten him—“…pound by pound and limb by limb” (among other things). “He was, howling like a pig, in tears and hysterics, clutching the air in the sky,” said the guard, “a most hideous sight indeed!”



No: 652 (12-28-2010); During the early 1970s, the author was stationed nearby Homburg, while in the Military, and visited the castle one weekend afternoon, the great walls of the castle were very impressive . The story the author writes has no bearing on the castle, it is a work of fiction.



Unruffled Grieving (a short view)


Unruffled Grieving
(A short story on grieving, based on realism)



The music went on in her head, you could see it in her smile, her laughter, her face, in the dusk softly, that she enjoyed life—that awesome gift, so many think was given by chance; the dusk was peopled with glamorous old memories, some disasters, and things like that, and if they were just glamorous enough, there he was…her childhood husband, now dead for five years (and now she was in her 40s). There she was, an inch beyond the window of marooned grief, motionless, windless, in a lilac dream, at peace, his face fading, ceasing and without turning her head, she said:
“Isn’t that you…? (she slurred)”
“What?” someone rejoined?
“His name is …,” she couldn’t repeat.
She sat quiet and still for a moment. In the residing room, then moved about slowly, setting the table for dinner.
“And do you think that’ll do any good,” a voice said.
The music went on in her head softly. Outside the snow was heavy a few people gossiped in a car nearby, you could see a television program on in the house across the street—through its window, in a shrill steady breathing, she seemed to have felt his presence, yes he was there, a sort of consternation overtook her, but who would believe her if she said so, she kind of dozed placidly to a corner of the house, as if to keep the moment alive? And then dinner came, and then after she prevailed on her own to lie down after dinner, drowsy—she thought the curtains moved, stirred faintly, and then a shadow, “It’s like this every year,” she muttered. “It always does me good to know he’s still around, thank the Lord, I suppose he’s busy otherwise.”
The evening went on, and she looked a little spent, and her daughter told her so, she then tiptoed out of her mother’s room and down the stairs, and drew her chair out from behind the dinning room table, and just sat there listening for a while, and the evening drew delicacy, impalpable.
“I know he’s here,” said the young daughter unruffled, “there is a kind of electricity about it,” she mumbled. “Ma says she believes in the soul— it never dies, it even comes back now and then to visit, to check on things…” she was talking as if to her father, as if he might say something as if he was there: so, she told him boldly she believed he might be around, boldly but in a whisper “We all miss you dad, but grandpa has been around to help some.” Perhaps she was musing, I don’t know, who’s to say?
A faint breeze came from the curtains, like a long sigh, moved gravely across the house, then withered to nothingness, like the scent of flowers on a windy day, and she thought, as her mother had often thought, “Who would have dreamed of inventing life, but God?”

No: 655 (12-29-2010); “Who will write this story of love, if I don’t, so I must?” Dlsiluk
Dedicated to: SB




A Dog Knows

Thoughts are deeper than spoken words—
Emotions, deeper than all one’s thoughts,
Soul to soul, a dog knows
What unto them (—selves) was love!

For the Doggy/12-29-2010 (No: 2886) Dlsiluk








Wednesday, December 29, 2010

A Dog Knows (a very short poem)

A Dog Knows


Thoughts are deeper than spoken words—
Emotions, deeper than all one’s thoughts,
Soul to soul, a dog knows
What unto them (—selves) was love!


For the Doggy (and perhaps a little for Gail,
during her grieving)
12-29-2010 (No: 2886) Dlsiluk

Dennis L. Siluk's New Stories and Poetry for 2011: Cedar Branches (Death, can speak)

Dennis L. Siluk's New Stories and Poetry for 2011: Cedar Branches (Death, can speak): "Cedar Branches (Death, can speak) “For his own enlightenment he lived, by man’s thanklessness he died.” These letters were blurred wit..."

Cedar Branches (Death, can speak)

Cedar Branches
(Death, can speak)




“For his own enlightenment he lived, by man’s thanklessness he died.” These letters were blurred with mold, yet still decipherable, on his gravestone.

His back was to the world, and his eyes gazing out across the green and brown changeless hills, and beyond to the blue changeless sky, and there he stood, with the drippings from the cedar branches, a faint breeze soughed in the cedars, all about him tranquility, a silence, as if standing in the marble halls of Troy, or among the endless sandstone pillars and labyrinth of Knossos. The old man had had his revenge, and his endless rising inflections, death was upon him.

He stood for a time, musing, a thin, to slender erect figure, uncompromising, the doves and sparrows came along in the sunny air. “Well,” he said, “at last,” the dying reverberation of death had come, the day had ended, it had come to this, gestures of it were now behind him in stone, and he remembered something his mother had said, “I’m okay with it, I’m ready, who wants to live like this anyway.” But she of course knew where she was going, and she knew and had accepted Jesus Christ as her savior.
He saw in his mind’s eye, peaceful avenues and dwellings with quiet reserve, he was dressed for death, and death was standing nearby.
He thought, I mean he really thought on the matter of death now. “It will not need a new time,” he told himself. “I will not have time to make new failures; other generations will come and go, in twenty-years who will remember my name? I will not appear again, this is my exist, the custodian is over there waiting, he wants me to hurry up, so he can meet from the ends of the earth, those weightless faces he sees.”

And death looked at him with dusty gaunt and yet gigantic eyes, furious, and murmuring that he was taking so long.
“It’s an amazing thing,” he told himself, “a human life, spanned and then forgotten, and if you are lucky, you are put onto one dry and dusty page. I grieve now a little because once I thought the world: no, someone in the world needed me. I mean, needed me other than for my sound, and labor, laugh and dreams. Mind you, I don’t ask for more life, I would need a whole new life time to find whom and what I need. So at least you don’t need to laugh at me, I see the moment comes, and at the tip, is man’s living hope.”
“You must,” death said, and said no more.
Now he could not raise his own head, lift his hands, his frame was enveloped, as if he had a stroke, weakly he said aloud, propped against a tree, watching the shadow of death, the nameless, clutch at darkness, “Too late?”
“It’s only the body I want,” said death, “you get to keep the memory because it never forget, not even for a second in your life, it is like a building with fortifications, it will never leave you.” Then he added, “Yes, it’s too late.”
“How can it be,” he said, “The fever to life, the fury to do is still in me?”
“It’s born in you,” death rejoined.
“So did you see my brother when he died?”
“Yes,” he said peacefully.
“Then maybe you even know where he went, where he is.”
“Yes,” he said peacefully. Adding “all must die as you know, and then the death breaks their sleep.”
“All right,” he said “then what?”
Now death was looking at him, watching him, “You mean you will not tell me?”
“Yes,” death said, “I won’t have to. Plus, wherever it is, which the reason is, you must have seen that coming anyway while you were with him—slaves, you were valuable, but are no longer, other than that, nobody’s favorite anymore, just a merchantable human for the taking, who died too, like the other ones. You had an ultimatum.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Perhaps I spoke a little rigid, you are fragile now I realize,” barely erect from death. “What I meant was, you didn’t choose one, or put another way, by not making any choices, you actually made a choice, and the choice was that you didn’t need to choose, and this was your one chance. You both could have escaped at any time, so the old sentence is of the past, you must march out the gate into darkness; the one that saved all before you, cannot give you absolution now, or amnesty.”
And then the man cried, “Murderer,” he said it twice, “Murderer!”
And thus he went into darkness and into hell, a plump sentry above the gate opened it wide, and there he stood as death let him go—released him, like a forsaken raven, and there he stood in front of a cenotaph of a man, one he had never saw in person, but had heard a lot about.

And they put on his gravestone: “For his own enlightenment he lived, by man’s thanklessness he died.”

No. 654 (12-29-2010)

The Hogshead of Homburg Tale

The Hogshead of Homburg Tale
(Death, can speak)




“For his own enlightenment he lived, by man’s thanklessness he died.” These letters were blurred with mold, yet still decipherable, on his gravestone.

His back was to the world, and his eyes gazing out across the green and brown changeless hills, and beyond to the blue changeless sky, and there he stood, with the drippings from the cedar branches, a faint breeze soughed in the cedars, all about him tranquility, a silence, as if standing in the marble halls of Troy, or among the endless sandstone pillars and labyrinth of Knossos. The old man had had his revenge, and his endless rising inflections, death was upon him.

He stood for a time, musing, a thin, to slender erect figure, uncompromising, the doves and sparrows came along in the sunny air. “Well,” he said, “at last,” the dying reverberation of death had come, the day had ended, it had come to this, gestures of it were now behind him in stone, and he remembered something his mother had said, “I’m okay with it, I’m ready, who wants to live like this anyway.” But she of course knew where she was going, and she knew and had accepted Jesus Christ as her savior.
He saw in his mind’s eye, peaceful avenues and dwellings with quiet reserve, he was dressed for death, and death was standing nearby.
He thought, I mean he really thought on the matter of death now. “It will not need a new time,” he told himself. “I will not have time to make new failures; other generations will come and go, in twenty-years who will remember my name? I will not appear again, this is my exist, the custodian is over there waiting, he wants me to hurry up, so he can meet from the ends of the earth, those weightless faces he sees.”

And death looked at him with dusty gaunt and yet gigantic eyes, furious, and murmuring that he was taking so long.
“It’s an amazing thing,” he told himself, “a human life, spanned and then forgotten, and if you are lucky, you are put onto one dry and dusty page. I grieve now a little because once I thought the world: no, someone in the world needed me. I mean, needed me other than for my sound, and labor, laugh and dreams. Mind you, I don’t ask for more life, I would need a whole new life time to find whom and what I need. So at least you don’t need to laugh at me, I see the moment comes, and at the tip, is man’s living hope.”
“You must,” death said, and said no more.
Now he could not raise his own head, lift his hands, his frame was enveloped, as if he had a stroke, weakly he said aloud, propped against a tree, watching the shadow of death, the nameless, clutch at darkness, “Too late?”
“It’s only the body I want,” said death, “you get to keep the memory because it never forget, not even for a second in your life, it is like a building with fortifications, it will never leave you.” Then he added, “Yes, it’s too late.”
“How can it be,” he said, “The fever to life, the fury to do is still in me?”
“It’s born in you,” death rejoined.
“So did you see my brother when he died?”
“Yes,” he said peacefully.
“Then maybe you even know where he went, where he is.”
“Yes,” he said peacefully. Adding “all must die as you know, and then the death breaks their sleep.”
“All right,” he said “then what?”
Now death was looking at him, watching him, “You mean you will not tell me?”
“Yes,” death said, “I won’t have to. Plus, wherever it is, which the reason is, you must have seen that coming anyway while you were with him—slaves, you were valuable, but are no longer, other than that, nobody’s favorite anymore, just a merchantable human for the taking, who died too, like the other ones. You had an ultimatum.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Perhaps I spoke a little rigid, you are fragile now I realize,” barely erect from death. “What I meant was, you didn’t choose one, or put another way, by not making any choices, you actually made a choice, and the choice was that you didn’t need to choose, and this was your one chance. You both could have escaped at any time, so the old sentence is of the past, you must march out the gate into darkness; the one that saved all before you, cannot give you absolution now, or amnesty.”
And then the man cried, “Murderer,” he said it twice, “Murderer!”
And thus he went into darkness and into hell, a plump sentry above the gate opened it wide, and there he stood as death let him go—released him, like a forsaken raven, and there he stood in front of a cenotaph of a man, one he had never saw in person, but had heard a lot about.

And they put on his gravestone: “For his own enlightenment he lived, by man’s thanklessness he died.”

No. 654 (12-29-2010)

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Then it was Spring Again (a short story)


Then it was Spring Again


Meanwhile old man Augusto continued to talk about this and that, nothing in particular, different subjects, he liked to talk, he talked until at last Rosa realized his forgetfulness was evident (such as being upset and thinking 1000 soles were taken out of his savings account without his knowledge, and not knowing who the culprit was. But figuring there was one, he had been laying things down here and there in the past and forgetting where he placed them, and blaming others... but after a review of his account and Rosa being an accountant, things worked their way out be in proper order, he had forgotten he spent that 1000-soles ). This all came to a halt now, her father was getting confused, and with a sort of shock, and dismay, she knew that he was getting old (he had just mentioned in passing the other day, mentioned to Rosa and her husband, and perhaps reminding himself ‘All my friends are dead,’ evidently this had not occurred to him before).
It was a shock, for she had never associated senility with her father, who was so alive and agile at 89-years old, erect and brusque although, an uncompromising and kind human being; running to the horse races, and bringing back bread and bananas home at night. But the summer of A.D., 2010, with tiresome efficiency, it was evident. Yet he continued to go to the race track, reading the literature on the races a day ahead of time, writing down all the names of the horses, and figuring out, trying to figure out, who would win the next race—he was never too lucky on his selections, but it kept his mind busy, and that long walk kept him in physical shape I suppose. He acted pert near as if he was his own daughter’s age, all of fifty-one.
As so, she thought: ‘How much finer can life be,’ implying in her now approaching old age having your father still alive, ‘How much finer can it be!’
Uncomplaining, steadfast in her unwept glory; making him spaghetti at night and bread pudding, warming up foods, eggs for breakfasts; useless glamour to some, for her, trying to make him comfortable in his old age. And somewhere along the line, she’d die away, knowing she had done for him all she could have.
But she was serene in the year 2010—and her days centered more and more as her father drew nearer to that 90-mark. Although his voice was only a sound, that was comfortable to her, but without significance I suppose. Then it was (definitely) spring again…


Written 12-28-2010 (No: 651)
Dedicated to Rosa and Augusto

North Korea: Next War


North Korea: Next War

It won’t be today or tomorrow you have a little while to do as you please, or wish (perhaps this letter is for Seoul, more so, than anyone else; it would be wise for Japan and Twain also to read it, the more I think about it). The North is still too prosperous the way things are going. Their nuclear factories are at near capacity, why would they fight an all out war as long as money can still be made without. So Seoul can go about business as normal or as planned—go home at nights and watch television, go to the ball games, drink until you pass out, enjoy the liberties at hand, that were fought for so long ago, for whoever has a dollar or a yen, or euro—spend it while you can. But sooner than you think, after all this now, is settled (the irritation, and war movements going on) the real fighting will be in the minds of the North, and it will surface. Then what will take place? Both sides will draft their young men and women into this profitless war! The powers that represent this side of the world, the invisible checks will come. The North and South are incapable of fighting a war, long lasting war, on its own; they will drag in the world. No matter how gradually it is America and China and all the countries thereabouts will be on Red Alert, into a war status.
As we can see already, the mismanagement of North Korea has made their currency inflated to worthlessness. War may bring them a temporary prosperity, and a permanent ruin. But as it has been said, and done in the past— both are a: “Refuge for political and economic opportunists.”
No Asian country is our friend (or friend to the USA, believe what you want, but that is a most true statement, and as straight as I can put it, in a like manner there really is not one country in Asia worth fighting for; the same goes for Europe, although perhaps England may be the exception). This country should never be put in such a position. Just like no Middle East country is our friend, to include Israel, and we should not be over there yet, allowing our youth to be sitting ducks for the Arabs.
So the question comes up: can we avoid war?
Let’s be honest—whatever we give to another country, we never receive back. On the other hand we are a country that lives under a cloud of pretense. We lie better than most countries. We overlook our treaties, declarations; our intentions coincide with our whims. We are a cynical nation, armed to the teeth. Our ambitions shift, like the tides in the sea. And our politicians play on the admirable patriotic hysteria of the young, to fight the wars of the day, such as South Korea has recently done with their youth, and North Korea has in the past done. The real enemy is China and Russia—let our hopes be in that they sit out the next Korean Conflict, if they don’t, God forbid what will come out of it.

Written 12-28-2010 (Article)

Boar in the Woods (a short story)


Boar in the Woods

((A Chick Evens Story, 1977) (Babenhausen, West Germany))


The sun woke Cody and Shawn up, across their bunk beds, on the third floor in the Military Housing Compound in Babenhausen, West Germany. Streaks of sun rays seeped through the curtains, and cracks of the windowsill, brightening the walls in the bedroom, and they both lay a while longer in bed, with a warm chill, bright smiles on their faces, it was the weekend, and their father had promised to take them into the residing woods. Then Chick Evens woke up, remembered his promise, he was a bit stiff with a light stale coldness to his bones, his blood beginning to warm up, with some exercise, his limbs moved slowly, then like bird wings ready for flight. He dragged his legs to the kid’s room; the twins were putting on their socks. And he stood bending his knees and ankles, as to wake the rest of his body up; it was 7:00 a.m. His body felt like needles stinging him all over.
After breakfast, he and the boys descended the steps slowly and carefully into the woods, some three-hundred yards from their housing unit, onto a path that led into this wild patch of woods: extending a mile north and south, and a half mile east and west. The sun fell heavily onto the path, and the birds were like a blare of soft squeaky trumpets. No one had farmed this land it was all private woods. Chick Evens thrust his slender muscular arms over the shoulders of both his boys, he had his Colt 45, automatic with him, he knew there were wild boars in the woods, that farmers nearby had caught a few. The boys were a wee scared, having heard about the boars, but their father touched their cold noses—assuring them all was safe, and then drank some hot coffee from a thermos.
There came a sound of bushes being trampled. They all became utterly still, Evens saw the greasy looking black hair of a large creature, nondescript, and he watched the configuration with rolling eyes, his muscles twisted into tight knots. It was too high off the ground to be anything that might crawl; he made a gesture for the boys to be quiet. Somewhere behind him, he heard another noise, as if a dog was approaching—steadily, and with watchful gravity, and without movement and sound, he pulled out his gun. The boar was fast on its feet, the children moved then behind their father, only their own shadow behind them now, the dog had run in the thick to challenge whatever was lurking. Then with a sizzling echo, Evens shot a round into the bushes, and a grayish dark object jumped and ran off; the dog, played quietly-dumb, by itself, he didn’t want anything to do the boar—once he knew it was a boar, he looked like a pail of mucky milk.
The children now found time to jump and play on their father’s shoulders, as the other boy attacked the father—the father being the horse, and the boys being the knights of the famous Roundtable—each having their turns, as the boar most likely had vanished, and was miles away by now.

Note: written 12-27-2010
No: 648







A Clean, Dim-lit Place (a short story)


A Clean,
Dim-lit Place


(A Chick Evens Story, 1962)

You don’t throw away what little you have because you don’t have it all—only to end up with nothing’—lest you be a dupe! (And I never have.)


It was getting late in the evening, pert near everyone had stopped eating, and it was just making sure the bar area was filled with ice. Several men sat in the shadow across from the horseshoe looking bar—at the Belmont Club, as the busboy, Chick Evens, brought buckets full of ice out to the bartender.
At night time University Avenue was quite busy, and you could hear the cars and horns from inside the bar. One customer was talking to the bartender asking who the bus boy was—his name in particular, he was a little drunk, and he knew the fellows across the bar on the other side also. He somewhat kept an eye on the group and the boy as he brought bucket after bucket of ice to the bar.
“Say, isn’t your last name Evens?” questioned the man to the boy of fifteen. The busboy was surprised he knew his last name.
“What about it?” Replied the boy.
“Nothing,” said the man.
“Then, why did you ask if it was nothing?”
“There’s a man over in that group across from the bar that looks like you, that’s why,” said the stranger to the boy.
The boy stood stone-still by the fellow for a moment, tried to see who was the four or five men across from the bar, but trying not to be too obvious, they were all clustered together, and the place was dim lighted. A waitress came by, “Honey,” she said, “you better go on and get some more ice in the back before Howard the manager sees you just standing around.”

The car lights shone through the windows from University Avenue, and when the boy came back out, he could see reflections of the group of men across from the bar, he hurried beside the bar and gave the bucket to the bartender to empty into the ice cooler.
‘What does it matter who they are,’ the boy said to himself.
The stranger was now sitting at the bar, saw the boy, there was a man standing in the shadow with his glass on the bar surrounded by the other three fellows, the stranger pointed over to him, “Erve,” he shouted, “this is your boy!” then he turned to the boy, “He’s your father son,” he told the boy.
“You’re drunken mister,” said the boy.
“Go say hello to him, he’ll not stay all night!” said the man. “A little more whiskey in the glass,” said the stranger to the bartender. The bartender poured slowly on into the glass so that the whiskey didn’t slop over the top, “Thanks,” said the stranger. He’s going to leave son, if you don’t go over there.”
‘They’re all drunk over there,’ said the boy, mumbling to himself, he had never seen his father, why would a stranger be pointing him out now, but he tried to look, he only got a shadow for a face, and a dark suite, or sport coat.
“He comes in here every weekend,” said the stranger.
“That’s nice,” said the boy, unbelieving it was his father.
“Go say hello to him, see how much money he’s got,” and the man chuckled; then commented, “He’s gotten plenty.”
And the boy thought: he must be forty-five now. And then went to get some more ice, when he came back the group was gone. ‘I didn’t want to look at him anyhow,’ the boy garbled to himself.
(If he really was who the man said he was, he has no regard for me anyhow, the boy thought inside his head…)
The bartender was saying to someone, “No more for you tonight.” The stranger was lying on his forearms, and his elbows were on the bar counter. The boy watched the lights from the cars pass the window, unsteadily, as they went down the street. He wanted to ask the stranger some more questions, but the coincidence was so unbelievable—and the stranger was no longer interested in the occurrence, and so the boy, he just let it be; then he got himself back into a hurry to do his job right.


Note: written 12-27-2010
No: 646





Monday, December 27, 2010

War: We like it!

I’ve come to the conclusion in my old age; we love war, killing, and its part of us. We love war and killing for what it does to us, not for us, because often it is not over land, or power or treasure, it’s simply because we like it. Used to it, weaned on it, and to be quite honest, one glorious day in war, can last forty years. Without war, and heroes and killing, we would be like a helpless dray whale, dying on shore.

The Rug Rats of Dieburg (The horror of West Germany, 1953)


The Rug Rats
Of Dieburg

(The horror of Dieburg, West Germany, 1953)


“You can tell everything about the behavior of rug rats—”
Old lady, Lilla Simpson began. She then interrupted her son, saying:
“Now, watch.” She held the child up by its legs; she was a brute of a woman, all of six-foot three, two-hundred pounds, clumsily she held the child. Her son watched he was three inches taller and fifty-pound heaver than her; she held the child up high like a puppy, by its hind legs. She forced meat down his throat, the child was five-years old, and several other children were standing by, looking, observing, three girls, and the rest boys. Immediately, Elmer surged eagerly forward, to balance the kid he was dangling, but the mother, kicked him in the shin, “Just watch, you don’t need to be a hero, I’ll not drop the kid,” she commanded. She had taken another piece of meat from the table with a string attached to it, she dangled it, moved it along the boy’s mouth, nose, inside his mouth then pulled it out quick, the other children were in a sort of scrambling about watching, salivating, they had not eaten all day, they now had formed a circle around Lilla. Then in the middle of the wooden planked floor, she brushed the meat to the side of her. Slowly, as not to disrupt the circle of children, and their tantalizing observations, although they had already been through such displays of behavior modification, ‘trials’ she called them…
Now you could see the shadow of the child being swayed on the floor, as if from corner to corner, the children had gotten tired from looking up, now they just watched the shadow swaying on the floor, Elmer had closed his eyes; the child was voiceless, confusion in his eyes. The meat and the string fell from her hands.
“Open your eyes Emer,” said Lilla, “now what do you think of my little children,” they were all waiting for her to allow them to fight for the piece of meat on the string, no one was concerned about the child being held as if in midair. Desensitization had taken place; hunger had taken over, disassociation for a few.
“They look like a pack of rug rats ready to eat a dog alive,” she said, then laughed, “and damn if they couldn’t!” then nodded her head, and the children leaped onto the string and piece of meat twisted onto it.
“You can tell as much about a dog as you can a child,” Lilla said easily and calmly, still holding the child in midair.
Outside the door was Ralf, a bloodhound, hissing his paws on the bare ice awaiting his super, in the drizzling ice rain, and he leaped up onto the window, looked into the old woman’s face, and the child she was holding, with grave inquiry, with no dignity, she dropped the child. At that moment she saw the children, she called rug rats, pause in their readiness for fight and flight for the piece of meat, as they stood looking at her thenthe boy, with absorption and bemusement, and the piece of meat, with a sort of momentous dreadfulness. Elmer gave his mother one hurt and reproachful look turned about and climbed the wooden stairs to the loft and lay down on the bed.
Lilla sat down and growled heavily within herself. “You can tell about rug rats and dogs—” she repeated. Then gathered her composure and rose, but growled all the more, started to shake. “Well I don’t blame the boy (meaning her son),” she said, “if I had to look at these grubby rug rats all day…” then the old lady stood by the stairway, leaned on the wooden railing. “I suppose, I reckon you feel bad about my experimental psychology, sure you do,” she shouted up the stairway, then picked up her pipe, on the mantel next to her, lit it.

All that night it rained, and the following night, as the dog lurked through the window, and the children barefoot, were made to brief excursions in the cellar, for games: whoever caught a rat alive, got bread and milk, and three cookies. A mouse brought only bread and milk, for every one else, it was as usual, water and a slice of bread twice a day. The cellar was monstrous, with long corridors.

With a touch of rheumatism, the old woman woke up, it was cold in the house, evidently Ralf had fought his way through the door, and found his meal, gathered it, tearing off the child’s dry outer garments, the hound soaking wet, drying himself off by the chimney an hour or so, then departing before the old woman got up, and only the Devil knew what then.
When the old lady woke up, she saw the child was missing, and she suggested to Elmer to go down to the village and find her another child. “Take Ralf with you, he don’t mind bad weather.” She explained to him.
The boy, who she thought of as a boy, who was really a thirty-year old man, grumbled as he walked out the door, “One day’s like another around here…! Killing aren’t anything to maw,” he said in his childish restlessly whisper.


No. 646 (12-27-2010)





Sunday, December 26, 2010

Night before Yeonpyeong (a short story)



Night before
Yeonpyeong

(Based on actual experiences of, November, 2010)






Walking about and around in the nearing gray-dark, Staff Sergeant Gordon Wayne passed several South Korean soldiers sitting in chairs roughly, at an outside table drinking beer. Someone was playing the jukebox inside the small bamboo-walled bar, on the island called Yeonpyeong; in the daylight you can see North Korea from its shores.
“Hey, Staff Sergeant Wayne,” said Corporal Yang, “where you heading?”
“Nowhere in particular, just walking about.”
Gordon sat in an empty chair at an empty table next to the several soldiers, Yang joined him. It was near twilight; other than the conversation of the six soldiers left at the table, and the sound of the sea hitting the shore and the jukebox playing, it was a chilled near silent night, in November, of 2010. Gordon leaned his elbows on the small wooden table.
“Tomorrow I leave,” Gordon said. “I got my new orders a week ago.”
“Yes, I know, I heard you had gotten them from Kim,” said Yang.
Yang laughed and spoke Korean to the waitress standing in the doorway; she leaned forward and smiled at Gordon, who had turned about.
“He doesn’t speak Korean,” Yang said. “He says he’s leaving and not telling Kim the exact day, which is tomorrow.”
“Where’s Kim?” the waitress asked Yang.
“Maybe at home, waiting for him, who knows?”
“No,” said Gordon. “She told me she’s going to Seoul this afternoon.”
Yang couldn’t stand Gordon most of the time; he had won the heart of his girlfriend in less than a month.
Kim was very slim, an attractive tall Korean-Chinese woman of twenty-seven years old. Yang gave out a loud laugh—with a bad scent of some sort. “I guess you did pick up some Korean while in Seoul,” he commented.
“Why did she leave me for you?” Yang asked.
“She said you were like the pigeons.”
Yang laughed again, “Get serious,” he said, “let’s go find her and ask her.”

They both stood up walked own by the shoreline, there were boats in the harbor, the water pushed softly against the shore—sucked and bubbled under, with white foam.

“In the morning we’ll see North Korea from here, it’s less than eight miles away,” said Yang.
They walked up and down the water’s edge, the phosphorescent lights of the bar, and the light of the moon, guided them—they past a few sailors walking about, zigzagging, as if drunk.
“All night they’ll walk these shores drinking,” said Yang, as if searching for something to say.
“I’ve heard it stated, it would be easy for the North to hit this island if they wanted to and what could the thirteen-hundred inhabitants, civilians and soldiers and sailors alike, do?” said Gordon.
“Nothing,” said Yang “but I don’t believe they will.”
“I suppose not, it would cause a kind of ripple effect, one with a long tail of fear, in the minds of Seoul, and its neighbors, if not allies.”
Gordon had taken a bottle of rice wine with him from the bar handed it to yang.
“Listen, Gordon. You’ve got the devotion from a beautiful Korean woman, why don’t you take her serious?” asked Yang.
“I know she’s lovely—but you can take her and all that loveliness and row it out into the Yellow Sea for all I care. I’m headed for the War Afghanistan tomorrow.”

Standing barefoot, his toes now in the cold water of the sea, Gordon stepped in a foot deeper—forward.
“Yang!” he bellowed. “Come in, it’s cold, but great,” and drank a gulp of his rice wine down.
Gordon looked at Yang’s face, it was a round face, not square like his, some silver rimmed teeth, not pure ivory looking like his and straight, then Yang said, “Give me the wine, I think you’ve been drunk for a week—haven’t you?”
“You talk silly,” said Gordon, remotely.
“What are you going to do?” asked Yang, Gordon up to his knees in water.
“I’m thinking about a girl I met in Minnesota.”
“Come on back before you lose your balance and get yourself drowned.
“I’ll leave this island alive, don’t worry.”
“Did she tell you that you acted like a sitting-duck?”
“You mean Pigeon, don’t you?”
He reached out for the bottle of rice wine—he had forgotten he had given it to Yang, so he had to turnabout and walk back to the beach. He grabbed the wine bottle from Yang’s hands and swallowed a big gulp.
“Gordon!” said yang—
“Let’s get out of here, it bothers me.”
“I go on duty at midnight,” Yang said.
“Then I’ll drink the rest of the wine, you sure shouldn’t get drunk then!”
“I have never been drunk on guard duty,” Yang answered.
Gordon muttered something—
“What is it…? What did you say?”
“I was calling on the devil to strike this damn island, so I’d not have to go to Afghanistan.” Gordon repeated and took another gulp of the rice wine, now only half full.
“Go on, Devil,” the Sergeant said. “Strike us!”
“I never slept with Kim you know,” Yang told Gordon.
“Come on, don’t lie.”
“Let’s go back to the bar,” said Yang, as Gordon handed him the bottle.
“I have not told you a lie, I’m not drunk, I never slept with Kim,” Yang shouted at Gordon.
A soldier by the bar said to his comrades, “Look at them, a drunken pair!”
Another soldier at the table commented, “That’s Yang, he’s got guard duty shortly, he’s drank too much.”
A third soldier said, “They don’t look happy!”
The fourth soldier said, “Come on, let’s get some rice wine and get out of here, they’ll bring too much attention.”
“I’ve got to go,” said yang.
“No. Let’s drink the rest of the wine and talk.”
“Okay, but let’s get a second bottle then.”
“That sounds good,” said Gordon.


The waitress handed a second bottle to yang.
“You open it,” said Yang to the young waitress. The cork popped and flew someplace in the dark. And they both drank.
“I kind of wish you’d stay on the island Gordon, we could soldier together.”
“No. We wouldn’t be any good together—we like the same girl.”
“I wonder if I’ll be afraid.”
“Who knows until you’re actually in the line of fire, maybe it’ll be fun seeing all the artillery and men in action in Afghanistan. The island here is like Seoul!”
“Yes,” said Gordon, “perhaps you’re right—why worry about it. I was just feeling funny for some odd reason.”
“You mean like a premonition or something like that?” said Yang.
“Yaw,” said Gordon, “something like that.”
“You’re not that kind,” said Yang, adding, “We both are different than the others.”
“I suppose so, but I still feel odd, if not queasy.”

They both drank the rest of the wine, emptied the bottle. By the time they woke up, the sky was beginning to lighten— the two bottles were in the sand, facing the sky.


That morning Gordon caught his plane to Seoul, and onto Afghanistan, as Yang walked himself to his Headquarters, to turn himself into the Commanding Officer for missing Guard Duty. Halfway down a gravel road was a blast, then several of them, jumping over a fence, running through an open field, sand spouting up from all around—from rockets that were launched from North Korea to the island of Yeonpyeong—he could hear a missile coming in, there was a dead look to his eyes, he thought of Kim, why—what stopped her from marrying him. And he heard the missile nearing, instead of curling up in the sand, or trying to bury himself in the dirt, or leave out of the field, getting away, he relaxed un-tightening his nerves (‘Easy does it,’ he murmured)—thus, holding himself together. His eyes got wide; he saw the rocket now, the edge of his lips dried up. It was ugly to look at—he was ugly to look at, after the rocket hit.


I doubt Gordon ever knew what happened. He never wrote Yang or Kim. It wasn’t just love, the reason he avoid writing, although just love would be enough. Kim loved Gordon— God-knows how much, but he was a soldier, a career soldier and he had to ask himself the questions: did he have time for liking, taking, waiting, gentleness, making her happy, not afraid, and not frightening her. He, Staff Sergeant Gordon Wayne, could get whatever he wanted, because of something in him—perhaps it never lasted though, and maybe in time he’d lose it for Kim (as he had for everyone else).


No: 641 (12-24-2010)

Note: Yeonpyeong, is an Island in the Yellow Sea, 2.71 square miles, population in 2010, was 1300, belonging to south Korea. It is 7.5 miles from North Korea; it was shelled by North Korea on November, 23, 2010. Four people were killed, and eighteen wounded. This short story, “Night before Yeonpyeong,” is a work of fiction.




Conversaton at El Parquetito (a short story)


Conversation at El Parquetito
(—concerning presidential election for 2011)



From the table at the outside restaurant (and bar), of El Parquetito, in Miraflores, Lima, looks at Kennedy Park. Cars, busses and trucks circle this main avenue—like a rotunda, loop around the park day and night, with its floating exhaust, and colorless buildings, with colorful awnings; across this somewhat city plateau area, the Andes surround the city like a horseshoe, the Pacific Ocean is a short distance to the west. This side of the mountains at El Parquetito, the park with its shade and many trees and rays of sun hitting the large umbrellas holding tall and stationary over the wooden tables, the cobblestone street that the tables are on, are uneven dark gray, brown and black, there, sit three people having a conversation, concerning the forth coming Presidential elections here in Peru, for 2011, and why Peru at this point and time (being: December, of 2010) is still all screwed up with no understructure, and everlasting corruption.
Sergeant Ricardo Heredia—forty and not a day older—getting that potbelly so popular with his age, of the police force in Miraflores, is present, as is the owner of a pizza restaurant, across the park, from El Parquetito. Moises Zarate in is twenty-eighth year of life, balled headed, strong like a bull, taller than the average Peruvian. And the landlady of several properties, Maria Canales, fifty if not more, short black hair, cute, holding her weight down—all are present at the squared table.
“What should we drink,” Ricardo asks. He had taken off his hat and put it on the next table alongside of him; he still had his police uniform on.
“It’s pretty hot,” said Moises, “I’ll have a beer.”
“Let’s all have a beer,” commented Maria, to Hernan, a plump and smiley waiter in his forties, who had been at the restaurant going on some twenty-years, if not more.
“Okay,” agreed Moises.
“Dos cervezas!” Said Maria, holding up one of the three filled chilled, glasses of Cristal Beer
as you look about, you can see several people getting their shoes shinned, by the Miraflores shoeshine men with blue uniforms on, taxies stopping here and there, letting people out, and some stopping being waved down by folks wanting a ride. There are a few people at a table several feet from Ricardo’s, they are talking about work in Peru, in particular, Lima, and one shrugs his shoulders, as if the other one doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he orders a Cristal beer also, another one, he has two by his elbow—empty. He doesn’t look drunk, but he’s acting that way.
Hernan now brings three felt pads over to the table, the cloth is getting wet. A prostitute is walking up and down the sidewalk across from their table, across the street that is, the girl is looking off towards the mountains, the white clouds, the sun, the gray to dark street, then back to them, to see if Ricardo and Moises are checking her out. Ricardo thinks she looks like a wild pelican, with all her colors and thin-boned body.
“You ever see a pelican?” asks Ricardo to Moises.
“I’ve never seen one,” said Moises, not sure why he asked that. But Maria knows why, says nothing, just smiles.
“No, you wouldn’t have,” comments Maria, to start the conversation up again. They are old friends (from different backgrounds), and they kind of met by accident in the park, and all decided to have a beer at El Parquetito’s.

Maria looks at a sign on a building, “Someone painted something on it,” she says, pointing up at the tall building. “What does it say?”
“Keiko for President!” says Moises. “Should we try her, we’ve tried every other combination, why not a woman now?”
“Well if we don’t want corruption, we should try Mercedes!” says Maria.
“She’s cute, I’ll vote for her,” says Ricardo. “Or perhaps the old mayor of Lima, Castañeda, He’s already got twenty percent of the vote! Although every mayor, or almost every mayor I know, owns discos or bars, all acquiring them after they become mayors, it’s one way to become rich in five years, or dead. Some mayors go too far.”
“How about Toledo, he was pretty good when he was president before,” says Maria.
“I don’t know,” comments Moises, “He might be good, but he drank all our money up, and traveled the world over the last six months of his presidency—how short our Peruvian memories are, and his wife took all those mummies, you know what I mean!”
“It’s all right,” said Ricardo, “they are all thieves anyhow, that justifies us for being thieves, and don’t we like a little corruption?”
“Yes,” said Maria, “with a little corruption, not like Fujimori, who stole our country blind, put his daughter into the best schools in America, flew off to Japan—lived like a king for five or seven years, and was dumb enough to come back to Peru. He should have waited like Garcia did—for ten years, who stole our country blind, flew off to Paris, waited for the law to declare him untouchable, and came back and became president again.”
“So you like the taste of corruption, as long as it’s Democratic, for the people by the people?” says Ricardo. “I make 900 soles a month, where does my corruption come in handy?”
“That’s the way with everything in Peru, you police make 900 soles a month and another 900 for bribes daily, and you can’t live on that, then what can you live on,” said Moises. “If we didn’t want corruption, just unbuckle your chains, and that’s it. You see we all chain ourselves to the process. Peru is too far removed from innocence, we like some corruption, we like to know it’s there when we need it. If you cut it out, you cut your own throat, that’s why mayors, who are honest, never get reelected.”
“Who started this conversation?” asked Maria.
“You started it,” said Moises, “when you asked what the sign read!”
“By gosh, you’re right, I did. I was being amused by it. I was having a fine time, now it’s becoming work.”
“Well let’s try and have a fine time about it,” said Ricardo; “how about Ollanta for president?”
“I don’t want a dictator, only a perfectly simple form of corruption,” said Maria.
“You mean enough corruption at the municipality to buy rights you don’t deserve, to be able to build without permits, to build five and six stories high in areas only allowing three and four stories. You want enough corruption to make your life easier,” said Ricardo, “as I do. And how do you think Moises got his license to serve liquor at his pizza café, and has whores working for him, he pays us. And I pay you to live in one of those apartments of yours in San Juan de Miraflores, that you probable invaded the land some twenty or thirty years ago—or your parents did fifty years ago, and you inherited it from them, like they do in Huancayo, and the Satipo Jungle still to this very day, and stole it from some old man, ready to die, and now it belongs to you officially.”
“I guess so,” said Maria. She looked across into the park. “It’s a lovely park,” she said.
“Should we have another drink,” said Moises.
“All right,” said Ricardo, “but who’s paying the bill?”
The warm wind blew an awfully stink from a chicken restaurant nearby, “Wish the government would check these chicken places out, they sell chicken half diseased,” said Maria. “Let’s all pay our own bills,” she added, in a whisper.
The girl that was referred to as the Pelican looked at the table legs of the table the three were sitting at.
“I know you two will not mind if I check her out,” said Moises, “she seems to be looking for work,” he stood up and approached her, she did not say anything at first: then, “I’ll go with you and I’ll stay with you all time you want… (and that was all Maria could hear)” and they walked away from the restaurant as if it was perfectly natural.
“Well,” said Maria, to Ricardo “what will you do afterward? It’s been a most interesting afternoon. Perhaps give some more tickets out so you can earn more money from corruption?” and she laughed.
“We’ll both do just like we did before, what makes you think otherwise, it’s the only thing that’s made us happy.”
“Then you think, we’ll be okay, and happy?” she asked.
“I know we will. You don’t have to worry. I’ve known lots of people that have lived one corrupt day, all their lives, and died happy.”
“Well,” the woman said, “I think that’s the best thing to do, even if you really don’t want to. We have to keep things like they are. So we don’t have to worry.”
“You won’t worry about how you do it, it’s perfectly simple for you now,” said Ricardo. And then they departed, each going the opposite way across the park.

Note: written December 26, 2010; No: 644

Old Man Stan (Big Bird, 2002/a short story)


Old Man Stan
(—Big Bird, 2002)



Old man Stan had a face that looked coarse. He was for the most part, always clean shaven and his deep rooted eyes, sunken into those eye sockets, I’m sure never saw the bottom of his gaunt chin. His eyes were red more often than they were white, rimmed with sweat from booze, and the large holes that were his nostrils were raw as hamburger. Stan’s two room apartment on Albemarle Street, where he lived his last ten years before he died, in the late evenings you could hear him cursing and yelling and fighting with his demons, as if they were dragging him, or he was dragging them, and the window open in the middle of winter, as if to throw them out of. He was a tall man and never wanted to be bothered much—at the bar, some one-hundred feet away from his apartment, they called him Big Bird (he was all of six-foot six; thin as a string bean). He read the Alcoholics Anonymous, Big Book, he told me he had once; he had it on his shelf, but at the end it didn’t do him much good. But evidently, he had found sobriety at one time and it last a year or so, so I heard from the grapevine. You could hear him all the way down the halls and through the walls, and into the residing apartment next to his (which was my apartment at the time)—when he had those heated fits with his demons. Few people in those days saw him smile, he was seventy-two years old when he up and died of cancer. Made his last rent payment while in the hospital; the new folks that now rent the apartment next to Stan’s, sometimes, they say, you can hear old Stan still bellowing, and he’s got the T.V. on loud trying to drawn the sound of his yelling out.
I used to go over to Stan’s apartment when I lived across from him, and tell him to turn the television down, this was in the wee hours of the night, or morning, and when he’d open his door, I’d just look at what a mess he was making of trying to live with his demons in his apartment. He didn’t offer much conversation, he’d just stand and look at me and the hopeless way he muddled about, standing there trying to think of what I just said, and what to say, and he’d mumble something like: “Yaw, the television, I better turn the television down, that’s right, I’ll turn it down—sorry about that, okay!” then he’d turnabout, and pert near, slam the door in my face. So after a few years he got cancer—the awful part about it was, he paid his rent those last two months from his hospital bed, never did return to his apartment, but that was all he had in life, was that apartment, and the Big Book on the shelf, and he looked the first day I saw him, the same as the last day I saw him.

Note: written December 25, 2010
No: 643

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Changing Places (a poem)

It is a land where death
Is Cheap
And happiness scarce
Betrayed and lied to
Normal,
Yet love burns higher
Than a bonfire
This land is deluded...
But there is a spark
worth sheltering!


No: 2885
12-26-2010
(12:24 a.m.)

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Cro-Magnon (a new era, a new story)

Cro-Magnon
(A New Era, a New Story)


By Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
Three Time Poet, Laureate


The Present:

Falling into a Dream
(Lee Maverick)




The Present
(2016-2020 AD)


The once beautiful starry sky, had merged with black strips mixed with blood red, his eyes were trying to adjust to it all, Lee Maverick (so he called himself)(looking in a broken mirror on the ground, at his appearance. He was middle aged, had been up this point, well kept, nearly all muscle, perhaps 7% fat, close to six foot tall, not as clean shaven as he’d prefer, his hair no longer trimmed, a bit disheveled yet he stood out, he was handsome, not intimidating), a professional tourist, he couldn’t make out much from all the debris scattered all about, and it was dark, dim-grey—yet it was early afternoon, a cloud had closed up the sun, pert near all of the sun’s rays, and there was bone chilling winds coming from the Anarchic, plants and fish from the ocean laying all about. As he had woken up from the rumble that flattened his hotel: an earthquake had taken place, the planet seemed to have wobbled off its axis for a moment also, the crust of the earth seemed to have shifted and recoiled back. He looked about, he could make out the Whitecap Mountains of Tierra del Fuego; he was visiting Ushuaia, a charming city at the end of South America when it happened. This stretch of the mountains, ended at Cape Horn. Everything, the world over, everything looked bleak and inhospitable—this past week, yet he kept to his travels. He had to find a place to stay now, to keep out of the snows, winds and chill, he remembered the old prison that was built in 1902, he had been to Ushuaia before, it was the only structure holding solid ground that he could see, on the upper part of the small city, everything else was demolished.
There was nothing that man could not imagine, that hadn’t taken place that week, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, warfare (with intercontinental missiles pointed at every city over one million population)—everyone knew the war was coming, they just didn’t know when, and nobody was spared its overall destruction. It was a global standoff that had a ripple effect that had taken place—nobody backed down this time—Some folks even talked of aliens being involved, and there were rumors of a new world leader on the rise: it was the new so called World Order, that caused 2.5 billion people to be killed, so he heard over the radio—and the threat was not over, another 600,000 were expected to die from disease, and cholera, starvation, and wounds, etc, all the after-effects of war, its trauma. Perhaps he survived only because he was a tourist, had he been home—back in Minnesota, he’d be dead; theoretically no joke.
Marino the Mayor of the city saw him wandering about and waved, he stood still while he approached. “Follow me,” he said. They walked to the prison (during the first half of the 20th Century, the prison was used for repeated offenders, hard criminals, likened to Devil’s Island, where escape was near impossible, and where would one go if one had? You were at the end of the world), down one of the corridors the two men went, in silence, to one of the side rooms; in the room were several young women, a fire in the middle of the room, a window allowing the smoke to escape, two women were drawing and writing on the wall, in one of the corners, they turned around to see who had entered, the tall one said, “Were just writing to let people know we were here in case—you know what I mean,” and she turned about and continued while the other shorter woman had a piece of white chalk, and she drew lines around her hand, leaving an imprint on the wall. The other four or five women, young women, sat around the fire in the centre, a mattress to one side with a rope tied from one side of the large prison enclosure (or room), used to hold several men at one time, and a blanket, was thrown over that, blocking the vision of the mattress; some fish was being cooked, it looked as if they had gone back to the days of Cro-Magnon, “It starts here,” he said, “wait a minute,” furthermore, he added, “You must impregnate all those you can, even if there is a genetic change because of the forthcoming fallout, who’s to say, what will become of us, if we don’t prepare? This is the only way we’ll survive, if they are all with child the strongest will survive, even if only one.”
The girl called Sandra kept her eye on Lee Maverick; she was wearing a Navy blue skirt, that went only to her knees, a white blouse, she looked seventeen, Lee thought, and moved about as if to attract him with her body, and smile, she was cute, a little pretty, “How does she look?” questioned the Mayor, handing Lee the key to the room…
“She looks fine,” said Lee.
She arranged everything as she knelt down by Lee, carefully taking one item of her close off at a time and placing her close neatly to the side. The last item she put under his pillow. Behind her in the room, the other girls were waiting, and they had selected Tamarind to be next.
“Do you have any idea how to do what we are going to do?” asked Lee Maverick.



Sandra, of Ushuaia




She lay down beside him, naked. “Where do these come from?” she asked; feeling the weight of it, measuring its enormous circumference with her fingers.
“Don’t ask me, Miss Sandra,” said Lee, staring at her rounded and hard breasts, as she stared at him, saying “It looks like it just can’t be helped.”
Sandra turned her back to Lee, looked around the blanket, she could see through the window, it was getting darker, it got dark quick these days, and she disliked the dark because—invariably because she cold no longer evade it.
When she opened her eyes, she held her eyelids open as long as she could—she wished she was asleep, she stretched out her legs, she wanted to curse the times, she shouted at Lee, “Is that all you can find to do!” She did not look at Lee. Lee slid down and over the mattress, the blanket over their legs, were hanging over the mattress on the cold floor. Perspiration began to trickle down her neck as soon as he stopped.
“I’m not going to tell a lie about this,” she said, “but I hate it,” she told Lee, and Lee just sat on his knees and merely looked, “The baby will be mine,” she said, “I am her mother,” she added, “There is no reason why you should pretend not to be sentient about his, continue please.” She didn’t want to say that, or think, but she wondered how such tings happened. She made him happy now, and thereafter Lee fell into a long sleep, and started dreaming, as Sandra got up…


Interlude


Neanderthals the Neanderthals (33,000 BC to 22,000 BC), brains one-fifth larger than humans, taller than the average human perhaps six feet five inches, and a lot stronger than the Cro-Magnons, actually, in comparison, quite intimidating, they were all muscle; perhaps smarter again than the Cro-Magnons, whom were puny in comparison, and had they not acquired their genetic makeup from the Neanderthals through interbreeding, they perhaps never would have been considered nor selected for a higher position in the: natural selection, category (it would seem in retrospect, something went wrong back there, back then, perhaps this story will shed some light on the matter—not always is the strongest looking and smartest acting, the chosen one).


Stone tools and weapons


(The Neanderthal roamed from Western and Central Europe, to the Balkans into Ukraine, and into Siberia, all the way back to Gibraltar, all across the Mediterranean to Israel, 100,000 BC, leaving behind his skulls, and jaw bones, grinding stone tools, and weapons, for man to find, when man emerged from whom he once was into full official homo sapiens. He was the brute of the bunch, interbreeding took place, with not only Cro-Magnons, but with humans, those of the higher race, at 8700 BC, thereafter appeared a third species of man, as there would appear in 4500 BC, a supernatural species of man. But the Neanderthal, as cruel and crude, as he was, he did not have the predisposition for homosexuality, nor was it a genetic factor, it is a leaned behavior, one that would be taught by the Watchers in due time. The Watchers (or aliens), would become quite infamous for their raw sex with animals, and men, and take the wives and daughters of men within their domain, and impregnate them at will. This new kind of species produced the legendary giants called the Titans. Ones the Greeks would immolate with their preference of sex take into interest men with men, and of course their homosexuality deserts, and within the Greek Isles, lesbianism would prosper likewise.)




Lee Maverick in a state of Dreaming





The Cave



The Neanderthal man



In a cave-walled room, two Cro-Magnons were drawing pictures on the cave wall, the room was packed with observing young people in their teens, all casually watching, as if they were attending something new, unusual, instead of the dry old looks from their predecessors (the Neanderthals) of not being able to adjust to change, resistant to change. The two teachers were now showing how to draw the action of the animals, in curved lines, even a tinge of perspective—that is: angles and vantage points, scribble lines on white. The young Cro-Magnons stood slumped with sagged shoulders, as they stood in a half circled group.
Squatting in the back of the room, the old ruler with a horde of aging and dying out male Neanderthals, a few young male Neanderthals, and several young females around them, all quite sexually active as was the nature of their kind, perhaps three fold compared to their successors (and behind them, a few old chimps staring silently, holding onto their toes with their fingers), the old leader was now pointing his finger in the air, implying to the younger Cro-Magnons, and his older horde, he didn’t like the changing of times. That he wanted to go back, if not remain in the old way of life—the old lifestyle they had all known—were familiar with, his brain not being able to be activated to accept this change of behavior, a closed and fearful mind to a new and opening future, an era at its beginning.
The youngest of the group, those were the half-breeds, the Neanderthals and the Cro-Magnons who had similar genes—these were the ones feeling surprised, that the older ones did not accept the new ways, or could not accept them—the new tools they invented and now the two Cro-Magnons drawing the pictures on the cave wall, concluded in a small way times had change, and perhaps more to come, but to two Cro-Magnons, allowed the old ones to remain isolated from the changing times—if that is what they wished, to promote social harmony, and group cohesion. They knew these knew controversial ideas, now to be conventional ideas, would be in a short while the whole group’s way of thinking, and familiar once the old generation died out.
The old generation perhaps didn’t agree with the people—not in particular because of the drawings, although they were part of the issue—nor even the new tools they made, but because they saw recklessness about the Cro-Magnons behavior, their ways: why did they drive herds of animals off cliffs, to kill many for a few to eat? And now their behavior was causing—seemingly causing—the extinction of a number of species.
They didn’t know, the Cro-Magnons did not know, and surely the Neanderthals, didn’t, the new gene that appeared to have fallen in place within the Cro-Magnons, was in essence creating stability and would lead to the making of civilizations, conventional, hence, like it or not, the conservative gene was now in place, yet the audience sat silent in the back of the cave, stunned by the art work, the changing of the times. Finally the leader—we shall call him—Nas Oinotna out of reason, he was the warrior, right or wrong, he would have rather been left in the wild, but said in his own way (and I shall modify it in plain English)
“You Tall One, all this is what?”
And this would start the first debate on change.
“We need to leave our handprints, so our kind will know we were!” said the tall one of the two teachers.
“Tall One, that’s terrible!”
“If we don’t, it is suicide for our kind!”
“I don’t remember it,” the old man said, he had forgotten what the issue was, but the Tall One, he replied, “It might be considered a reminder for your children what your hands looked like, and what the animals looked like when there were more kinds of animals—when you area long dead.”
Now there were groans in the book of the room.
“Argh!” said one of the people behind the Nas Oinotna.
“What’s wrong will telling those after us, we were?” said the Short One, standing by the tall one.
“Nobody really wants to trouble themselves with such foolishness; we’re all rugged individuals, who want to think of ourselves as part of nature, not separate from it,” said Nas. The old Neanderthal had a hard time trying to focus on the material at hand. It might have seemed, had anyone had knowledge of genetics, Nas’ frontal cortex, could not activate because it could not find within the brain, a gene to activate the action of straight and divisive ideas, new issues that might lead to future harmony, he did not have a warm flush to his appearance. Actually the young ones now standing about were showing a preference for the teachers thinking of becoming like him, like them. Not even given the respect of looking back at the elders; completely in agreement with the new thinking, a new stability for them—perhaps something leading to something bigger.
It was a fact, pert near all the host had been of one mind, until the integration—how this all came about they didn’t know, but in truth, everyone does want to fit in, and so the old ones, silently agreed, to stop their complaints for change, this all was something exciting and desirable for the young ones.
“All right,” said Nas “let it be as you wish, even if it is not so good.”
The one behind Nas, the one that said “Argh,” and we now shall call him ‘Agro’ for short, said frowning, holding up his right hand, “Back up, this is the way you want to live, no us,” embracing the shoulder of Nas, “You can’t make us belong to this new kind of thinking!” And although Nas wanted to agree and say that, he didn’t and for a good reason, he knew he was old, who would feed him, and Agro, was not young or old, and could feed himself for many years yet.
“I don’t want to fit in, I don’t want to be like everyone, I want to stand out, and I want to fight, argue…!” He felt safer by expressing his opinion, and Nas felt nearly everyone else didn’t agree with him, but he was still a good person, and he felt good by saying what he had to say, it made Nas uncomfortable not saying what he felt.
Agro, snapped his fingers, and pointed to the entrance of the cave, “I go, I think the way I think. No new surprises, no distress. In the world out there, nothing is changing, in here everything is. In here everyone wants to be comfortable, warm, happy, and friendly.” And his conversation babble on a while longer, just repeating in circles the same conversation (because of a limited vocabulary), until there were several others standing by him, a furious rebellion was taking place, in the end, Agro left with half the Neanderthals.

Only time would tell if this would turn out to be a genetic disorder, meaning, had all the Neanderthals left, perhaps there would not be a genetic anomaly in this scenario: it was this group that left, who no longer felt, desired to join the majority, conceivable this wasn’t a disorder, but the Neanderthals would die out, and this gene would be carried forward, and in future time have to be harnessed. These rebels were not of the like mined people, a potential genetic disorder, in time—so it would be called, from the people who felt independence from the surrounding majority, was in it, to be considered pathological behavior. Perhaps put into the category of compulsive behavior, surely not positive behavior. Of course this was a time sociability was not the norm, standards had not yet come into place, and although getting along was a necessity, it was not always the case, and surely in due time, extinction of the race would take place, in both species if one or the other didn’t change..
And so it became.


One Year Later


The old warrior died, a year later, after that meeting, no one knew what of, but he spiked a fever of over 105, and had there been a doctor on hand, he might have said there was a multiple organ system failure, he was sick for several days. This was in a way, a shattering experience for the group, he was the elder, and he had cared for the young ones, beloved by them, perhaps shown now more than before, as often it is. He was during those last months a little ray of sunshine, whenever he came into the cave. Somehow he felt he had to take the risk of being more a part of the group, than being head of the group, if that was what they wanted. They wanted a new life, how then could he deny them the chance, so he told himself, and he put his hands onto the wall, and the Tall One, painted around his fingers and hand, and they told the old man, “We are sending this handprint to the future, people will see it, what does that tell you?”
Nas, sighed. And soon after that event, his liver shut down, his body swelled, turned into a gray color. And he stopped breathing. It took him days to die. They gave him a moment of silence.
This was—for the most part—a most hazardous and pioneer stage for mankind, an era that had to be passed; an outrageous era indeed, but a courageous time in the undocumented scriptures of humankind, a time individuals had to take risks, like the Tall One, and all the rules from the past were broken. As the Tall One thought, ‘What greater punishment would his sons and daughters face, had he not drawn those first pictures on the cave walls,’ it now would lead into ethical rules. Perhaps he saw in the old man’s eyes, pain and hope; whatever the case, he would not stand in judgment of him that was for sure, not like Agro was. Agro had created the concept of: them and us. Although with the old man gone, the cave was now quiet.

The Cro-Magnon
The New Gene



The Tall One, something took place within his grandchild, a single strand of DNA, and with a more condensed structure, showed up, unavailable to the normal cell. Why did it change, or how did it come about. Perhaps the someway everything comes about. Had someone had access to inject new cells into him? Of course not, but it happened nonetheless, and it was bound to be important, and The Tall One, saw something in all this. We may fill in the gaps later, but from the standing point of the Tall One, mankind as he knew it, could smile on the future, “I, uh…” he commented to his little grandson, he had inherited his changes, plus, something had taken place within his grandchild’s system, it was as if a gene had switched off to enhance the working of another gene itself, that then separated itself from those genes around it.
How was all this possible? It was like there had been a hidden force above the clouds, struck with boredom and wanting mankind to reach a certain stage faster, so they could come down and play longer, a certain species, race perhaps, thinking early man was no more than pet. Thus, they were home-rearing the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnons, to a more intelligential species, to have a greater capacity to become more than a mere human primate, beyond the chimpanzee stage, they had now mastered one-hundred words, what was long in coming, was now coming faster and faster (perhaps something lost, now regained). Indeed, his grandchild would need more stimulation then he, and become the guardian, and heir of something grander in the scheme of things.
The grandchild had begun talking early on, taken out of that old solitary confinement state that lasted year after year after year and he quickly learned his one-hundred word vocabulary, and started naming others things, to build that vocabulary to 150-words.
At first it was an observation, now it was a reality. One of the things The Tall One had learned from his grandson was ‘self awareness’ he recognized himself, in the reflection of water, it was a mirror, as the boy had pointed out one early morning, splashing water and looking and splashing and then the Tall One wanted to see what exactly he was looking at, only to find out, he was looking at himself. And it seemed to him, that was exactly that. And now he gave him a specific name, Owl, for he stared into nothingness, like an owl on a branch, but the boy was always thinking.


Owl’s Manual


The Tall One had died, and Owl was now a full grown person, he had built his vocabulary to five-hundred words, he had trouble with verb tenses, but he had nobody to teach him, he repeated his new words—and his kind grew stronger in linguistics, and there was of course no one to say he was in error. Owl’s assistant, his helper in teaching his kind symbols and language, he called Rove, because he had found him wondering in the open plains, brought him home, he had been of the tribe that branched out from the long dead, Agro—he seemed to have a different dialect, but was aware of many things, as someone had taught him on the side, the things the Tall One, was teaching his horde, with it, one might have even thought, Rove, was a transgenic, a hybrid, from those aliens behind the clouds, he was sharper than Owl, and Owl was amazed at the promptness he could put things together. Would the teacher soon be taught by the student? Man was developing and his genetic pool was enlarging at the same time.
There were these splits that were taking place, and very rapidly, not over millions of year either as one might expect, these genetic differences were evolving rapidly, in hereditary terms, perhaps within a ten-thousand year period, realizing ordinary such changes would take longer, but sexual preference can and did produce rapid genetic change; that is to say, from one stage to the other for humanity’s sake; between the Chimps or apes, and the Neanderthal, and perhaps the same between the Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon (in a like manner, it would seem once looked at closely, and perhaps more sensed than understood: the world, the earth I mean and all living things on the earth and the earth itself or the planet, shares an fundamental agreement with all life around them, we are all more polarized—to one another than we think, genetically and nature wise. And this sharing goes back thousands of years. )


Interlude


If you could have talked to Rove, who would become in time the wise leader of both sects, his home had been near the Black Sea, and Owl’s from the French European side, and if you could read his symbolism on those cave walls, it all would have given you a familiar story, one they lived—but could not express fully, that their ancestors roamed these areas 24,000 BC, ten-thousand years before them, and lived a very long time in rock shelters, they might admit they were homo sapiens in the making and Neanderthals of the past; but they’d had preferred to be called, early humans, that it took a long while to get to this stage perhaps because of the infections and battles they had with one another, this, trouble with fused vertebrae in their necks, coming from traumatic injuries, and the adult females lived with skull fractures, and perhaps a little mental retardation. Owl, and Rove, was learning they would never live to tell their story, so they handed it down to their children, put it on the walls, and in creating tools and weapons. There structure was similar to Metazoans (animals in general), and if one was to push it, perhaps not much different than humans and aliens, you know, those beings behind the clouds—whatever, and whomever they were, and whatever they were doing, and maybe they were working on experiments, who’s to say, a little genetic narrowing in regions in addition to regions that explicitly code for protein, and if one could regulate these, modify them, use as a pattern in creating a smarter species—it would help evolution out—push it forward at an excessive speed.
The question comes up, or may come up, or perhaps did come up at this juncture if indeed there were these beings behind the clouds, if they really were trying to produce, or enhance the human species, could they hybridize to be made human-zee. In other words, could they put on the shell of the human body, to live in breathe-breathing, oxygen world like humans, especially, if they themselves could live thousands of years? Were they trying this? Trying to create a better human being and then insert their genes directly into them, or into an embryo, that would produce a child like them. Beings that could not have children: a dying race?



Rove’s Legacy


So now they had communication, and a tinge of language, the genes of speech were intact, and the voice box had been for a very long time, simply inactive. All this seemed to be happening over night, someone knew something, and Rove knew someone knew this something he didn’t know about him and his race, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, but he looked in the sky a lot, saw things that looked suspicious—what he didn’t know was that some genes are activated environmentally inside of humans, which activate other genes when activated, thus the worm remains a worm, yet is not all that different genetically than man; put a different way, there are multiple coding sequences involved. But he knew somebody was up yonder, looking down, but who could it be, and what were they up to?



Saber-tooth Tiger



Owl had grown very old, and all those before him had died, now walking outside his cave, a saber-toothed tiger, leaped—seemingly out of nowhere—leaped upon him, bit his head off, chewed his flesh as he kicked about, and Rove could hear the crunching of bones.
The natural world was still alive, hungry, although the attacks were less frequent and the large cats no longer roamed freely like they had at one time—some fifteen-thousand years prior (an end of another age), leaving in the memory of all (genetically perhaps) that they brought man to his knees, at which time, mankind came to the edge of extinction (perhaps 2000-of his species left)—long, long ago—but for the most part, they were normal attacks still.


The Legend &
Legacy (The Great Gap)



Advance: starlight: a man can see by starlight, just as well as by moonlight, if he takes the time and now man was about to experience this: that is, a change in light, a change, perhaps a transgenic change, the idea was to introduce a new trait, not that anyone in particular wanted it to happen, but now was the time for it to happen if indeed it was going to take place at all. Environmental conditions were changing. This was to be the new image for mankind, a richer one perhaps, and more critical, more reliable; consequently, new genes would flow through the new now generations, and into darkness this new intelligence would take this new opportunity, to advance: and with the old Neanderthal and new cultivated intellectual genes, a more crude and cultureless people came about, drifted deeper into the labyrinth of ruin. Evils became ingrained over time, saturated the earth’s environment.


Fortress and Citadel of the East


There was now to be, a great disturbance, a king from the east, had started a legend, of a man who talked to the clouds, and the man in the clouds, talked back, and rumor said, he was in the lands of where the roots of the old Sumerian kings once ruled, and he sent out men to find this place, yet he could not, this was King Dadasig, of the second dynasty of Kish, who ruled 201-years. The population during those far-off days, let’s say, at about 8700 BC, was perhaps close to one million, a thousand years more, at 7200 BC, Jordon would boast 120,000 population, and at the Great Flood between 4500 to 3600 BC, perhaps nine-million. But at this juncture what was taking place was this: a new form of human had been created, one that showed all the signs of a highly intellectual individual, one that walked in harmony with nature and its creator, talked to the animals. In a location (now, Iraq), no one could find, yet it would seem in their own backyard. And then it came to pass, this location became desolate, and the two who came out of it, the female and the male, split up for 130-years, and she gave birth to a new generation, and so did he, and so did their offspring, thus, a new hybrid of human was in the makings, what took place outside of that location, produced inside those early humans, a master gene, that would in time, enhance every embryo on earth. It would be, the legacy of those two humans, yet there was a pure bloodline also. This was the legend that the king was after, and its legacy, he could never quite put his finger on.


But as time went on:


The Watchers
And the Giants
(or those behind the Clouds)


There came also a time—thereafter, when this gene pool was again infected—a few more thousand years down the road, when those beings behind those clouds came down to earth, genetically put on flesh: how they did this is still in question, and mingled with earth’s inhabitants—cohabitating with the human females. This produced deformed beings, half human, and half supernatural, giants, and animalistic looking creatures, they even mingled with animals: aliens in flesh. If we were to look at historical documents, we could proceed to review the books of Enoch, read the old scriptures of Gilgamesh, go to the land known as the Plateau of Bashan, where King Og, once ruled the last of the Rephaim, and its Giants. To each legend, if one looks deep enough, he or she will find where the truth resides. Giant human bones have been found, so this is no mystery, and aliens seem not to be so far fetched nowadays, it’s all unfolding in front of us, no more of the hush, hush dilemma that it once was. We seemingly just can’t put the finger on anything, although our focus is getting better. But whatever the case, these beings infected again the inhabitants of earth, and the earth rejected this, and that fellow, who did all the talking from the clouds, was no longer talking to anymore to anybody other than a few select prior to His Great Flood, which was soon to take place, that wiped out nearly the whole human race, although there were those that were left—of what nature I don’t know, but left for what, to perhaps show those who came from the loins of Noah, and King Og, humanity was taking a new turn.





Pre Adamic
(They were who they were)


The split between the old Neanderthal and the new Neanderthal, came about 90,000 BC (which produced today’s modern homo sapiens), as the Cro-Magnons came into existence between 27, 000 to 23,000 BC, whereupon, another split took place. But if we were to go back to the Pre Adamic age, the age where another race came to its end, and at that point gave birth to the Neanderthal, that would put the face of man, back onto the earth—oh, not like it was, but similar, we must go back to perhaps 600,000 to 350,000 BC, who’s to really say. But something took place back then, something nobody has been able to explain completely, total. But had you talked to those walls, picked up those bones, listened to the legends, you might have come up with, the truth, and perhaps it went something like this: somewhere in the past man had built a kingdom, perhaps pleural, it was the Pre Adamic age, actually, it was just before that age, because after that age, is when a degeneration took place among the living beings on earth, a collapse, which produced the Neanderthal. Before this, the brain of man was much larger, as we see in the Neanderthal vs. modern man.


The Mask and the Sword


There were kings of the earth back in those long forgotten days, 241,198 BC, the first being Alulim, then Alagar, and Enmeenluanna, and there was a great flood in those days, and kingship was send down form on high, a being that was light, and controlled half the solar system, thus, he controlled earth, until he tried to take control of the Universe, and then all the kings that were before him, and after him were cursed, into morbid despondencies, to roam the earth in hopelessness. Death was not yet created, as we know it; and those who did die physically, lived in an invisible mist, and called ghosts, until, the great Gap, the legacy.



The Present:

Awakening from the Dream
(Lee Maverick)





Tamarind, of Ushuaia



When Lee Maverick woke up from his sleeping and dreaming mode, he stood up, Sandra had left, and he saw Tamarind coming around the corner of the blanket, swinging her purse, her cheeks were chilled from the outside winds, likened to red apples. Over her shoulder her girlfriend, Sandra stood and smiled, Tamarind said with a smile, “You’ve been sleeping for several hours,” her face was flushed, and a few of the other girls were pacing as if they were on a cow path in the large room. “I was afraid to wake you up,” she said, she even looked younger than Sandra. Now Sandra was walking slowly backwards. The whole world seemed to be caving in on Lee, and for that matter, everyone, and here he was having sex, and about to have more with everyone around the fire in the center of the room.
No one tried to stop Tamarind; you could hear the winds coming in from the west, for the Tierra Del Forgo Mountains, down into the Drake Passage, and Cape Horn. He didn’t know what Tamarind was going to do, she came to him slowly, as he laid back down, she jumped over him, he pushed the blanket aside, and she was certain she could hear his heart beating, she was a bit frightened, not quite knowing what to do, but trying to pretend she did.
His breath was becoming slower she noticed, as he rose and fell, her body trembling, as was her lips, but then it all stopped.
“Please don’t keep your body so rigid,” said Lee Maverick to her.
She continued looking at him wile he tried to make love to her, trying to think of something to tell her. “I’ve got to be with you,” she said, “I know that,” clutching the mattress tightly.”
“Should I stop?” he asked.
“No, I can’t let you do that,” she replied. She turned her head as if to look around the blanket covering both of them, hanging over a rope in the big room, to see if any of her girlfriends were watching, and said nothing as there was a deepening feeling inside of her.
“Actually, I have been waiting for several hours thinking about this,” she released her hands staring at Lee, into the darkness of the room, “I know this will be short, but I want to remember it, please kiss me.”
“Please,” she begged, “please,” but Lee Maverick had already been kissing her; she was lost into the ecstasy of the moment. She was running swiftly with her feelings. Lee could force her to stop, it was for humanity, this event was taking place, but why stop he told himself, if he didn’t he wouldn’t know what to say to her. And he did not mind so much the pleasure, even if it was simply immediate-gratification, and no more than that.



End



And God said to Enoch, “Write all this down, all you have seen in your visions, all human history, for a remembrance!” And Enoch did as he was told, he wrote this all down in 365 books, and told the story of mankind from his beginning to its end, in detail, and that was that. And these books are kept in a secret place, for future reference.




No: 712 (11-08, 9, & 10-2010)



The Bulls of Bashan (a prophetic poem, revised 2011)

The Bulls of Bashan


(A prophetic Poem)

“I am the punishment God has sent you for having committed such great sins!”









Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.
Three Time Poet Laureate




The Bulls of Bashan
(A prophetic Poem)
Copyright © 2011 by Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D.

































I


“I am the punishment
God
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”



Tartarus,
home to the
Angelic Renegades,
the dark abode
of torment,
torture and agony!

Given to those who
left their first abode,
who shed their house
from heaven—,
That heaven gave,
for flesh and skin,
to cohabitate
with earthly women,
who gave birth to those Giants of Old,
called the Nephilm
and Rephaim—
in those far-off days,
in the time of Noah,
whose sons
worshiped
at the Circle of Rephaim:
Stone Heap
of the Wildcat!

The very ones
to be released
from Tartarus,
cast into the end-days

((that everlasting place
of woe and darkness;
now restraint in chains
only to return
to get revenge—
the angelic renegades)
(here they wait,
in that pit of darkness
with their sons of old—
the Bulls of Bashan,
and the demonic foe))



II


“I am the punishment
God
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”


These giants
of old
were bold:

Greek Titans,
partly celestial,
partly
terrestrial;
these were the Nephilim,
the Star People—
the ghosts,
the spirits,
the dead ones,
the Bulls of Bashan…
and
the Lord cried:
“The Bulls of Bashan…
have weighed down
my earth…”

(says He
who speaks
in Psalms).



III



“And then I saw the Legs
of mud” said Daniel.

And they were of miry clay—
made of dust,

And there the world was,
without boundaries
Global terrorism—
nuclear proliferation,
a cosmic threat,
a new world order
a new horizon.

Don’t be surprised,
the Nephilim are alive.

They, they are
the men of miry clay
(the dead
that once
were of heaven’s abode,
the old,
the cold ones,
returning
mixing with iron…
to no resolve).



IV



Like in the days
of Noah!
(From the roots
of Gaza, and those
at the Golan Heights:
the Nephilim
were left to fight…)
and now,
comes again,
this beast!
And the Trinity
cries in Psalms,

“The kings of the earth
are against us…
how silly can they be!”

O somehow
they
aim to throw
off the shackles
of God—
an unpalatable
disappointment—

“It is because the Rephaim
will not be resurrected,”

says Isaiah
in those far-off days—

“…and so it shall be
soon, as it was
in the days of Noah!”

(From the roots
of Gaza,
and those
at the Golan Heights:
the Nephilim
will come to fight.)

“So shall the end-days be…”

reiterates Jesus.

What on earth
did He mean?

The return
of the
Angelic Renegades:
look
into the window
for their illumination,
the enormous window
of everyday life
(look for Zeus—the
False Gods are coming),
the hologram:
that was,
and will be,
the three
dimensional map
for us earthly beings,
the “B’nai Elohim’
this hard cold breed
of angelic beings,
the Nephilim—
are on the rim
of earth
ready to integrate—
the world at large.

And the Lord cries out:

“Your gods are here…!”

They illuminate:

And the Lord cries out:

“Man appointed mortal sorrow;
but the blessed God shall come
down, teaching and shall the
despair rest and be comforted.”

So do not fear,
but pray,
and pray hard.

And to all those
who profit
by death,
stare into forever
for God has sent
this:


“I am the punishment
God
has sent you
for having committed
such great sins!”




V


And
there shall be
no order
out of chaos.
And God does not need
America
to protect Israel,
(or anyone.)


Cascading
all the shadows cascading,
the New World Order
becomes restless,
and that means
no more Jesus,
and that means,
now more America,
and Moscow,
and Iran,
and Jerusalem,
and the yoke
the White House shredded,
powerless,
the White House
become thin:
in an angry world,
the President,
an instrument
of God—
to be used for man’s
wickedness,
to initiate his plight.

Says Nostradamus:

“(Your American President)
he is in prophecy—you see,
the Last King of the South
to be: the Great Power,
who came from the dark
side of slavery.”

As people
were drawn to Hitler,
so they will be
drawn to Him,

“…but be aware of the power
given the Dark One:”

says Nostradamus—
the Antichrist
is near…!

He is
possessed
by those hierarchical
spirits

which can descend
into
any ordinary mortal—

a common
fleshy
unsanctified man.

Says Timothy:

“In the last days these will be
very different times:
for people will love
only themselves…
money.
They will be boastful
and proud, scoffing at God…
ungrateful. They will
consider nothing
sacred…
unloving and unforgiving…
they will betray their own
friends…puffed with pride…
stay away from people
like them! They are
the kind…they have depraved
minds and a counterfeit
faith…”

Thus,
the leopard
comes up out
of the sea
((Obama) (USA))

last king
of the south.

He will provoke Russia,
WWIII;

look in the
Book of Revelation,
Chapter Thirteen.

“And
I stood upon the sand
of the sea,

and I saw
a beast
rise up out
of the waters…

the name was
blasphemy”

(the rise of the
Antichrist)

And all
I could remember,
and I smiled
remembering:

“Thou shalt break them
with a rod of iron;
thou shalt dash them
in pieces like a potter’s
vessel.” (Says the Lord)






Notes: references: Jude 6; 2 Cor. 5:2; Josephus Flavius; 2 Peter 2. 4, 5, Testaments of the 12 Patriarchs; Traditional Rabbinical Literature; Psalms 22; Revelation 11; Psalms 2:1-3 (The Trinity); Reference to angelic beings “B’nai Elohim”; the Septuagint (written by 70-scholers, in Alexander, Egypt, 15-years to write, Old Testament into Greek Language (see: Genesis 6:1-2 Bene HaElohim “Sons of God” referring to angels, the fallen ones the Nephilim, born of the earth, and the hybrids, their offspring); 1 John 11 and 12; Job 1:6; Luke 20; Obama reference to Revelation 12:1; Tartarus, in Greek means hell, a dark abode of woe. Poem No: 2772 (Written 8-8-2010) Revised in style, 11-2010.