This Is No Fiction (LOWWC)

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posted on Feb, 16 2013 @ 10:21 AM
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Chapter 1: An Introduction; The Non-Fiction of Fiction

This book that you have in your hand is not fiction.

I know, I know, there must be some confusion. After all, you no doubt pulled this book from the fiction section of your local bookstore, before purchasing (hopefully). I’m sure you have read the label on the side of this book that states with authoritative confidence “fiction” or “science fiction” or even perhaps “mystery”—so “helpfully” printed by my dear publishers. But that label is lie. The events in the following story are, in fact, true or, at least, as close to the truth as a mere mortal, with admittedly a limited perspective, could make.

Of course, by now the damage has already been done. An expectation has been created especially for you, dear reader, by my publishers and their—ugh—“benefactors”. This book, properly labeled and delivered in just the right form to make it seem otherwise(with a dramatically illustrated picture on the front cover to make their point). The message to their deeply-researched (see cowed), pre-selected (see domesticated) market has been pre-packaged and ready for consumption. And even now, as I—the very bearer of the words in this book tell you that this is anything, but fiction, your conscious has already succumbed to the subtle (and brilliant, I must begrudgingly admit) propaganda.

Most of my readers (the few that in these perilous days, even care to read) will never believe the words between these pages to be true account of actual events. They will deny what has not already been presented to them as true—they are the lost ones and I mourn them, as I mourn myself. And the minority you ask? (You, of course, did not ask this. And no doubt desire not to know what those “others” think) Those quirky oddballs of society? The paranoid? The conspiracy nuts? The “out-of-the-box thinkers? (When we feel like being nice to them, of course). Those “magical thinkers”? The son or daughter or uncle or brother who isn't “quite right”? Hell, even the mentally disturbed, unfairly labeled (as I have now come to believe) “crazy”—who dare to believe something—anything other than what they have been told. They all will be tragically, but predictably ignored. Or even worse: they will lose confidence in their own revelations and intuition—they will come to ignore their own gut feeling.

In short dear reader, this story will never be taken seriously by any authority. It will not so much as accidently meander into the “History” or “Biography” section of any bookstore or library. And this is so, because the events—the truth in physical state—will be considered by most readers who have never encountered such experiences before to be too bizarre, too impossible, too out-of-step with the ordinary activities of daily life, and perhaps, even to close to the deepest fears of us all to believe; or even accept. For believing and accepting are far too different things. I will tell you up front, that this historical account will involve cover-ups, conspiratorial plots by the highest offices of power in government and business, the occult, murder, mystery, and inter-dimensional beings, and perhaps, even Gods. By now, if the mere labeling of this book as “fiction” as not eroded, if not, completely undercut my believability as a narrator, I suspect (and I’m sure right so) that the rest of you (sans a few brave—if not crazy few) now doubt my words validity. It is a sad outcome that I have prepared for, and I forgive you dear reader. What other choice do you really have?

Despite the coming fantastical and seemingly illogical claims of my accounts, I assure yo---no—I implore you; I implore you to fight your primal urge to suspend belief. The academics well versed in the techniques and methods of literature will, with predictable intellectual cynicism (see snobbery), will classify me as an “unreliable narrator”, appeased with the false notion that the mere act of classification is equal to presenting the truth. The average “Blow Joe” has a much more crude—if not more elegant term--- for which to entrap me: bold-faced liar. And they, like the ivory-towered literati, will proceed classify me in their own breathless and imprecise way. Either way, the effect will be the same—just as the phantom architects, the string-pullers, the unknown Monarchs of most presently perceived reality will have planned. And I will no doubt be another victim (among the countless)—alone, paranoid and full of undesired, horrifying knowledge of how our world truly operates—subdued by their trickery.

But I will resist the often over-bearing urge of apathy and disillusionment. I will tear away the veil that has prevented the public from seeing the real as it is. Clear, simple and undeniable. And I will do this, knowing that my efforts will all be in vain. And they—the powers over us all that lurk un-judged by their sheep will watch in pity and arrogance at my efforts. For this I have only one real and clear response:

Damn.
edit on 16-2-2013 by theghoster because: (no reason given)
edit on 16-2-2013 by theghoster because: (no reason given)
edit on 16-2-2013 by theghoster because: (no reason given)
edit on 16-2-2013 by theghoster because: (no reason given)
edit on 16-2-2013 by theghoster because: (no reason given)
edit on 16-2-2013 by theghoster because: (no reason given)
edit on 16-2-2013 by theghoster because: (no reason given)




posted on Feb, 16 2013 @ 10:34 AM
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sorry...but, facts matter to me. credibility breeds truth and trust, that's how the human mind works, and that's why humans have been able to survive for this long without becoming extinct.



posted on Feb, 16 2013 @ 10:35 AM
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reply to post by theghoster
 


fantastic - now all geared up for the stories ..



posted on Feb, 16 2013 @ 11:34 AM
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Chapter 2: The Familiar Face of a Bloody Advent

My heart raced, my hands forgetting the remote in its hand. The remote hit the soft carpeted floor of living room of the house.

Had this been what they planned all along? I thought to myself, my mind instantly racing to rationalize---no---dismiss what I was currently seeing.

On the tube was another shooter, but not just any shooter, I knew this man. I had seen him before. I had beat him once before. Not physically of course, but in a game of chess. And now here he was, on my television screen---his worn but eerily vacant looking visage splattered across my screen. Below his photo were bold red words, begging the audiences attention: ANOTHER MASS MURDER IN AMERICA?

The man's look hadn't changed much from when I remembered him, instead this time he had cut his hair--almost shaved it. The look in his eye---that had alerted drastically from before. When I had last taken his Queen with my rook and entrapped his King with a bishop back at the psych ward--he had a more pleasant and open face. He looked far more innocent than the deranged man, whose eyes I felt compelled to gawk at like some now captured wild beast in the wild. I sat up, edging closer to the television, as if somehow hoping that changing my physical place in reality would change the image. But, of course, that was to now avail. I was him alright--that was for certain.

I recalled even now what he had said to me on the final morning before my departure from the ward and to my hometown back South. It was one singular and solitary word: "Advent".Damn, if I knew what he meant by that at the time. Advent, advent---the arrival. The arrival of what exactly?

But, it seemed today I was getting the dreaded answer to the question. I pressed a button on the television, turning up the volume. The anchor man, his wispy and slick gray hair, only barely startled by the momentary gusts of the scene of the crime: it was small in Wilmington, Delware. The anchor moved forward, his arms outstretched to the now empty parking lot of what appeared to be the mall. A few police vehicles could be seen in the background and what appeared to be a SWAT car. A solitary pedestrian with a phone walked by, nearly interrupting the anchors perfect dramatic unveiling of the crime scene.

I blocked out the voice of the anchor, perferring to focus my senses on the scrolling ticker on the bottom of the screen. Many seen a horrid fate---the news station was estimating some nearly 30 had been injured and some 12 in critical condition. All-in-all the total deaths had been 13.

Thirteen--what I number for it to be

The local law enforcement had been called in some where in the mid-afternoon around 12:45 after reports of gunfire were heard inside the mall. I tuned back into the anchor as he continued on with the narrative of the shooting, his voice growing appropriately somber, but disturbingly professional. He noted that shooter had managed to hold himself up in a cell phone store and locked himself in with hostages, which he later inexplicably released after shooting himself.

The angle of the scene widened as a teenage girl, maybe 17 or so, was revealed to be standing beside him in horror. Her skin was pale and he nose was bright red. She obviously had been crying, or so it appeared. The anchor asked her to describe the scene and commended her for being "so brave" in the face of danger. She described the shock and fear of those around her as they fled for the western part of the shopping mall. Her voice had a tremor as she described seeing the first two bodies of the shooters target hit the ground. She described the scene like being "at a movie", but only more "real." Accurate enough, I figured.

The anchor asked her what she recalled about the shooter, if anything. She noted that the shooter had on a all black armor and black tennis shoes. She noted that the gun was "big...just big and loud." She continued on, stating that she could hear the shooter screaming something about phones. "He was screaming...", her voice trailed off and her face contorted, as she struggled to recall her horrid memories "...something about phones. He was yelling "turn off the phones---turn off the damn phones."

The anchor gave a solemn nod and thanked the disturbed witness before giving her a hug and some words of encouragement.

"The.....phones...", I said out loud, the words sort of falling out of my lips. I stepped away from the television, plopping back onto the couch. My mind wandered away from the television as the dashing anchor signaled to his co-anchor back in the "studio" that there was more coverage ahead. Cue the dramatic music and flashing images. This couldn't be possible, could it? My mind raced with the possibility and the terrifying; deeply terrifying implications of it all. My mind twisted and played with reflections in a not-to-distant past. I knew of which phones America's new lone-gunman screamed about. This was his new advent and I was in danger.
edit on 16-2-2013 by theghoster because: (no reason given)
edit on 16-2-2013 by theghoster because: (no reason given)





 
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