The Homestretch

The Kids and Super-Life

2021-05-31T04:50:00.001-04:00

A long journey and a strange destination. As they walk, let us surveil Finn, Matt and Anna and eavesdrop on their conversation:

“We’re gonna be there soon” Finn announced, as a low hum blocked out whatever Donny Bee was broadcasting.

Having left the bat under the bridge, Anna popped the hat onto Finn’s head and then slipped her arms around Matt’s waist. She then nestled her head against his shoulder and pulled herself tight against him. It added a degree of difficulty to both of their walks, but they would overcome the small weight on their impetus. After drawing a dawdling, seemingly bottomless breath, and then releasing it through her nose, she said, “I want you to know something, Matt.”

For three seconds, there was only the crunches of their footfalls and the caw of a real crow. Then, Matt replied, “oh?”

“I want you to know that I love you more than I can possibly describe” she sighed. Continuing to speak, she explained, “if something happens to us today, I want you to know that this has all been worth it, and I would do it again if we had to. I want you to know that I regret the year and three-hundred and something days that we should’ve been together. That was my fault, not yours. If we were together during that time, I really believe that our individual circumstances would’ve been better because we would’ve been a team, okay?”

“The past is past, and we’re together now” Matt said before kissing the top of her head. “If our circumstances had been different, we wouldn’t be here now, getting into a position to help free some kids that are being abused, sickened, and maybe perma-possessed in the name of Super-Life.”

What kids? And, what is 'perma-possessed' and 'Super-Life?' You'll have to read Hope: A Wayfarers Story available in Kindle and print on Amazon.

51, 52, Then Area 53

2021-05-28T03:29:00.001-04:00

Matt Stonish is the primary protagonist in Hope: A Wayfarers Story. In a tunnel he is using as a means of subterranean travel he discovers clues that inform him of an artist named Leslie Blackwell who is trapped at top-secret, not so secret Area 53. Matt decides that he must, against all odds, attempt to penetrate 53 and rescue her. Here is some of what Matt knew about the installation, and you dear reader should know this as well:

He knew that the vast, underground installation in Warners known to the few as Area 53 was constructed in the shape of a hand. Residents of the area were told during construction that it was a water treatment facility, and being good sheep with short attention spans they did not question it, because TV news and local politicians would not lie, right?

Politics and TV news were no longer local, but the narrative remained unchanged. In truth Area 53 was a multidimensional government facility similar to its predecessors 51 and 52. Unlike 51 and 52, it served the ALL World Order and not the disbanding U.S. Military. Numerous undertakings went on there, some experimental and others intentional, and if anyone had opened eyes, they would see these things were hardly secret.

Many Bio-Supernatural creations emerged from Area 53, including the virus called the Vapor that was designed to kill God’s angels if it infected them while in the earthly dimension. The Vapor could kill infected humans as well unless they were vax-apped against the over-exaggerated and some would say “hoax” CZ222 virus. In simple terms, the CZ222 was a mask for the Vapor that most thought was just a serious stomach bug.

Will Matt succeed? Will he survive and make it to his cabin home? Will he take on this daring task alone? Get must-read Hope: A Wayfarers Story in Kindle or print.

The Spirit of Time

2021-02-03T15:03:00.002-05:00

Sarah Marsden is a young woman suddenly without a home because some bomb-happy quisling decided that he needed to blow her house up!

Our fair maiden Sarah; she ends Spirit: A Wayfarers Story. That same comely blond Sarah? Well, she begins Time: A Wayfarers Story, the next book in the series after Spirit. While her part in Spirit is for the most part mysterious, she becomes the central character in Time.

The Wayfarers stories are a series, but each title can stand alone as a singular tale. The reading of them from Fortress to Time would provide a chronicling of events and a timeline, all within the framework of a consistent theme. Still, each tale can stand on its own no matter what order the reader consumes them. And yet, having said that, this author would strongly recommend reading Spirit and then moving right into Time.

The two stories are connected, without me having intended it that way. Time picks up the gritty, edgy, and at times heartrending End-Times tale and carries it to the next stop in present and future history. Our once enigmatic and then fully exposed Sarah is the centerpiece, and we need know whether or not she makes it to the safety and shelter of the the rustic safehouse.

Read Spirit first and then Time, because I'm pulling for Sarah and I hope you will be too! (Well, okay, I know what happens because I penned it!)

Get Spirit and Time in Kindle and paperback on Amazon

Enough Time, Cigarettes, and Ammo?

2021-01-31T04:44:00.008-05:00

Watch the book trailer for Time: A Wayfarers Story. You'll be introduced to Sarah Marsden who finds herself walking the old Erie Canal Towpath seeking freedom and safety. It's the End of Days, and it's not the time for a young woman to be walking the old path alone in winter's harsh elements!

Get Time: A Wayfarers Story in Kindle and paperback on Amazon. Kindle Unlimited users can read it for free!

Stille Nacht and Little Drummer Boy

2021-01-28T04:12:00.005-05:00

We join Sarah as she makes her way through Fayetteville, New York:

Modest ranch houses lined North Burdick Street across from the shopping center. Several of them stood in defiance of Reconstruction Solstice and were splendidly decorated with Christmas lights. The postage stamp front yards of the homes featured nativity scenes and Santa in a sleigh pulled by eight reindeer. A fifteen-foot-tall pine tree in one yard was strung with red and green lights and featured a lighted silver and gold star at the top that managed to stay attached during the gusts of wind.

The owner of another house had been the sound tech for False Walrus on their final tour. On a flatbed trailer with a plywood backing and roof he had set up a sound system with two speaker columns, each comprised of a 15” woofer, a 12” mid-range, and a horn for high-end. From an amplifier and mixing console in the living room he pushed music out at 1,600 watts while the lights arrayed around the outside of the home blinked in synchronicity with the songs.

The ending stanzas of Audio Adrenaline’s hard-driving version of “Little Drummer Boy” blasted from the speakers as the four passed by on the other side of the street. Then, in stark a shift of mood the gentle piano riff that begins Mannheim Steamroller’s “Stille Nacht (Silent Night)” floated into the air in defiance of the breeze.

It was the second time that day Sarah had heard the recording, and in response her tear ducts became tiny crystalline springs. Once again images played on the reels of her mind as she remembered childhood Christmases and how much her dad loved the song.

Her feet continued to move her toward the destination, but her mind, heart, and spirit were detached and floating. She recalled the brown Teddy Bear her parents gave her for her fifth Christmas, sporting a red heart on its left chest with LOVE embroidered over it in white lettering. She named the bear “Baby”, and when alone she would play “house” and care for the plush animal as though it a pet for her dolls.

She was unaware of the UpTack Security SUV pulling alongside...

UpTack Security could only mean trouble! Will Sarah continue to be detached and floating, or pulled out of herself back into a stark, bitter, and fearful reality? Get Time: A Wayfarers Story in Kindle or paperback on Amazon

The Eye Sees You

2021-01-22T04:16:00.003-05:00

The signs of the desecration and destruction that were the Reconstruction were everywhere. A sign in front of the Episcopal church across the street read “Christmas Eve Service Cancelled. Happy R-Solstice.” Spray-painted on the public library’s door was come new world savior, each word done in one of the RYBB colors. It seemed that everyone knew the red, yellow, blue, and black, but they had yet to see the figure that would claim to be the god of it.

The police station behind the library had been abandoned after it was trashed by rioters in November. The windows were boarded up, and on one of them was spray-painted WE POLICE
OURSELVES. On another was the upside-town “T” known as a falsum, which was part of the UpTack Security logo.

On yet another section of plywood was a human eye painted by someone with artistic skill. The iris was done in red, yellow, and blue, while the pupil remained black. Below the eye in black paint was the letter C, and below that was U. When combining the eye with the two letters the message spelled out “I see you”, and it was in most part the truth because the beast’s surveillance system saw everything...

The above described scene is from an idyllic American village. Does it sound post-apocalyptic, like the stuff of science, or the present and future reality? Read Time: A Wayfarers Story available in Kindle and paperback on Amazon

It's Gonna Be a Long, Cold, and Dark Winter

2021-01-16T12:50:00.003-05:00

Alias Elvis tunes into AM 63, where he catches a broadcast by pirate radio personality Donny Bee sharing useful nuggets of information:

“Right now, it’s fiat military rule until the regional governors are installed after the transition into the North American Union is finalized. There won’t be any more voting, do you understand? You see that your retirement benefits are now provided by a world financial consortium, right? You see there’s nothing but RYBBCoin, right?

“Are you hungry? I’ll bet you are by golly! Did you prepare all those months ago? Of course, you didn’t, because you thought Uncle Government would provide for you, because after all, you paid into it, right?

“Normalcy bias is like brain damage folks, yessir! You think because you’ve got your Abundant Life digital applique and your roll up your sleever and your ALL phone that everything is taken care of, don’t you? Well, expect consistent outages with the Abundant Life payment system because the real Mark of the Beast is gonna replace it.

“Much of America is being bombed and burned right now, and many of you never saw it coming. You can’t get food, gas, or heating oil, and it’s gonna be a long, cold, and dark winter. Those who listen to the likes of me were ready because we pray and listen to Christ’s Holy Spirit...

Donny Bee has much more to say, and you can read all about it. Check out Time: A Wayfarers Story in Kindle and print on Amazon

Quick-Tempered, Moody, and Taste Like an Ashtray

2021-01-16T04:54:00.003-05:00

To assure herself of her desirability outside of the superlatives of one man’s description, she uttered “I’m blond-haired, blue-eyed, and small-boned. I’m pretty, and I’m physically fit from being a runner. I’m smart and witty, and I’m very loving. I’ve been told that I’m sexy. I’m a good singer, too!”

After snapping another drag, she continued her self-interview with “why can’t I find a good guy to love me? Well, I know of one and I’ve been dreaming about him for years, but I guess it’s too late now, being the End Times and all.”

“It’s not the End Times, it’s the Reconstruction” came the answer through the speaker in a quad-copter drone that lowered to a spot five feet in front of her, causing her to stop on a dime in sudden, shocked surprise. Its digitized androgynous voice wasn’t finished, and critiqued “you can’t find a partner because you’re quick-tempered, moody, and taste like an ashtray. And you act like you’re menstrual every day of the month.”

“Lord Jesus, please help me” Sarah gasped as the drone was then accompanied by two others and formed a row above the towpath.

The drone on her left answered in the same voice as the first, only spiced with a London accent. Its reply was itself a question, asking “is that the old, dead Jesus or the new Greater He that you’re referring to, cutie?”

“There’s only one Jesus, and He died, rose from the dead, and sits at the right hand of the Father” she snapped back.

Who is the operator of the drones? Will his obsession with Sarah lead to a bad end? To find out, get Time: A Wayfarers Story in Kindle and print on Amazon

BOOM! It Blows Up Just Like That

2021-01-15T04:01:00.003-05:00

BOOM! It blows up just like that, and I could’ve been in it. Seriously, what the hell!?”

Slim, 5’4” tall, nineteen-year-old Sarah Marsden was dressed for the cold in a blue ski jacket, blue knit winter hat, blue shooting gloves that were a shade darker than her coat, and jeans. Her feet were togged in white socks and white running shoes. On her back was a blue “bug-out” backpack filled with edibles, bottled water, a slew of necessary supplies, and the comic book telling her story.

Around her neck was a purple bandana with sewn-in dazzler fabric that would cover her face to confuse ALL’s facial recognition software. Despite that purpose, the bandanas represented so much more to those who wore them as part of the Purple Revolt.

Moments before, she had been smiling about that comic authored, illustrated, and left on the Old Erie Canal Towpath by her friend Michael Massey. And then the grim realization truly settled in of what happened to her house and almost happened to her and her friends.

“Why? Why would someone feel the need to blow up my house? The house that was just given to me!” It was the question whispered through lips recently described as “deliciously normal.” The question insisted on an answer as the weight of the situation took minutes to crush the shock and finally weave into her brain. “Someone tell me why” she whimpered, still waiting for the answer.

As she stood on the towpath ninety-nine yards from the end of White Bridge Road in Chittenango, New York, her elbow-length, wavy blond hair blew across and tickled her nose that was “pleasantly pointy with a cute bump.” Watching with eyes “blue as Lake Ontario” as described by the same individual who had had remarked on her lips and nose, she saw the black smoke rise above the leafless trees and hang there as if to mock her...

So, who would blow Sarah's house up, and why? The incident is just the beginning of her adventure, and to discover what becomes of Sarah, check out End-Times, post-apocalyptic, Christian suspense novel Time: A Wayfarers Story in Kindle and print on Amazon

Sarah and the Crap Hole of a World

2021-01-14T16:56:00.003-05:00

She was affronted and a nerve was struck. The tuning fork of her anger hummed as she snapped a drag, inhaled deeply, and then argued “he wanted nothing to do with me until I got a letter from him just after he died! I wanted to be close to him, but he was always busy with False Walrus. He was a great dad when I was little, but once the band became his living his bass guitar was more important than me and mom, and that’s why she divorced him, you know?”

Her eyes were narrowed as she took another drag, and her inhale was like a wet pan being set on a hot stove burner. “He abandoned us” she fumed before her quick, forceful exhale sounded as though she was blowing out a match.

While a cloud of smoke hovered between them, she continued with “but I loved him and now I know that he loved me too and it’s too late! He’s home now and I’m stuck in this crap hole of a world trying to survive without him or mom while some evil nutjob who works for ALL is stalking me and blew my house up because he was trying to kill Zane Zachary. I’m all alone with no one to love, do you get it!? Yeah, I wanted a relationship with my father!”

The above is a scene involving Sarah Marsden and Doctor Jasper Woodcock on the old Erie Canal towpath near Chittenango, NY. Be sure to read End-Times fiction suspense novel Time: A Wayfarers Story in Kindle and print available on Amazon

‘Fake News’ – Chapter 1 of FORTRESS: a Wayfarers Story

2017-09-18T10:12:00.000-04:00

Read this chapter for free below, and get FORTRESS: a Wayfarers Story in Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, and paperback here.

The weather had been in a word – strange. But this was one of the rare, sunny mornings this cool and rainy season had seen, as the birds chirped merrily in celebration outside of forty-five-year-old Dave Jamison’s upper-level flat on North Peterboro Street in rustic Canastota, New York. Indeed, Dave was the antithesis of cheerful as he roared “aw, c’mon! This isn’t gonna get the rent paid this month” before slamming his right fist on the black particleboard desk that supported his PC. The desk also supported his cup of coffee, and the force of the paw making impact knocked the beverage over; whereby spilling onto the tan carpet of the white-walled, single-window spare bedroom that served as his pseudo office.

“Not advertiser-friendly?” he growled, while working his fingers through his brown hair touched with grey, that had the day before received its monthly buzz-cut. He feigned skepticism as he read the e-mail from YouTube, but he knew that his video titled Kim Jong-un Threatens U.S. with Fiery Apocalypse would meet with this fate, just as ninety-percent of the videos he’d posted over the last three months had. “How about if I do a video called ‘Transgender Makeup Tips for Millennials’ he carped, while massaging his temples in the hope that it would work the ache out of his head. “Would the Google-YouTube monolith allow me to monetize crap like that?” This independent news reporter’s YouTube channel was titled Dave Jamison News and Views, and in the three years since losing his “real job,” he’d amassed over 600,000 subscribers who sought the truth, and not the leftist, pre-fab, agenda-driven, Deep State-supported fake news provided by the mainstream alphabet networks.

“Coffee on a tan rug, so the stain won’t show when it dries” he mumbled, while rubbing his left pointer finger and thumb over the brown chin beard with grey and white speckles that was always meticulously trimmed, with nary a whisker askew. After confirming that all was well with his “chinny,” he stared down at the clear glass mug toppled on the floor, while working his right pointer and index fingers across the jagged three-inch scab on his forehead. His fingers were like the tiptoes of a burglar sneaking into a lightless living room, while the home’s residents slept upstairs with visions of big stock dividends, job promotions, and new Cadillac Escalades dancing in their heads. Ten days prior, while livestreaming from the “America’s Best Days Ahead” (Twitter hashtag #ABDA) rally held in Cleveland for President Derek Troop, Dave’s forehead was cut by a hunk of red brick thrown by a black bloc protester. While the cut was not as severe as it could have been, forehead lacerations are often bloody, and his vision had been blurred as the scarlet liquid flowed into his eyes that were as bright as blue lightening. As his 5’10”, 150-pound frame staggered while he’d struggled to pull a bandana from his backpack, his image was snapped by a photographer from USA Today. The photo of the dazed live streamer accompanied the following morning’s article on the rally that had morphed into a riot, and was given the caption Justice, as Alt-Right Reporter Suffers Wounds of War.

Ever resilient and focused, it was only a few minutes before he’d resumed streaming the moderate level of chaos on that block of downtown Cleveland that featured the city’s top bars and eateries. Dave had his own means of measuring chaos, by using a scale of 1 being “negligible” and 5 being “intense.” Immersed in the strident chants of “hey, hey, ho, ho, Derek Troop has got to go” and “no Troop, no KKK, no fascist U.S.A” as his olfactory glands were assaulted by the body odor and pepper spray lingering on the cool evening air, he relayed to the 7,011 viewers of his stream that the chaos was “level 3”. Fortunately for the residents, business owners, and guests of the city, the riot gear-clad police kept the chaos from exceeding that level. The result was two trash can fires, numerous minor abrasions and lacerations, three sets of pepper-sprayed eyes, and 4 protestors and 2 “Troopers” (rallying supporters of the president) being arrested and later released.

Dave had livestreamed from several events since the election – or perhaps “selection” – that gave Derek Troop the victory, but the Cleveland #ABDA rally took a heavy toll on him. It wasn’t the most uproarious or dangerous event he’d ever reported from, but he remained inexplicably fatigued and dispirited ten days later. Certainly, his financial situation was becoming dire, as YouTube had given into what it blamed on pressure from advertisers, and was refusing to monetize videos with what was deemed “controversial” subject matter. There was no clear delineation from what content was controversial and what wasn’t, but most any videos uploaded by independent journalists were now being de-monetized. Up until the previous October, he’d been earning as much money as he did as a high school American History teacher. Now, in May, he was depleting his savings, which was a stash of cash that remained from his closed 401K, and kept in a small safe under his bed. He knew that it was likely that the dollar would soon collapse under the weight of debt, pressure from China and Russia, the loss of Petrodollar status, and the machinations of the World Banksters. And, he knew that a major military conflict or civil war would be the straws that break the dollar’s back. While he loved America, part of him couldn’t wait for the collapse, as he believed it would be the “great equalizer.” But, most of all, Dave loved the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Despite that love, he’d been angry at God in recent years, and yet he knew the Lord had plans as per His written word, and they would change everything.

Still, something other than getting beaned by a piece of brick had happened to him on that night in Cleveland. Driving home at 3:11 a.m. on the New York State Thruway, just east of Buffalo, his truck’s radio was tuned to 88.1 FM out of Toronto; an infrequent, cloudless early morning sky allowing for clear reception, even at that distance. He was grooving to the chorus of “My Before and After” by Austin, Texas indie band Cotton Mather, when the melodic pop-rock track was replaced by interference in the form of a piercing buzz, not unlike that of an Emergency Broadcast System message. Seconds later, a blacked-out Chevy Tahoe 4×4 pulled up alongside in the passing lane, and then veered and tried to sideswipe his white Nissan Frontier pickup. Being forced to the shoulder, Dave had to slam the brake pedal to the floor to keep his vehicle out of a roadside swamp. The Nissan’s tires screamed in protest as the vehicle spun and faced oncoming traffic, and was eight inches from being clipped by an eighteen-wheeler carrying a load of gasoline to be delivered to a nearby Circle-K convenience store. The wind created by the streaking tanker caused the Nissan to rock like a boat on rough seas. Then, as the sustained blare of the tanker truck’s airhorn faded out in doppler, all became quiet; save for the pounding heartbeat in Dave’s ears and the hiss over the radio, as both the buzz and the reception of 88.1 FM were gone. There were no other vehicles on either the eastbound or westbound side, and despite his shaking arms and legs, he possessed the wits to get his pickup back on the highway and headed eastward toward home. “You spared me Lord, even though I wish you hadn’t” was his shuddering murmur, as the Nissan rolled at 75 M.P.H. while his thoughts flashed and crackled like sparks from an electrical outlet, as though a curious toddler had stuck a screwdriver in.

Despite being wired on adrenaline from his near-death experience, his eyelids were heavy as he pulled into the Pembroke Travel Plaza to grab a 20-ounce cup of coffee to-go from the Tim Horton’s. Being two hours from home, he needed the caffeine to keep him from falling asleep at the wheel. He was swallowing the first sip of the piping hot brew as he pulled open the driver’s side door, and it was then that he heard from behind a congenial male voice proclaim, “Dave Jamison from YouTube!”

“Yes sir, I am” Dave answered politely, after turning toward the 6’-3” tall man, who was bald on top with grey, medium-length hair on the sides and back, and bushy grey sideburns. The man pushed his black-rimmed glasses from the end to the top of his narrow bridge of a nose, and the lenses reflected the beam of a nearby street lamp positioned in the parking lot. The man then cocked his head to the right as if studying Dave, while taking two steps backward. A smile formed on the left side of his face, but not the right. Dave likewise sized-up the fellow, who was clad in an unzipped green parka, an untucked black t-shirt bearing the image of the Beatles Let It Be album cover, well-worn Khaki slacks, and scuffed black dress shoes. The man appeared disheveled, and yet conveyed an air of self-importance. The man also smelled as though he could use a shower.

“You look thinner in person, even with the Kevlar on” the man chuckled.

“Yeah, well, I’ve cut back on the Spam sandwiches, and I need to wear Kevlar for protection when I stream, in case a riot breaks out” Dave answered, being unsure of how to take this gentleman, while glancing at a white limousine as it pulled into a parking spot a short distance away.

“That’s a nasty cut on your forehead” the man commented, while pointing and squinting.

“Oh yeah, that. I got it while shaving this morning. Next time, I’ll light the lantern in the outhouse so I can see what I’m doing” Dave answered.

“I watch you, Dave” the man stated pointblank, with all congeniality and levity gone, and his voice rose in shaking fury as he finished with “I watch you, and you lie, lie, lie!” The man then turned and stomped toward the limousine, while mumbling something that Dave couldn’t decipher.

Now, ten days after Cleveland, that night’s events continued to seep like toxic molasses through the cracks in the cookie jar of his mind. “Patreon donations might help me to make it this month” he whispered to no one except God, as he lived alone these days. “I’ve got to find the mother of all scoops; something I can livestream and get big money from Super Chat. As it is, I’m gonna have to start eating the food I’ve put away for when the shit hits the fan, and Lord, you know I don’t want to have to do that.” It was then that Philippians chapter 4, verse 19 popped into his head: But my God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus. He could have interpreted that as confirmation that the Lord had heard him, but he wasn’t sure if it emanated from his spirit or his head.

After five seconds of staring like a statuesque zombie at his computer monitor, he closed his eyes and lowered his head to pray for direction and clarity. As he opened his mouth to begin speaking his petition, he was startled by a hissy, whispering voice admonishing “ah, you’re the one who’s fake news, Davey boy! You’re living in a fantasy world of tabloid trash and outlandish conspiracy. I’m so disappointed that you believe the garbage you make videos about, and the garbage that you read. What a sad, sick life you’re leading! And, what about all those freaks that live in their parents’ basements and believe everything you say in those videos? Doesn’t your God ever convict you in the spirit for misleading those poor souls who have even less of a life than you do?”

Dave’s head snapped up, and he directed his gaze over his right shoulder and toward the corner of the room, adjacent to the walnut door that needed a coat of varnish. “It’s stress, that’s all it is. You’re not real” he stammered, as he looked upon the black-cloaked figure standing in the corner. The cloak had a black hood, and while it was obvious by the shape that there was a head inside of it, there was no face.

“Oh, I’m real, Davey-poo. I’m real, unlike the fiction that you peddle for the thousands of right-wing twits and conspiracy theorists that see you as THE purveyor of truth! No wonder Screw-Tube doesn’t monetize your work anymore. Do you think that they want you to make bank on your deception? Well, you’ll get yours, Dave. The Lord that you worship has a special place in Hell for liars like you! Thou shall not lie, Dave. You know Proverbs twelve twenty-two, right? It says, ‘lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, but those who act faithfully are his delight.’ You Dave, have put the capital ‘A’ in abomination, and you are responsible for all those ‘sheeple’ that YOU man, YOU have misled” the hooded one taunted better than any schoolyard bully could.

“Who the hell are you?!” Dave bellowed, with a voice that quivered like lime Jell-O in an earthquake.

“Oh Dave, Dave, Dave, really now, how could you forget?” the figure hissed in faux disappointment. “I’m the hooded shadow, Mister Jones! Remember that insipid story you read?”
Before Dave could clear his head and attempt to rebut the figure, his LG smartphone buzzed to alert him that an e-mail from YouTube had come in, indicating new activity on his recent video Israeli-Arab Peace Deal? Could Troop’s Son in Law be the Anti-Christ? It was a new comment, which read “Jacob Cushman is not the A.C., you effing moron! Stop spreading lies just to draw eyeballs to your videos! Stop sucking up to the Zionist Jews! You lie, lie, lie and I hope you tear open your ‘shaving cut’ and bleed to death!”

His videos had received plenty of negative comments, and he’d learned to shrug them off. Some were so ludicrous and poorly-written that he’d laugh when he’d read them. But, when stirred into the pot of sewage soup that was the trying day he’d been having, reading this comment was tantamount to guzzling a bottle of Tabasco sauce. The commenter’s YouTube I.D. was Watching U Dave, and seeing that caused hot bile to splash into his esophagus, which produced a short but intense coughing fit. And when it came to “sewage soup,” he noticed upon catching his breath that Mr. Jones was gone, but the malodorous air of sewage hung in the room. “I don’t really smell that, and Jones isn’t real” he whispered, but his words did nothing to make him believe it. He drew another breath through his nose, and this time detected armpit stink, but he was sure that it wasn’t his own, as he was freshly showered and protected with antiperspirant.

His hands were trembling like autumn leaves on a November breeze, but he was able to mouse over the Watching U Dave user I.D., which revealed a generic “ghost” icon and the channel description of “Always watching, and always waiting, as a snake coiled to strike.” Undaunted, he clicked to the channel, and saw that the user had posted no videos, and had no followers. The faint aroma of body odor lingered, and he recalled the man in the travel plaza parking lot smelling the same way. He remembered the bubbling rage in the man’s voice as he stated, “I watch you, Dave.” And, he remembered quipping about his “shaving cut.” Watching U Dave most certainly had to be that man, the struggling indie journalist reasoned. As his throat and chest tightened with anxiety, Dave clicked back to the channel and attempted to block it from accessing his content. He was confused and yet relieved when the auto-response was “user does not exist.” And where confusion is concerned, he then muttered “whoa, what the…” as he noticed that a wrinkled black bandana lay on the floor in the corner where Mr. Jones appeared to have been. “Where’d that come from? I have two colors of bandanas – blue and green – and in one case blue and bloodstained,” he announced to no one visible, as he stepped through the wet coffee spot in his bare feet, which elicited a grumbled “ugh, I forgot.” After squatting and grasping the bandana between his pointer finger and thumb – as though it might bite him if not handled with caution – his sense of smell that could rival that of dog detected three aromas that were imbued in the fabric: whiskey, marijuana, and the body odor he’d whiffed a moment before.

“Steve drinks and smokes weed, but he hasn’t been in here” he thought to himself in reference to his landlord, as he proceeded to the kitchen trashcan with the bandana; the sticky soles of his feet smacking like kisses on the off-white linoleum floor tile.

The Tuesday Night Singer

2016-11-07T13:02:00.000-05:00

Some of you have come to listen to my songs that are the antithesis of the pop-culture norm...

*A blog written by a character who appears in the novel The Wayfarers: Revised Edition. Read the book in Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, or paperback, and you'll discover who the singer is.

It's another Tuesday night at Robbo's Corner Cafe' in Fayetteville, and I'm wearing my black t-shirt with SIGN-UP screen-printed on the chest in white lettering. There's a panoply of pleasant aromas in the air; all relating to coffee, tea, and delectable desserts. I'm the singer, and I'm here to serenade you - and possibly annoy you - while you indulge in caffeinated beverages and sugary delights.
Some of you have come to listen to my songs that are the antithesis of the pop-culture norm; songs that have earned me the apropos sobriquet of The Psychedelic Conservative. As you listen to me strum and sing, you hear the chord changes and melodies that are influenced by the Beatles, and that's the validation for the "psychedelic" part of the nickname. But, when your ear is bent toward the subject matter of my lyrics, you'll understand from where the "conservative" angle originates. I sing of God, family, personal responsibility, free enterprise, the Second Amendment, and limited government. It's a peculiar dichotomy indeed, and as previously stated, it may annoy or offend some of you. But, while I'd like to tow the line that all you need is love, I'm awake and aware enough to know that life in America is no magical mystery tour culminating in some strawberry fields. Some of you agree with what I sing, and have dropped crumpled dead presidents into the tip bucket by the door. Some of you like it so much that you've purchased a copy of my CD called Mission, or grabbed some download cards. Others have purchased a copy of the CD recorded by the alternative rock band I fronted before going solo, while a handful of you have taken advantage of the two-for deal. No matter your preference, the merchandise is available by the door, and I'd greatly appreciate your patronage!
Tonight, a bitter, angry customer and her special friend complained to the pretty barista that I have to confess I'm enamored with. The customer didn't like my music and griped that it was too loud; whereby making conversation with her friend impossible. She stated that she wasn't ever coming back, and that she was going to complain to ownership about how "offensive" I am. The aforementioned barista suggested to me that to solve the problem, I should merely turn up the volume!
My long-running gig as the Tuesday night musical entertainment at Robbo's may be drawing to a close.

The Liar - a Wayfarers Ode

2016-11-04T10:56:00.001-04:00

I know that my faith is the substance of things hoped for; The evidence of things unseen...

Heavy, oh so heavy Lord,
Is this burden that I carry
It seems that at times I have been lost and alone
Driven by the unseen as a vagabond far from home

There is a tormentor seemingly everywhere
He is a tempter and a destroyer
You Lord, have called me out to something
And yet the tormentor is dismantling everything I know

I pace off the miles, cold and hungry
My soul cries for food and restoration
I am patient
I know that my faith is the substance of things hoped for
The evidence of things unseen; and yet my faith has seen testing

The evil thing paces and pants in the shadows
Bushes and briers snapping under his feet; he too is patient
As this wayfarer walks the path the evil thing who keeps pace in the brambles
Whispers lies to my cold ears as he tramples the former vastness of my earthly life
Yes, oh Lord, he destroys - as he tells me that you desire for me only failure and suffering
He tells me that it is you who is my tormentor and not him
He tells me that I will arrive at my destination damaged; as a cripple and an insane fool
He tells me that all that I do is wrong

Yes, oh Lord, the burden weighs heavy as I move forward into the unseen
I do not look now at what has been broken but instead on what is ahead;
It is night and I cannot see far; but I trust you
I see a light that most cannot see and I follow it
I follow it despite the murmurings of lying, filthy spirits upon my ears
I follow it into the frigid night because Lord, my God, it is your light!
It is a long road home fraught with peril and evil
But I see Your light, yes! Yes!
You are my light and my salvation oh Lord,
You are the truth and the light that leads me home
You, only You, will get me home
Only You will save me from the Liar

Read The Wayfarers in Kindle or paperback.

Pray Hard

2012-08-03T12:59:00.000-04:00

Purchase on iTunes | Amazon | CD Baby

PRAY HARD
(c) 2007-2012 Jim Yackel
Published by Moonrazor Releases BMI 
From the CD Agape'
----------------------------------------

1)
First you must have faith
Take Christ as your king
Your exalted Savior
He is Lord of all things--THEN

CHORUS:

Pray Hard
Pray Hard
Pray Hard
And He will hear you
Yeah, He will hear you

2)

A heavy burden
Is what we carry
So take it to the cross
The cross that He carried--AND

CHORUS:

Pray Hard
Pray Hard
Pray Hard
And He will hear you
Yeah, He will hear you
Pray Hard
Pray Hard
Pray Hard
And He will hear you
Yeah, He will hear you

BRIDGE;

A world deep in strife
We can see the signs
Christ is coming soon
But we don't know the time--SO

CHORUS:

Pray Hard
Pray Hard
Pray Hard
And He will hear you
Yeah, He will hear you

Don't worry about anything
Pray about everything!

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