A NaNo Novel prophecy LOL- It'd work though!

Globalization drew closer with the commoners in power; The One World Order was achieved. What wars were staging- quelled. Not needing resources’ for defense, poor countries began upgrading their technologies in giant steps. Research and development departments everywhere had an endless supply of money gifted them by the OWO. Agriculture too benefited by this non-aggression pack made between all countries. Deserts in Africa flourished with irrigated farm lands.
Food grown was distributed better. Grains were grown where, planetary speaking, they grew best, as were other fresh vegetable and fruits. The One World Order, with the blessing of the people, divided Earths landmass into agriculture zones. World hunger lessened as productivity increased, everyone ate at the table post Two Thousand and Twelve.
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Note: This is page 11 or so leading up to, of course, the end of mankind as we know it now. :) Ain't going to happen book wise, but it's fun to re-read.

An old WIP might be resurrected. Yes or no?

CHAPTER ONE
Page 1
After the second day the smell permeated her clothes making the highball pungent as she raised the tumbler finishing the last of the scotch. Tipping the bottle to her lips a single drop oozed out and helped the pill slide down her throat.
“Now were out of booze, you son of a bitch, can’t even keep your wife drunk.” She said as the empty container shattered on his forehead. “Here’s the glass too.” With a round house throw the glass smashed against his chest.
“And you my dear stink.“ A crochet blanket was within reach. She tossed it at him and said, “Forty years dragging this blanket around- I’ve always hated this thing, and your mother too… son of a bitch.” She stumbled over to the kitchen table. “The mighty Mr. Jones- aren’t much of a man now, are you.”
The chrome toaster on the table mirrored her reflection as she sat down. Lifting it to her face she giggled at what she saw. The ruby red lipstick she put on the day before left a wide swath from below her nose and to then around her lips. “ Glad I didn’t go out yesterday looking like this, what would the neighbors say.”
Dishes broke as the toaster bounced off the counter top landing in the sink. Pepper and salt littered the floor with shards and bits of lead-crystal strewn about from an earlier pitch. The top of the pepper grinder was in one piece. She reached down and picked it up. “Remember this,” tossing it up and down in her hand, “My father had class.”
Pulling the blanket off him she softly wiped the remnant of the pepper-mill clean. “He’d tell you. Class. Show some class. And you, shit, class? Big-wig bastard. Mr. Jones they say to you. Mister. Huh! Mr. Son of a bitch.”
She hurled the broken crystal shaker-top across the room into glass-framed family pictures on the book shelf. “Guess it’s time to go to the liquor store. I’ll be back, you stay right here.”
Her foot slipped and she fell on her butt dirtying the dress filled with the strong odor. Cussing mad she tried to push herself up, but her hand slid across the floor landing her bosom flat against the linoleum. Her tangled web of uncombed hair whirl around from the back of her head to the front, resembling a mop and like a mop she wrung it out over the sink after she stood up.
“Your nothing but a pig. Look at me. This is your fault.” She picked out a broken dish under the toaster and flung it at him, but missed and the projectile skidded off the table embedding into the wallpapered wall. “Now I have to take a shower first.” She said.
A blue-flowery pattern sundress and a silk slip laid across her bed. A round gold-plated hand mirror, red lipstick, and an ornate ivory hair brush were meticulously lined up on her vanity, like tools of a mechanic might look on the garage floor while repairing a busted part, from left to right as needed. An ashtray held two lit cigarettes of various length, both ringed with a thick layer of the red lip paint. A set of long false eye-lashes resembling a fuzzy black spider were balled-up but still worthy of use.
Out of the steam filled bathroom she came, dripping water and soap, un-toweled, naked, craving a puff of her smoke which smoldered at the filter and used to light a fresh one. Sitting down before a large oval mirror she starred at her sagging breasts and bloated belly. Her mascara dripped in an ice cycle pattern down to her cheeks and the smeared red lipstick looked like a bloody drool beading on her chin. The bead dropped and splatter on the vanity.
“Look at me now, you bastard,” she yelled toward the kitchen, “I could have been someone.” Arching her back and folding her soap filled stringy hair to the side she said out loud to her reflection, “You could have been her.” Cocking her head back admiring the image through an exhaled pillow of smoke, “You were beautiful.” Cupping her bosoms and raising them as if still a young woman, she smiled.
“Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue-,” She sang then released her breasts taking another draw of her cigarette, “Oh Judy- It could have been me.”
Wet but not dripping, she guided herself around the bed to her dresser finding the one bra two sizes to small and wrestled with the clasp. Dressing, she first put on the slip, then the summer dress, her shoes were mismatched. She returned to the vanity.
With the tip of her finger she wiped off the smudged eye-liner and used the back of her hand to rid the lipstick from her face. Then as a man would wipe-off his hands on a pair of blue jeans at a ribs and chicken barbecue, she cleaned her hand on her dress.
Applying her red lips outlined three times larger than what they were, then her black the eyeliner, finally she painted on her eye brows unevenly as Picasso might have imagined. Adjusting her bra with a firm yanking lift, she bent forward admiring the cleavage it created. “You still have baby, don’t let them fool you,” she said to her mirrored image. As she left the bedroom it didn’t occur to her that one shoe was white, one was cream, one had a one inch heal, the other none.
Opening the front door she stammered, “I’ll be back.”

Anarchy in the Army?

Here is a true story. In 1973 as a 17 year old PFC in the Army, I held a strike. Shut down an entire post. How? I was the only person who had a drivers license and my job was to pick up 55,000 troops mail. We were understaffed because of the oil crises during that time period. Months went by with -me- alone- loaded a semi truck 4 times a day, with 70 pound sacks of mail, packages and once a month - pay checks. It was literally killing me. Passing blood like a hose, one night on CQ duty (guarding the post office) I started reading the regulations involving my duties as a postal worker. It stated that when paycheck came in, the transportation of those checks required a second "armed guard." I was transporting them alone.
My schedule was my own. I drove about 75 klicks each way whenever I thought it necessary.
After reading the regs, on payday, I told my CO I could not get the checks unless I had a guard. Said to my Captain, "I'll get the checks when I get a gun and guard. Until then I'll be at the snack bar."
About an hour after I walked off, the motor pool, finance, the post office and other units followed suit even though they had no right too, but I had some weird hold on them, and over 200 crowded into the snack bar.
Soon a squad of MP's entered with loaded weapons and under armed guard I was escorted back to the PO under a charge of mutiny- yes, the firing squad was threatened. I said, "Read the regulation."
Surrounded by trigger happy military cops, I just waited while they read the rules. I was right!
They gave me a 45 and a second man then I went and got the payroll which was held up for 24 hours. One man/ boy disrupted not only the Army, but 55,000 people lives who didn't get their checks.
I was right but they, the Army found their rule book and I found myself in the infantry carrying a 80 pound 90mm 12 k's a day for the remainder of my time. Ouch! But I preformed my duty.
Point to this story: When your right, your right. Gov. Walker is right and has the law backing him. Now, afterward he may suffer a transfer into private life by loosing reelection, but until then, and after he does what he feels needs doing, as Obama has done, all anyone can do is get mad. Like my Captain. When the law/rules are on your side you can do what you want, but know too, ramifications can be awful.
Now, if the regulations didn't back me up- I'd been shot or incarcerated for over 20 years.
The regulations and rules do not back the protesters and they are acting unlawful should be dealt with as any other mob.
There is a fine line between justified and unlawful and right now, Walker is/was me- a PFC who just won't take it anymore.


Hastily written but pretty much all there is to that story.

oh yea, before my transfer, two weeks after the strike- we got 8 replacements.

Friends on This Face Book Wall: Who is writing what?: Are you a writer?

Friends on This Face Book Wall: Who is writing what?: Are you a writer?: "Forgot about this blogger and felt compelled to at least, pop it up. What to write? Hmmm. By now most of you know I claim to be a wr..."

Are you a writer?

Forgot about this blogger and felt compelled to at least, pop it up. What to write? Hmmm.

By now most of you know I claim to be a writer, my last check received by me was earned as a writer, my six finished and three or four unfinished books, and literally hundreds of NP articles and columns would lay a foundation for my claim of being a writer, but, what I write, is so poorly structured, many people would say minimally I'm a poor writer. Fair statement. Yet it is that statement which proves my point. Writing is not a product of education or ability, it is a condition of the human genotype which affects very few individuals in comparison to world population. Why?

Is it S & M? Hurt me, hurt me, make me feel good with razory critique? Is it a function of the immune system staving off psychosis? Is it a form of low self esteem manifested by the need for recognition and affirmation? A delusional pipe-dream? A chance at wealth?

Or is it a calling?

There were no critiques when cave men/women wrote volumes about life with mere doodles. But then again, only a few did, not all of them. If so, the cave walls would be saturated with pictures. They aren't. So why did those few individuals decide it necessary to communicate?

My theory is that all that "Junk DNA" science still can't fully explain, contains the seeds of another human trait- Division of Labor. The ultimate device which accelerated we bipeds into a new consciousness of self-awareness which seems to have begun if not concurrently, then along with the notion of a God who told Moses to build the tent, then proceeded to hand out- instantly, the knowledge and craftsmanship needed to fulfill His requirements. (Shot in the dark here)

Could it be, that we, who write, write whether we want to or not, because we have been chosen, or are the descendants of the first chosen, and within that "Junk DNA" lies the God given DNA instructions to write or as it was, scribe?

Point is: Because a writer does not pursue publication or polished edification, makes him or her no less a writer than Shakespeare or King.

Every single friend here is a writer- (there are a handful who are not) and as such, are defined that undiscovered gene of the scribes, which makes us all related or all like-minded in some aspect of this reality. Sure is not politics, or genre, or spirituality, or gender- yet we are-
Birds of a Feather.

Prophecy- Why I had to write it.

This story is about a single life and things to which that life have been exposed, and due to that exposure this book, if to call it that, is about those things.

I was forced to reexamine certain events in my life which prior I had simply accepted as coincidence, and/or insignificant. After studying many accounts of individuals, who also, after experiencing phenomenal things, were compelled to write about those "things", I too will attempt to scribe similar accounts.

While it would be comforting to have company of those who were compelled, it would be greater if one of them, were alive today, so to stay my hand from writing, thus enjoying the "eat, drink and be merry" existence we all are living. But I can not. And I can not because of this poem I wrote in 1973:

Death is an oblivion

or so it may seem,

but still there are flowers and people who sing.

So when death comes your way,

do not be afraid,

for life and death

is just another way.

With that poem came the notion, or precognition, that I would die when I was between twenty-six and twenty-eight years of age. In 1983 I died! I was twenty-seven. After I came back to life, so to say, all that was revealed or written in the poem, has come to pass.

A second premonition was told to me by a mysterious man during my coma and death. If it should come to pass, be it good or bad, all of us are in for an awakening of some kind. Since the first precognition was true and happened, it might just be,... that the second,... is also true,... and might come to pass.

Intermixed between those two dates, 1973 and 1983, are series of events, which to most people, would seem extraordinary. To me they seem extraordinary. Is it ordinary to be bombarded with extraordinary things?

I chose to chronicle these events by writing an autobiography. Chronologically written, so in the future, if anyone tried to disprove these accounts, they could pull my military and medical records finding an accurate account of time-periods and people, documents and testimonials which would validate my claims. Not all, but most.

Why I write is not for monetary gain, for if to write and it sells, that is coincidence. I write as a chore being fulfilled without any expectations. This was inspired by two occurrences:

The first was in Germany after a revelation one night. It resulted in a military labor strike I initiated leading to a mutiny charge and threat of a firing squad. However, I was within my legal rights, but reassigned to a post called the “rock” as a 90/50 gunner in a Mobilize Infantry Battalion.

The second, in another extraordinary event during my "death", for which the message was quite queer and laden with an unknown, but impending consequence for humanity. The outcome of that extraordinary encounter is this book, I think, implied by the man in the light I met during my death who said, “Write”.

My first finished book I wrote just months after I became alive again, was entitled, “The Timelessness of Man." It was about the end of "all" on this planet. This, right after a coma, was on my mind, so I wrote a fictional story of how it will end. That short book has never been read.

This book, A Prophecy Fulfilled, is a story of one prophesy coming true, and one not yet fulfilled. The life of my death is two stories.

Both occurrences resulted in actions by me, which were not planned. I didn't plan on disrupting an entire Army post in Germany. l didn't plan on writing books. I didn't plan on having not one, but many unexplainable spiritual and physical encounters. I didn't plan on disappearing for an hour and a half off the top of a mountain. I didn't want to die. And I really wish I didn't write! But I have to.

This book is about someone, me, who, through extraordinary events , both physically and spiritually, has had to come to an understanding and conclusion, that, “WE”, are not alone in existence and that this “NOT ALONE” is whom we call GOD.

Through the ages there have been people like me: People who wrote and fell prey to ridicule and scorn until after they were dead. Then, after things came to pass, or found to be true, they, and their writings were heaped onto the pile of... “THAT WAS REALLY STRANGE."

Knowing only to well that I myself am heading that way... to that pile, I will go ahead and complete this story. This book is a witnessed and truthful testimonial, spanning twenty-four ( at this posting it will be 37 ) years of writing about oddities which have no explanation, and you, whomever you may be, can watch by reading.

To understand the book, you must know me, to know me is to know how I became me, and if that helps validate God, or our understanding of coincidence, fate, and spirituality, then I write this book for you.

Social Issues Only- Slim Pickings

Back to the collective consciousnesses of this Wall of Writers. We seem drawn away from tragic empathetic dissection of the world still. The Tucson shooting zapped the quest for contention even as Egypt erupts in clashes and coups, the bulk of the posts deal with writing projects and this weather phenomenon cinching our roam has most here hunkered down either editing or cuddling with their Kindles. The posts below are non-writing or weather related hot spots woven through a day or two of trotting rambles written by captive muses in their mellow moods.

CLICK ON WRITERS NAME TO REDIRECT TO THEIR PROFILE PAGE FOR MORE TO READ.

Alissa Johnson Egyptian Writer New Book Needs Help During Internet Blackout

Amy Lyndon In the moment

Joya Fields motherly love

Kathleen Walker human trafficking

Sandra Stevens Three secretes of the 60'ies

Michael Harris Mideast meltdown

Wendy Corsi Staub Let's change the weather-kind of

Jonathan Hayes alternative mobility

Jennifer Laurens seasonal love signs

Nicole Hicks via Adrianne Brennan no means no no mo- help needed

Marilyn Minor First Lady vs Oprah

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York Riots!

AseerI-Veronica Landes Empowered Girls-

George Cameron Grant NBC Farce

Margaret McSweeney Survival gear for mind and body

Kai Strand Goals?

Roland Lazenby Spots talk!!

George Cameron Grant USA & Muslim Brotherhood-

Linda Watanabe McFerrin Gun trouble in Tucson

Linda Lowe Apple Storm Birds

Patti Sherlock Mass burial in British Columbia

Henry Hutton environment friendly e books

Linda Ballard helping hand to spread The Word

Mick Rooney Unfair publishing practices?

Jonathan Hayes say no to phone books

Peter Kling All this chaos, whose in charge?

Sami Hartsfield Fun in consumer law issues

Randy Rohn Charlie Sheen- ween

Sheila Pedley Littleton UK Royalty- DNA likeness

Miss Sprint Cup life makes sense again!!!!!!!!!

Peter Kling Food Shortage

Mike Vara Paranormal Enlightenment