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SECRET OF THE NILE VALLEY     

      “It was in the Sudan where I first came across an astonishing piece of Egyptian folklore swathed in the candor of history. According to the legend, hoards of Hyksos invaders flooded across the breach in the great wall surrounding the city of Memphis.

  “Hailing their war cries and wheeling their battle-axes, they flooded into the city. Hacking blades and copper tipped arrows cut down the palace guard. The city’s elite garrison was overwhelmed as they rushed to stem the steady flow of Hyksos soldiers into the confines of the temples and palaces.

     The outer streets of the city were fraught with the Asiatic soldiers, spewing their vile hatred on the defenseless populace. Even those who surrendered were put to the knife. The barbarous invaders showed no mercy. Women were ravished and then murdered; all except those spared in order to carry the seeds of the northern invaders, adding further humiliation to the proud citizens of Egypt

      When the city was deemed secure, the commander of the conquering army ascended the thrown with 600 nobility knelling before him.

     Husbands and sons were made to watch while the soldiers violated their women repeatedly. The festival of carnage lasted for several days and nights. When only male prisoners remained, the fathers were made to watch as the drunken soldiers turned their hateful lust upon their sons, sodomizing them with red-hot chewers. 

     When no further death sport was to be had, the high priests were assembled before the commander of the mighty Asian army. Nothing in the sacred temples was disturbed. The high priest weren’t harmed, instead were treated with the highest regard, yet restricted to the temple. 

     Entering the throne room, the high priest of Ra stood before the Hyksos commander. “I demand to known two things. Where is the book and what is has become of the royal family? They weren’t among the other noble houses.

     “You will not find the book,” the priest canted.

     “Ah, but, that is where you are wrong, holy one. I know that the book is in your keeping.” The commander started to pace again, stopping before a younger priest.  “And, you will render it to me, even if I have to torture every one of you.” Without warning, he drew his sword from the sheath and lopped off the head of the young priest in one fell swoop. 

      “The commander then kicked the head across the temple floor, leaving a trail of blood. “No wonder this dynasty, the Sun king, and the noble houses fell so easily. They are counseled by charlatans and fools.” The high priest didn’t respond to the verbal attack, instead, began reciting an ancient mantra. The other priest joined him. The commander laughed at what he thought to be a feeble scare tactic by his desperate captives.

     He was about to order more deaths when a deafening reverberation shook the room. A violent wind blew the massive doors off the hinges, as if struck by the hammer of God. Everyone was thrown to the floor and the gargantuan braziers were snuffed out, blanketing the room in darkness. Minutes later the wind subsided and the braziers were relit, but the priests were gone. Only their robes remained. 
 

                                           The Stranger

    

 

 

The scout motioned from up ahead, and the armed team forged up the winding trail. Though carrying a wounded comrade, they movement was stealth-like. A deep sable sky offered a pale moon and steady wind rattled the trees and combed back the tall grass.

    

     A force of twenty paused near the top of the hill, in sight of a pasty old edifice. Their eyes scanned the stylishly detailed windows for the subtlest of movements. Their ears sifted the light breeze for even a whisper.  Keeping formation, they moved like phantoms to the side entrance of the safe house.

        

     Strategically spaced, the motley-attired team entered the house. By unit, they searched the cobwebbed and splintered old mansion. Their blue laser beams of light crisscrossed the darkness like the light sabers. With the house swept clean, their movements became relaxed.

    

     The kalunking of their heavy boots against the hardwood floors resonated throughout the ground floor. The house was empty except for a few sticks of dusty furniture, which seemed as out place in the elegant old manor as sandwiches at an opera.

     

      The group, in workman-like fashion, fortified the windows with wooden planks and bolted the doors with 2x4s'. With the points of entry sealed, they spread out their backpacks, weapons and sleeping bags over the ballroom floor.

   

     Finally, their wounded comrade was bedded down upstairs, the fireplace was lit and supper was prepared. Rations consisted of stale bread, vegetable broth, and water. Tristan, tall, blond, and strapping, paced while the others ate. He was also the only one still holding on to his weapon. Twice he peeked through the firing slits in the planks.

    

     "Monroe, after you and Mooch finish, I need you to get upstairs and relieve Lee and Asija. They need to get some of this chow. Monroe, a pit bull of a man, threw down the last of his meal and rose from the floor.

    

     "Tristan, maybe we shouldn't stay the night," whined Monroe. "This place gives me the creeps."

    

 "Monroe, we'll be fine here. Besides, we got a wounded man."

    

     "But, Monrovia's secret police have killed or captured everyone associated with the underground. If the police can't get them to give us up, there's Monrovia. Some say that she can read minds."

    

     "If she could read minds, don't you think her assassins would've been waiting for us when we arrived," answered Tristan. Tristan's response left Monroe scratching his head.

   

       "Monroe, it's going to be okay," interrupted Isabella. Monrovia's surveillance crafts and spy cams will locate us before she has to call on her telepathic powers." Monroe, face stoic, searched Isabella's face. Realizing that she was joining, Monroe belted out a hearty laugh. The others soon joined him.

       

     Isabella was a stunning beauty with a long, dark tress that she wore in ponytail. Her velvety soft skin was the color of the Sahara and her eyes were as soothing as a summer drizzle. Isabella was peculiar mixture of tomboy and Sunday school teacher. Still chuckling, Monroe motioned to Mooch to follow him upstairs. Tristan and Isabella exchanged long glances before Tristan grabbed up a bowl of broth and sat down to eat.

    

      After the fire died down, the group bedded down for the night. Suddenly, a tapping sound, mimicking the cadence of a dripping faucet, pieced the sack time chatter. Sitting up, they stared at each other. Then, just like that, the sound was gone. But, before they could relax back into their calm uneasiness, there it was again. The group sprang to their feet, clutching their weapons.

  

   Tristan gestured with his weapon in the direction of the dinning room. By candlelight, Tristan crept across the room, snatching up a flashlight as he went. The others followed, spread out behind him. Stopping just short of the doorway, Tristan pointed to Lee and Asija, who had just descended the stairs and was closest to the connecting door. Tristan silently counted to three, and he, Lee and Asija charged the room, the muzzles of their guns casting blue shafts of light.

   

      The room was still more shadow than substance. No one had spotted the blanketed shape occupying the far corner. Isabella then entered with a large candle, peeling back the shadows.

    

       "It would seem that we have a guest," Tristan whispered, moving on the balls of his feet toward the threat. Guns pointed, the group closed in.

      "Whoever you are, show yourself. You have nothing to fear from us." As they closed in, it became apparent that it wasn't a blanket at all, but someone clothed in a hooded robe. "Trent, you and De Andre have a look outside," ordered Tristan. "And, tell Monroe to keep his eyes open."

     Tristan had inched to within arms distance as the others fanned out to the sides. Just as he was about to reach out and prod the robe with the nose of his weapon, it moaned to life. The stranger, still shrouded, attempted to stand. After several tries, the intruder lapsed back against the wall.

     "I think he's hurt," said Lee.

     "Maybe he's wounded," posed Asija.

     "He's not hurt or wounded, you dopes," Isabella insisted. "Can't you see he's just an old man?" There was a collective sigh as their automatic weapons descended to their sides. Isabella pushed pass Tristan and the others and went and kneeled down beside the stranger. "No one is going to hurt you. Are you able to talk? The men nodded and slowly removed his hood.

      His skin was chestnut-brown, and his hair cloud white.

      "Well, what are all you gawking at?" asked Isabella. "You act like you've never seen an old man. Come; let's get you in the other room where it's warm. Are you able to walk?"  

      "Yes," the man murmured. Gently, Isabella helped the stranger to his feet. The man's movements were steady, but hunched and slow. Reaching the fire, she helped him into a old chair. The glowing light exposed an elderly, but gently aged face. His sharp eyes scanned the curious faces. Then he lowered his gaze to the floor as if he had grown tire of the scenery.

      Isabella retrieved a bowl of lukewarm broth and hunk of bread. The stranger's hands shuddered as he reached for the bowl.

  "What are you doing giving him our food. We may be here for some time." Isabella bushed Tristan's comment off with a raised eyebrow. Annoyed, Tristan turned his attention to the old man. "Who are you and where did you come from?"

   "Tristan, can't this wait?" asked Isabella.

   "Have it your way, but when he's finished, he going to answer some questions.  We can't trust anyone. All of our lives are at stake. His being here is poses a problem. What do I do with him now? If I allow him to leave, he could talk. And, I can afford to assign a man to watch him twenty-four hours a day.

 "He's just an old man, Tristan. Besides…" Isabella paused, looking off for a split second. "I…I feel like we've met before." She shook her head slightly, realizing how peculiar her words must have sounded.

    "Oh, that's just great. We should all feel reassured because you seen his face in a crowd somewhere. That cinches it then. He will be secured in the hall bathroom for the night…until we figure out what to do with him. Unless, of course, he identifies himself and tell us what he's doing here. We searched the house from top to bottom. It was empty. Then, he just appears. No, there's something not right here.

         "What if he's a Mystic?" added Asija.

         "Then let him render something and I'll let him go free," answered Tristan, mockingly.

        "You are consumed with anger, son?" muttered the old man, looking up from his broth. "Eliminate your fears, and you anger will disappear."

        Tristan, with scornful eyes, turned back to the old man. "After the Messiah pulled the nation back from the edge of the abyss, there was peace and plenty. The council, led by Mother Valora, kept the master's word sacred. Under her spiritual leadership the nation flourished. Utopia was achieved. Each citizen was free to live and worship as he or she pleased. But, that has changed with the coming of Monrovia, the master's unholy seed.

      "Using her remarkable powers of persuasion, she has subjugated the will of the council. She has intimidated them into acquiescing to her twisted ambitions. By her thirtieth birthday, she had usurped the supremacy of the council and launched her reign of terror.

       "Her first act was to expand the state police, including death quads. She outlawed all books, particularly books of faith. In the place of knowledge she substituted her own Declarations, a corrupted version of her father teachings. Her state police have arrest or killed anyone who disagreed with her actions, many of which were friends of ours. One of my people is upstairs with a bullet in her, courtesy of Monrovia's goons. It's even rumored that she's aligned herself with dark powers, that she performs unholy rites.

      "The land has fallen as barren as her heart. Where there were once ceaseless harvests, there are now state rations. The return of hunger and poverty has summoned the most visceral demons of our past, crime and murder. To display works of art or bare religious symbols is an offense punishable by death. With each passing day, the nation sinks deeper into despair. So, pardon me for being a little angry.

    "Tristan, we all feel the same way or we wouldn't be here," Isabella broke in. "But, this old man is a victim the same as we. The only chance we have is to appeal to all those weary of a programmed existence, where every hour of our day is planned, where spiritual reflection and mediation has been replaced with mass ceremonies glorifying her name. Remember, the book that we found in last year?

       "You mean the book featuring the girl, Dorothy, and her traveling companions," answered Tristan. "How can we forget? You won't let us. And, at the end of their spiritual journey, they discovered that the holy man was a false prophet."

        "Naturally, you would forget the most important part of the story," Isabella pointed out. "In the end, they learned that they held the power all along. That is what the Master taught: it is done unto you as you believe. Maybe that is what the stranger is trying to say."

       "Yes, but, I'm no tin man and you're no Dorothy. And what's more, there is no wizard.  But, what we do have is a wicked witch, Monrovia. And like the witch in the story, her powers are real."

         "Has any of you every seen her?," the stranger asked. The stranger's question drew chuckles from Tristan and some of the others.

   "Yeah, we've dined in the palace on many occasions," kidded Tristan.  Everyone but Isabella exploded with laughter. But, their mirth was violently interrupted by jarring rumble followed by a burst of lightening. Tristan's face grew solemn. "No one has laid eyes on her in 10 years. She never leaves the citadel she calls a palace. Her wicked deeds are all committed by a proxy, a dark, villainous man." Pivoting around, Tristan pointed to a Munoz, a lanky boy still in his teens. "Tell Trent and De Andre to get inside. I want them posted upstairs. First the old man, then the storm. Some coincidence."

      "There is no such thing," asserted the stranger.

      "What are you talking about old man," barked Tristan.

     "There is no such thing as a coincidence. Everything happens for a reason," responded the old man.

       "I've had about enough of you. You remain heedless to our questions, and yet you speak when no one cares to hear your thoughts. For years the spiritual centers crammed that nonsense into our minds. We don't need it from you."

      "Maybe, the message is sound, but your spirit is unwilling," said the stranger.

     Tristan, losing control, stomped toward the old man.  Isabella stepped between them. "The stranger is not a threat," she whispered.

       "And, exactly how do you know this, Isabella?" asked Tristan, regaining his composure.

       "It's like I've known him all my life."

      "Oh, you know him, now.  Be careful, Isabella. Next, you'll be telling us that this old man is the Master returned to liberated the nation from the clutches of his evil and tyrannical daughter."

         "You will not bait me into another conversation on the Messiah."

        "The Messiah lives," proclaimed the stranger, robustly."

       "Ah, he wades in again," Tristan balked. "And, what can you possibly know that we don't?"

        "I know that the fifth messenger lives." I further know that he has a second daughter. Flora, his wife, gave birth to a set of twins."

     This time there was no laughter. "You are all as bad as Isabella," admonished Tristan. "This old man knows nothing. He's just a vagrant.  He is just one of the millions that the Monrovia's propaganda machine claims to not exist. Everyone knows that the Messiah had but one child." Tristan's words failed to recapture the group's attention, as their eyes never left the stranger.  

       Isabella cleared her throat before speaking. "What he says maybe true. There has always been quiet talk of a identical twin. You've heard the rumors yourself, Tristan." Tristan was about to speak when Monroe called from the top of the stairs.

     "Isabella, it's Kendra. You better get up here."

      The group stormed up the stairs, all but Asija who was left behind to guard the prisoner. Isabella rushed to the side of her wounded comrade. Kendra had learned of the imminent crackdown and risked her life warning Tristan and Isabella. She succeeded, but only after taking a bullet in the side.

         "I tried to wake her to see if he wanted to eat, but he wouldn't respond," said Monroe. Isabella grabbed a towel and basin off the nightstand.

          "She burning up with fever," Isabella declared, dabbing her friend's forehead with the wet towel. "And, I'm afraid that she's gone into shock. Maybe if we had with some antibiotics…"

        "She's dying," interrupted the stranger crossing the threshold. Isabella continued pressing the cool compact to Kendra's face.

       "How did you get up here?" Tristan asked, his forehead undulated and his eyes knitted. Then Asija appeared in the doorway, slightly winded. "I turned my back for a second and he was gone. But, it was no way he could have made it up the stairs this quickly. I told you that he's a Mystic."

       "Who are you, stranger," Isabella asked, looking up from her feverish patient. Her question went ignored as the stranger proceeded to the side of the bed opposite her. He touched his palms to the wounded woman's forehead and then ran both hands down the length of her body.

       "The bullet has torn into his vital organs and she's bleeding internally."

      "We must get her to one of the spiritual health centers!" Isabella insisted.

        "She will be dead before morning unless…" The old man stopped.

       "Monroe, lock the old man in the bathroom for the night," Tristan ordered, with disgust. "In the morning, I will take a team and see if we can scrounge up some medical supplies," he said, looking at Isabella. 

   
       "What if the stranger is right?" asked Isabella. Tristan just shook his head and walked from the room.

       That night while everyone except the lookouts was asleep, Isabella visited the old man.

       "Without being seen, she slipped into the bath room. Once inside, she lit a candle. The old man was sitting up in the dark, as if he had been waiting for her.

       "I've been expecting you," he said.

       "I came to apologize for Tristan. He wasn't always the man you see. When we joined the underground, it was just to put out a crude newspaper. It was our way of fighting back. But, when Monrovia began her crackdown, we were forced to defend ourselves. We were all dreadfully inexperienced when it came to weapons and tactics. However, Tristan had an undiscovered talent. He instantly took charge. Under him and with support from the underground, we formed a cell. It was during this time that Tristan's mood darkened and his devotion to the master's teachings faltered. However, I have another reason for coming.

      "I know why you came, Isabella. All things are possible if one has enough faith. Isn't this what the master taught, and are these not the words of the Carpenter who preceded him. Man is divine by his very nature. His thoughts tie him to the Universal Mind, which is all of existence. What man pours into the Great Void will be returned to him. Therefore, our true enemies are our very own fears, doubts and disbelief. You, my sister, can summon the supreme agency that lives in the realm of infinite possibilities if you but slay these three demons.

     "You tell me nothing new, stranger. The spiritual centers and meditative retreats taught us that since we were old enough to attend."

      "That's just it. It has been taught to you, instead of being demonstrated for you. As a consequence, the truth of the Master's words has lost its spiritual vitality. Its true meaning has been lost. After the Master departed, Mother Valora lead the way, encouraging the practice of her son's teachings as it spread throughout the world. However, she resisted direct interference. She understood that the son's message was a mighty as the ocean, yet as delicate as a drop of dew on the rim of a rose pedal. That is, it couldn't be institutionalized in the tradition of world religions.

        Nations thought that they were fostering the Messiah's teachings, when in reality they were suppressing them.  Mother Valora with the help of the Mystics waded in to stem the tide. Nonetheless, schools, churches, and spiritual centers grew more dogmatic, their religious hierarchies growing in power and corruption. After her death, the Mystics soon withdrew to the mountains, practicing the teachings of the Messiah in seclusion."

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New York, New York/ October 7, 2008- Political Scientist/author James A. Hall (www.americanmessiah.net) is proud to announce the publication of the ultimate post-apocalyptic adventure, American Messiah (14.99/North Star Publications). This 332 page captivating science fiction thriller is laced with profound probabilities that maybe unfolding today.

This fascinating depiction of an ominous futuristic America combines a bit of history, Biblical scripture and a lot of imagination. American Messiah tells how righteousness and social equality is obliterated following an economic meltdown, leaving behind corruption and disparity to govern the New America. Feeding off greed and faithlessness, the Illuminati succeed in placing their master, the Prince of Darkness into power, and then positions his immoral peons within every sector of government worldwide.

In the nation's darkest hour a black child is born, his coming long prophesied. As the Barak Obama-like figure matures into manhood, his legend grows and so does his following (bridging traditional racial, gender and class divides) until he is a force to reckoned with. In a crucial clash, one that has both imminent and eternal implications, the American Messiah takes the fight to the forces of evil.

American Messiah offers a terrifying, yet crucial caution to the nation. The novel the challenges prevailing paradigms of military dominated global strategies, consumer-driven economics and greed and excess.  

James A. Hall is a long-time educator, social activist and author of two controversial books. He's also contributed to political and historical journal: including the Virginia National Historical Society and Future American. Mr. Hall is an award winning scholar receiving fellowship grants from the National Science Fellowship and Society for the Advancement for Urban Studies.  

     I know how it sounds on the surface. Of course, millions of Americans will lose the jobs, businesses will fail, and millions of families will be rendered homeless. The damage will be enormous, but a shifting of the American mindset is vital to our survival.

     Neither Obama nor McCain can trigger this catharsis. America has lost its competitive edge and a depression is perhaps the best way to get it back. Consider what good came out of the Great Depression.

      Monumentally, the nation's infrastructure was rebuilt. NRA, CCC, WPA helped to solve the unemployment problem. Taking a page from the New Deal, some experts say that 5 million jobs could be created with an energy reconstruction program. Millions more jobs can be created by rebuilding the nation's crumbling infrastructure, more than replacing the 1.8 million manufacturing job lost since China joined the WTO (World Trade Organization).   

     From the harsh lessons of the depression, America learned frugality. As a result, America emerged a creditor nation. In sharp contrast, American is now a debtor nation, borrowing $10 billion a week from the Chinese, to purchase mostly foreign goods and to fill our foreign imports with foreign fuel. Those Americans who survived the depression would never have been so utterly irresponsible.

    When I was in third grade, my teacher boasted that America was the wealthiest, strongest and freest nation on earth. Well, freedom isn't free, and national security doesn't come cheat. How long will our economic preeminence last if we rely on our enemies for fuel and turn to our European and Asian competitors to prop up the sagging dollar?

    Unfortunately, the lessons of the past have been lost on the present leadership, so we are doomed to repeat them. Thus, a depression is probably inevitable. However, that might not be so bad considering that there's a fate far worse.

     If you're wondering what could be worse than a depression, read my latest novel, AMERICAN MESSIAH. It offers a culturally and technologically actuate, although sometimes frightening, depiction of what might lay in wait around the apocalyptic bend.

America at the Crossroads

I am sorry to burst your bubble, but Barack Obama is no messiah. He cannot single handedly cure the nation's ills. Some people are looking to him to save America. They want him to do what they themselves cannot, or will not. And, that is to steer the great ship of state from its course of business as usual. And, John McCain is the same old Republican Party brand. Paradoxically, he claims to have the answers to many of the problems that his party under President Bush caused in the first place.

Now I've make some pretty harsh accusations. To test the validity of my assertions, we will have probe little deeper. Let's start with what our country needs RIGHT NOW. For one, we need a government that is free of lies, open to change and compassionate.

What do we have now?  To start with, look at the way that the America people were deceived about Iraq possessing nuclear weapons, WMD's. Do you remember all the propaganda the poured from the White House, with Condoleezza Rice, Gen. Collin Powell, and Donald Rumsfeld leading the crusade? After 911, with some much blame going around, few in Congress would dare challenge the President's call to arms.

The American people went to bed after watching the late night news convinced that Osama was under their bed waiting to cut their throats and Saddam was in the closet with a dirty bomb.  Is it any wonder that the campaign to "shock and awe" the Iraqi people faced so little opposition in congress. When the TRUTH finally surfaced, we were knee dig in it. What did the war cost us?

Well, let's see. We had gone from having the sympathy of the world to being the scourge of the civilized world. As a result, we've become estranged from our allies and provided valuable propaganda for Al Qaeda recruitment machine. In addition, the billion dollars a day cost of the war has had a devastating affect on the American economy.  Important social programs are being cut, and the American infrastructure continues to crumble, including: education, roads and bridges, water, energy, and transportation. So much for trusting the American government.

Democracy, if not for not of the consent of the people, is tyranny.  Presidents have claimed to have the welfare of the American people at heart? However, paying off their debt to special interest supersedes all other priorities.  Cast in point. Each presidents since the oil embargo of 1973 has placed the interest of the seven sisters, seven largest American oil companies over the needs of the American people. While oil profits reach record level, the working class takes a beating at the gas pump.

Even a blind man can see that our crude oil dependency results in: the death of thousands of America's son and daughters who are deployed to oil regions, the transfer of trillions of dollars to the Middle East, and the inflation of goods and services across the board. All of which undermine national security while financing the very same terrorists that the government claims to be seeking to destroy.

The third requirement of good government is compassion for its people. In response to that, I have one word for you. Katrina. I will never forget the faces of the tens of thousands abandoned by their government for 5 days to survive the best way they knew how. The president claimed that he was unaware of the crisis. He blamed the head of FEMA for the blunder, who when pressed for an answer by an enraged newswomen said that he had no idea of the horrendous conditions in New Orleans. These were Americans. Where was the same compassion shown to third world nations faced with natural disasters?

Can either candidate change the way Washington does business and provide the American people with what the Constitution says they are entitled to?  I think not.  In my humble opinion, the American people are going to have to get involved, and fast.

 Apathy and rampant disconnect is the real enemy. How long can we use NASCAR, Monday Night Football, and American Idol to escape our responsibilities as citizens?

There dire consequences for our indifference. For example, if we want to lessen our dependency on foreign oil, we have to change our lifestyle. Drilling for more crude is not the answer. America must become energy conscious in a way we never have. In the same way we must become dedicated to transforming our faltering educational institutions, our corrupted financial institutions and outmoded factories.

With China and Japan on the rise and even Russia looking to return to world prominence, the future is now. We as a nation must face the reality that we are at a crossroads. The entire community must get involved in schools on all levels; businesses must provide internships to promising youth, those who are able must donate to charities, those without the finances must donate their time and those with skills must train others.

Make no mistake; our vast wealth will not save us, considering that we are currently thirteen trillion in the red and nearly haft our annual budget is going to service the interest alone. If the future of this nation is to rescued from the shifting sands of economic and technological change, it must begin at the bottom and work it way up, and not the other way around. In the words of John F. Kennedy: Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.

The Apocalypse: As American As Apple Pie

       American has a growing love affair with the end of the world. Why this fondness with all things apocalyptical? Novels like "The Road "by Cormac McCarthy and "The Stand" by Stephen King are perennially perched atop a dozen bestseller's List.

    Motion picture films like "I Am legend", adapted from Richard Matheson's 1954 novel, and "The Postman" by David Brin have earned more than respectable box office returns. But, more important is the growing success of the genre as a whole (films, literature, fine arts, and even heavy metal and gothic sound tracks). Its mushrooming popularity reveals a dark undercurrent of the American psychic, manifesting an obsession with post-apocalyptic visions. Hollywood has already pulled the trigger on several apocalyptic thrillers aimed at teens and pre-teen audiences.

    While significant groundwork was laid during the 1920's and 1930's, the real work was done in the aftermath of War World II. Science fiction writers imagined a planet occupied by alien life forms, or wrote of meteor showers leveling cities and bringing civilization to the brink.

     Others world-enders pursued a more religious theme, threading the stories with the ultimate triumph of the forces of God over the forces of the ungodly. Christian fiction writers, borrowing from the Old Testament, wrote of end days as prophesied in the Book of the Revelations. However, early religious fiction was limited to a paltry audience of apocalyptic aficionados and religious extremist. Nonetheless, by the start of the new millennium Left Behind, the blockbuster novel by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins, took the genre mainstream.

     Secular visions of the apocalypse would have to wait a little while longer. American popular culture was beginning to embrace the-end-of-world-has-we-know-it.

      Once everyone laughed and pointed at the psycho parading the end-is-coming sign, tolling the bell of Armageddon and preaching salvation. Ironically, now, Hollywood is financing those who would warn of impending disaster, and point to the dark omens. And, they do with digitalized high resolution film and surround sound.

     The dropping of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs and the Arms Race opened the door to the fear that one day the chickens could someday come home to the roost. The very same fear expressed comically in the classic Dr. Strangelove: How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Bomb. Bomb shelters, fallout drills and the emergence of the survivalist market was testimony to Americans growing apocalyptic dread. Total destruction became a real possibility for millions of Americans. Nowhere is post-apocalyptic American better depicted than in "Alas, Babylon" by Pat Frank and in "Canticles of Leibowitz" by Walter M. Miller.

     But, America's growing infatuation with a domestic brand of Armageddon reached its apex with the 9/11 tragedy. The image of New Yorkers fleeing the crashing towers and the toxic clouds of the death was broadcast over and over until the image was emblazoned indelibly in our minds. America's exalted sense of invincibility came crashing down with the WTC, our feeling of security forever buried in the rubble.

      However, there may be other reasons for the growing popularity of doom and gloom. American technological and economic achievements helped her to amass great wealth. The American standard of living is admired and envied the world over. In the history of the world, no society has achieved as much, so quickly.

     Yet, no one knows more than Americans the price of that progress. While few Americans would trade their way of life for any other, psychologists have long documented the mounting feelings of alienation, acute anxiety and depression among the working masses. Most Americans at some points have felt like interchangeable cogs living a purposeless life in service of corporate American. Thus, no one knows better the crisis of progress.

     This may explain America's perverse fascination with eschatological (what if) scenarios. I am Legend; the mega-budget post-apocalyptic film opens with, Will Smith, motoring through a deserted New York City in a red supercharged Mustang convertible. Later he's patiently stalks his prey, only to have it claimed by a family of lions. Man relegated back to just another hunter, just another creature having to kill to survive.

     Strangely enough, as terrifying is the idea of being the last human alive is (not counting the mutated creatures wandering the landscape); the scene conveys a certain feeling of liberation. In the absence of both convention and law, there's only the law of nature. The way life was before the rise of civilization.

     And, even in The Road, where a dying man and his young son faced spine-numbing cold, starvation, and a desolate and unforgiving countryside, there was a kind of deliverance, a lifting of the veil. I am not suggesting that Americans long for an end to it all. Yet, the growing genre may offer an exhilarating change, an escape, from the routine drudgery of rat race.

    Another reason for the genre's growing popularity is the speculative aspect of the post-apocalyptic themes, artist stretching the limits of their imagination in regard to what is or is not possible. One writer wrote:  "Apocalypse is one of those realms where the ideological spectrums bends into a circle and the extremes meet".

     These thought experiments erase so-called boundaries, suspend ordinary thinking and incited a new consciousness, transcendent and mystical. Post-apocalyptic fiction "tears everything down, and speculates about how human nature will react". It looks at the psychological, sociological, and physical ramification of living in the aftermath of the apocalypse.  Where technology is sparse, and man is striped of his machines.

    In the end, post-apocalyptic fiction may offer a "self-defeating prophesy". Maybe its only real value is in its warning to the human race. It may be a means of dodging an apocalyptic event, cheating out self-prescribed fate. A reorganization of perspectives, a global paradigm shift, may be just the thing to turn America from it's (what more and more experts are saying is a) self-destructive course. Perhaps, this apocalyptic faith addresses a long forgotten need to return to our place in nature. And, by that I mean man's harmony with his surroundings, and with respect for creation. If we don't, may God help us all.

The Messiah: Fate or Fiction

     Seers of all faiths and keepers of the mystical flame heralded his coming. A child brought forth by God to rescue America from herself, and to be an arch over the tumultuous waters of fear and doubt to a distant shoreline of supreme knowledge and volition.

      Skeptical clerics marked him a false prophet, as they clutched tightly their crumbling world of stoic illusions and dogmatic perversions of the Word. When this failed to dissuade his followers, political powers sought the Messiah's death. Nothing less than the pretender's blood could satisfy them. Pursued by ruthless raiders, mountain commandos, and a massive army, the miracle child blossomed in to a shepherd of men and a peerless commander on the battlefield. 

      The boy savior ascended from the ashes of a collapsed civilization as a beacon of light for the righteous, and a final warning to the iniquitous.  Those with ears to hear his message, eyes to recognize the countenance of truth and the pureness of heart to perceive the presence of the God in all things, gathered around the boy savior's campfire as he rendered a God inspired vision for the world.

      Displaying the mark of the lamb, he carried the heart of a lion into battle. Undaunted, he would assemble legions of spiritual warriors for a final reckoning with the soldiers of darkness. The seeds of his unconditional love and supreme wisdom would give birth to a mythos and spiritual order of unparalleled peace and prosperity.

     Under the deleterious spell of materialism, the world had accepted the death of god and celebrated his demise. Pious pillars supporting the church shook and crumbled under the strains of scientism and technology. The last vestiges of fidelity blasted away by the twin tempests of political ideology and the capitalist paradigm.

     Man placed his faith in the institutions of his own making. As his puny and atrophied social structures faltered, famine, war, and mutated viral strains claimed the lives of hundreds of millions. 

     Groping in ceaseless deprivation, man imagined himself alone. With no memory of his divine self, he sank deeper into the darkness.  There he encountered an inscrutable presence. From the bowels of hell, it came bearing the gift of false deliverance. Many were deceived. His followers pledged their loyalty by waging an unholy war against the human race, placing the world in great peril.

     Greed, the blind will to power, and the drive to enslave all of humanity became the unholy mission of these arcane lords. For centuries, the dark lords worked to raise the Anti-Christ to a place of worship. Toward that end, the truth became a lie and a lie became the truth.  As long as their dark influence prevailed, humanity was cursed to dwell in a state of barbarism and war. With each planetary crisis, the powers of the Dark Prince grew, while hope faded.

     In the days that followed, this demonic order plunged the world in to a New Dark Age. It was an age that fostered the spread of ignorance, the perpetuation of fear and dissemination of misinformation. The world witnessed a period of unprecedented economic growth followed by a rapid decline of the world's financial system. Behind the scenes, sinister forces worked to bring about the proliferation of nuclear weapons.  The world stood helpless as rouge nations and terrorist organizations tightened the hangman's noose around the necks of a world sentenced to death and awaiting execution.

     The floodgates of reason were flung open and waves of ignorance and loathing flooded the lush fields of tolerance and reason.

      The beast first reared its evil head in the Middle East. Its influence then spread to the West and to the Far East. NATO was dissolved.  Economic competition and the resentment of American's hegemonic rule over world affairs dampened her relations with Western Europe. Dozens of former allies routinely lined up in opposition to American foreign policy. America found herself alone, with the exception of Great Britain and a few Eastern European countries. Facing an increasing hostile Asia, where China and North Korea were mounting threats, America was forced to withdraw from the region. Shifting geopolitical conditions hampered the war against global terrorism.  The cost of which was astronomical.

     The world was had never been a more dangerous place for America.

       But, even these daunting challenges were only the tip of the iceberg. Domestically, the great nation was showing cracks in its political and economic base.  Whispers of discontent swelled into organized rebellion. In a climate of crisis and fear, mid-western states challenged the federal government's authority and power under Article I of the Constitution. Acts of terrorism by domestic and international groups, unprecedented crime rates, and a crumbling economy compelled the government to revoke the Bill of Rights in favor of marshal law.

     Faced with an insurmountable task, the beleaguered President called upon the Pentagon to guarantee internal security. When the central government's police efforts failed to calm the escalating turbulence, there was a disintegration of confidence in the new government's capacity to stabilize the besieged nation. As an undercurrent of panic spread across American, a splintered electorate demanded sweeping political changes. Only chaos ensued.

      The nation began to come apart at the seams. Seeds of secession sprouted up in the Mid-West and spread like a brush fire through prairie town and big city alike. Washington's powers continued to erode until it could no longer preside over the Union. Events began to spiral out of control.  Anarchy followed in the wake of widespread rioting.

      Fundamentalists fanned the flames of racial and ethnic paranoia helping to plunge the land into a Second Civil War. The nation fractured into separate spheres of influence. As the central government's power continued to decline, so did the state of things. Hordes of lawless warlords, opportunistic mercenaries, and Techno-corporations rushed in to fill the vacuum of power.

     A murderous and brutal autocratic government would rise up laying siege to Washington, taking the land of the free by storm. From it seat of power in Oklahoma City, New America would supplant old America. For the survivors, "…and liberty and justice for all" seemed a distant memory.

     Alone against the onslaught, a federation of divinely inspired Americans, led by a supreme sage, unlocked the gateway to a realm of infinite possibilities. The course of world history would be forever changed by the battle that was to follow, a battle pitting the forces of good against the forces of evil, with American the battleground.

God, Man and Creation

By

Pharaoh

I've passed beyond this world and experienced worlds greater in number than all the grains of sands on all the beaches of the world. I have bathed in the truth of the living waters, found eternity in the moment and seen the universe in a grain of sand. All imaged boundaries faded in to a forgotten dream. Through the eternal spirit, the totality of creation has been revealed to me.

I was fed Nirvana from the open hand of the Great Buddha, awoke to the dawn of the Christ Spirit, bowed in prayer with the Prophet Mohammed at an eternal sunset, meditated in the garden of creation beside Lao Tzu, and was guided to the Great Hall of Souls by Upanishads, Keeper of the collective consciousness of man. Freed of all earthly chains, my soul transcended.

Beyond the veil of the material world laid worlds of freely interpenetrating spectrums of light energy emanating from a vibratory essence. Starting with a creative pulsation of divine volition, man begins his journey into being. Down through the spiritual, astral and material planes he descends. This emanation of light grows dimmer and dimmer as the soul descends to the low levels of consciousness. Finally, the eternal substance becomes manifest in earthly clothing.

Man's manifestation on the material plain is part of the divine process of creation, where life acts upon life to eternally perpetuate itself. All becoming all. Essence preceding existence. The One becomes the many without losing any part of itself. The Whole is present in all of it parts as the part is present in the Whole. As the light of creation resides in man, man possesses a gushing fountain of unconditional potentiality.

Sadly, in the lower conscious state, he remembers not his wholeness, his oneness with all of creation. Instead, he remained trapped by the very tools he uses to view the world. His logical mind aided by the sensory organs spits his reality, casting him afloat in the waters of life.

Most souls are held under the siren's lure of the five senses. The enlightened; however, see with mystical eyes, hear with ears born of the immaterial, and feel textures of countless variety. Their awareness encompasses the astral side of the five senses as well as a sixth and seventh senses. The sixth-sense exist as intuition and the seventh as thought transfer. Everyone has these synchronistic experiences at one time or another, but lacking knowledge of the cosmic laws of the universe, they brush them off as coincidences or unexplainable phenomena.

Some heightened souls, while on earth, cultivate their spiritual nature, surpassing the use of the five senses to achieve extraordinary vision. These souls may either use their powers for the good of the planet or for selfish enterprises thus inviting calamity and lost of power. By giving in to their bestial nature, these few retard humanity's spiritual restoration.

They act as false prophets (betraying God and man) steering humanity away form there light of truth. Their world is flooded with negative thought-forms that vibrate at base frequencies. Humanity is then held in the grips of perpetual slumber. He is unable to awaken to the eternal sunrise and his rightful place in the universal order.

These thought-forms fasten man's linear perception of the past, present, and future. His time machine provides a spatial and temporal corridor that plays host to his object reality. At the center of his imaginary universe is his created self, his ego self.

In the ego dominated world, man's lower nature rules supreme. Believing that he exist as apart of yet apart from all of creation, man ignores his immortality and wages all out war against what he perceives to be a treat to his continued existence.

The ego nature is exclusively concerned with the finite world, a world of objectives. The ego's council is false. It whispers words of deception in man's ear as he sleeps. He assures man that the dream is reality and reality is but a dream. The words describe a world of boundaries and separation. From the initial separation of man and divinity, a myriad of boundaries emerge to imprison him. The human personality then governed by categories of limitation beginning with the supposed separation of matter and energy.

Earth's scientist are beginning discover what mystic sages have known for eons. Matter and energy are two different sides of the same coin. At the very essence, this dichotomy (as with all others) is the Great Void discernible in the physical robes of duality and multiplicity.

Here lays the ontological keys to the celestial doors of divinity. Unlocking the door, an ever existing and ever reaching sea of pure energy that is existence is revealed. Man's oneness with all of existence is discovered. With this illumination comes the power to cure the sick, transformed smoke to stone, or transcend the time-space continuum. All things are possible in this elevated state of consciousness.

Others cannot let go. They are held in the hellish grips of the demons of their own mind.

Not even the fellowship of the Doves can reach them in these dark, putrid dungeons of the ego-mind's creation. They may be reincarnated but, only to begin again below evolutionary stage of a man. That soul will have to circumambulate up through the sublevels of the material plane.

Life acting upon life creating a cosmic helix spiral. The helix is composed of a cosmic substance emulating from the living intelligence in the hologramic medium of sub-atomic particles. This atomic singularity is the source of all matter, including the body of man, and is the buttress of objective reality.

Souls that have suffered great guilt or pain on earth may relive those experiences, and thus reviving those emotions. Sorrow and self-loathing may descend upon those who have taken a life or inflected great pain on others. He or she has to learn to let go of the terrible wrongs. Before they can ascend to higher levels within the astral plane, they have to forgive others as well as themselves.

These thoughts weigh heavy on the soul, and cause it to resonate at a lower frequency. Reincarnation may be the only way for them to work through and overcome the thoughts of pain or suffering that impedes their progression. Some may live out several lives before accomplishing them.

While the astral plane is mutable and altered by the power of thought, the soul cannot be fooled like the mind, which may be tricked into mistaking a lie for the truth. One by one the illusions of sins or mistakes and the self-condemnation that surely follows, must be brought into light of truth. There they are banished forever from all planes of existence. On the higher sub-levels of the astral plane, thoughts flow in melodious accord with the rhythm of creation. The eyes of the soul enjoy misty waterfalls, dazzling sunrises, placid gardens and wondrous mountains vistas.

To speed their journey to the phases beyond the astral plane, some higher souls serve other souls who are confined by their thoughts to grosser levels. When the angels of light drives out the last vestiges of darkness, these souls transcend into the casual plane of consciousness, pure consciousness.

Awaiting them on the casual plane is still subtler energy levels where even thoughts and memories are no longer needed. The soul may choose to exist as an eternal thought, an eternal scintillation of light from the ethereal Sun, or enter the dreamless sleep of Avatar. By letting go of ideation, the soul is freed from the last feelings of insufficiency, limitation, and finitude. Letting go of the memories of mortality, the soul is free to exist as a divine thought even after dissolution.

Oceans of light envelope the soul. All desires and cravings are gone, because the objects of all one's fears are dissolved. The illusions that accompany finite thoughts are shattered and dispelled from the boundless province of the soul.
Beyond the initial stages of the casual plain are the seven eternities. Mother, beyond this man cannot conceptualize or visualize. It is beyond his imagination or speculation. All that I can tell you is the living presence assures that everyone achieves happiness in the end and all creation works to that end."