|mkv| Movie Patterns of Evidence: The Red Sea Miracle

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Release Year=2020; Country=USA; One of the greatest miracles in the Bible; Moses and the Israelites trapped at the sea by Pharaoh's army when God miraculously parts the waters. But is there any evidence that it really happened and if so, where? This was like the endgame for the time. ”Yea that looks real”. Thank you for this. I'm really convinced that this is true mount Sinai. All evidences are there. For someone with short-term memory loss, finding the answer to any question is a task in itself. When the question is "what is reality? ", things get far worse. This is a short story I wrote for r/WritingPrompts Birthday Contest where the first part of the story required a Investigator type character and the second part, a scavenger character. I hope you enjoy it! Yes, it is the Turing test that says if you are human or robot. This didn’t worry me so much. I knew I wasn’t a robot. But was I real? I wanted to know if this was real—if I was. Is it? Are you? I intended to find out. My fascination didn’t begin with a simple question. It began with an accident. It was December 17th, 2015 when a competent driver lost control on a patch of black ice, sending their Toyota Camry off the road and onto the neighbouring sidewalk. I happened to be walking on that sidewalk and I discovered later that I was not built to halt the advance of a 2500-pound vehicle. I found that out 8 months later. In that 8 months, I saw many things. I saw my diploma jump out of my mother’s living room window only to devour the mailman; then regain its paper qualities and float to the ground. I felt the wind of a fatal fall fly past me, opening to a wide patch of grass below. When I reached the bottom, I simply stood and walked away. And I knew things weren’t so. You can only see so many otters enjoying an afternoon espresso before you start realizing this world isn’t right. I am dreaming or I am dead. If I’m dead, when will I stop teleporting between sunny beaches and snowy mountains? If I’m dreaming, why can’t I wake up? These questions passed through my mind along with the wavy abstraction that accompanies such a deep dream state. Perhaps that is why I remember them. Still, you can imagine the relief when I awoke to a fluorescent light bulb overhead and a call on the PA system for a “code white”. It turned out the “code white” should not have been as relieving as I felt at that time for it hijacked my doctor and nurses for 20 minutes, leaving me entirely alone. In that time, I managed to twist my ankle getting out of bed. So bad in fact, that “[I] may not walk straight for the next 8 months. ” My doctor was exaggerating, of course, it would only be 2. The real blessing was, I wouldn’t remember this. I wouldn’t remember any of it if not for my mother’s obsessive recording. You see, my mother was not so well-versed in English. When she realized she could record conversations instead of re-enacting them later, she began her grand campaign to archive more content than the CIA. As I said, this was the blessing. My memory only extended a day or two at best. Her videos are the only link I have left to the past. They move against my new ambition, telling me, “that’s you. You are real, even if you can’t remember. ” When my mother died, it was a difficult day—the next one wasn’t so bad. Often, I choose not to watch the video from that day. I’ve labeled the recording as, “eternal sadness of a lost mind. ” Not the most appealing name for someone that needs to read a letter in the morning just to remember who they are. So most days, I do not know where she is. Out with friends, maybe? I like to think that I think that. As you can imagine, keeping friends was not something I did very well after my accident. “Hey, you remember that problem I told you about a month ago? You know, that one with so-and-so? The one that did that thing? ” “No, ” I would say, “I don’t remember so-and-so or the thing they did. ” The only thing I remembered was who this ‘friend’ was. Memories like a poorly run sitcom with a main character who had my eyes, nose, and hair. He played with these people, joked with them, and when they realized I would never change again, they began to leave. So what finally sparked this dancing monkey to question the very nature of existence? Was it the gigabytes of recording on my computer, which could have been easily planted without my knowledge? Was it the accident that conveniently took away the only tool I had to wake up and realize that time had passed? Did I watch Inception and believe I was stuck somewhere in Limbo? It wasn’t any of this. It was an experiment that alarmed me. A repeat, not in my head but on paper. For reasons I never bothered to record, I began writing down the times of the bus arrivals outside my apartment window. There is a westbound and eastbound bus scheduled to arrive at 6:10 am for eastbound and 6:14 for westbound. Then, every half hour this would repeat. I usually missed the morning with all the “figuring out what's going on. ” But usually, before lunch, I would begin. The result was this: January 16th, 2018 Eastbound: 10:11:43 am, 10:40:35 am, 11:10:44 am, 11:56:12 am, 12:24:16 pm… Westbound: 10:14:40 am, 10:47:23 am, 11:22:01 am, 11:51:22 am, 12:50:11 pm (car accident up road)... Do you see it? Did you notice it while you read? If you did, you should see a doctor because there’s nothing in there that’s special. What was special happened on April 26th when the numbers repeated. Yes, even the car accident. The realization did not come quick. I had no memory of January 16th, 2018, other than a video file stating “nothing unusual”. Which, after my realization became very unusual. It was the car accident that tipped my curiousity. “How often did cars hit things? ” I said on the video on April 26th. “Wasn’t I in one of those? ” It turns out, it takes one hundred days. One hundred days for someone to drive their vehicle into another up James Street. Just bad enough to cause a 36 minute and 11 second delay. Coincidence or a flaw in the final product? If there was going to be any more evidence of this particular anomaly, I was sure it wouldn’t be in plain sight. It would be hidden, behind layers of other uneventful events, playing repeat in the background of our lives. This is when my obsession began. On Tuesdays, I lost an average of four hairs for every one minute of showering. This number increased when I shampooed. If I shampooed, this number grew to 12 but only on Wednesdays, on Tuesdays, it averaged to 11. The rest of the week was a mess. I decided to forgo counting any other days. It would drive me insane. In the end, the numbers were too erratic, like trying to find a secret pattern in a mosaic. A few other particularities included: a single strand of spaghetti that would inevitably fly out onto the floor when I cut a bunch above a boiling pot of water; there was always daylight on Fridays between the hours of 11 am and 12 pm; when the neighbour walked her dog, it would pee on the light post outside our apartment building. I ruled out the last one, though, when I remembered the territorial habits of the canine species. It really wasn’t peculiar at all. If I continued at that pace, I would have recorded of every raindrop, clipped toenail, growth enhancement commercial, muscle spasm, times my alphagetti soup spelled “ooo”, and if the news had any sort of story that wasn’t a bleak reflection of life. Luckily, I had the sense to stop. When the papers began to resemble a pile of 1’s and 0’s and I wasn’t granted unlimited power like Neo, I ditched it all. Time was precious. If I didn’t work on the right problem, I could wake up after twenty years with nothing but a hard drive worth of memories I never remembered. Now, what else could help? What started me on physics was the basic nature of science. Here, there were people constantly prodding at the edges of reality. Here, they talked in spacetime and hammered at the slabs of all creation. If I saw the colour purple and someone saw grey, was there another fatal flaw in the system? Since bees see differently, could they see past the veil I was trying to breach? Did they fly about their business watching my overlord tug the strings that helped me scuff at the man with the loud music? With so much out there, what was really happening? These questions found themselves on my nightstand, fridge and bathroom mirror. I searched for answers. I was doomed from the start. If, in a day, I could not summarize my findings, if I couldn’t put my thoughts into words, there was no chance. They would leave and I would never know I thought them. I could stick, “time is relative, here’s Einstein saying why, ” in my notebook or “in the beginning, there was nothing, which exploded. ” These just didn’t work. They didn’t tell me what I needed to know. They were thoughts and thoughts ran away from me like the girls in elementary school—when I was young, sicko. So, the only advice I gave myself that was actually useful was simple: “talk to people about reality. ” I posted an ad seeking, “an individual looking for the ultimate answer. Is life real? ” Among the slew of stoners and philosophers, the one that caught my attention responded simply with, “that’s me. ” This brought me to Brodney Luo, a homeopath of all people. She lived on the border of Chinatown and Koreatown in an apartment, home to herself and a nest of cockroaches. “The rent is cheap and the food is great, ” she would say, “if we’re really here. ” She was a small thing, Asian descent with a mix of European somewhere down the line. Her hair was always shoulder-length, black and shimmering. In every recording, her scleras were red and she seemed to always be biting her nails. I asked her once if I made her nervous and she assured me it wasn’t me. Unlike me, her fascination began in 1999 with the release of The Matrix. The second blow came that same year with Fight Club. It didn’t help that 1999 was the precursor to Y2K, the apocalypse of the 20th century. What better time to instill a teenager that life was but a passing wind smooching with a brick wall. We frequented coffee on Mondays and Fridays and I learned about a wonderful art called meditation. I tried and tried to push myself beyond the third dimension. I felt my body lift from itself. I felt the weight of the world pushing at my feet. It was romantic, intimate even, to feel my mind expand over the world, like a blanket or a glazed donut. But, of course, it didn’t go beyond that. Perhaps, that’s when I should have stopped. “If you can sink deep enough, maybe you’ll find a light. You can see our creators, ” she said on July 1st. I know that because, for the first time, I recorded her that day instead of myself. She seemed to have a way of speaking like an oracle on the edge of the sea. Yet, I never saw the storm. After that recording, she began popping up in others. She even began labeling the files: “Rainy Monday”, “Terrific Thursday”, “Sunday Love”. These were far more ambiguous than my usual labels. They didn’t tell me anything I’d want to know. What does a “Sunday Love” say about our conversations? How does that break the line of reality? Does love conquer all? Please. A week later, things were back to normal with a recording labeled, “question, still no answer. ” It must have been a Thursday when she didn’t show. I labeled that day, “Brodney, no show. ” This continued for the next few days until another recording was labeled, “Brodney suicide, says coffee clerk. ” I couldn’t believe it. In the recording, I walked up to the barista at the cafe and asked her to repeat what she said. I needed her to say it. I needed to hear it word for word. “A customer told us yesterday. I’m sorry for your loss, ” she said. For some reason, I asked, “which one? ” It was a miracle that file ever made it onto my computer. The rest of the day was filled with bottomless bottles of vodka. I nearly set my apartment on fire, knocking a scented candle Brodney bought me onto the floor. Ceramic doesn’t burn, thankfully. I passed out sometime after 2 pm, my camera facing the door until it too, died. Brodney loved me, so a sheet of paper on my lamp said. But my condition must have been torture. Imagine already questioning what was real and waking up to someone screaming, “who are you?! ". Then, every day, as if on repeat, you kickstarted this person back into your frame of mind, only to see the same glassed eyes in the morning. It must have broke her. It would suffice to say that this death hit me harder than my mother’s. In my head, my mother was still alive. She was off on vacation and the memories of her still lingered like living pictures on the wall. Brodney I couldn’t place. She was in my records, yes, her handwriting was different, yes, so she couldn’t be imagined. I even had a note she left me when I visited her old apartment—is it old now that her new home is in the afterlife? But I couldn’t figure out what it meant. “Reality is pending, ” the note said. And every morning I pondered what this could mean. Was there a switch I forgot to flick on? Would a news story flash on the television claiming, “reality seems to have faulted today. We’re waiting for a middle-aged man with short-term memory loss to turn it back on. ” Obviously, the news story never came and with each day, August 4th approached. Another chance for the bus schedule to repeat. August 4th, the day came and went. Again, the times aligned, again the 12:14 pm bus was delayed by 36 minutes and 11 seconds. Reality is pending, huh? Was “reject” an option? I could handle it, I really could. There was nothing left to look for. I had found a flaw in the fabric of reality but what did it matter? I tried calling out to the sky but nothing changed. Brodney’s gone, my mother’s gone and every hundred days, I’ll awake to find the same peculiarity. One that no one will believe or have the patience to wait for. The answer was there but what difference did it make if I couldn’t use it? In the video yesterday, I explained all this to myself, everything. After watching it today, I reached the same conclusion he did. If a story can’t continue, it must end. For kicks, I took the Turing test just to see if I was indeed, human. This would all be easier if I was a robot. A virus-filled box, short-circuited from some God-knowing accident. But I passed. It was worth the shot. As I readied myself, moments from kicking the chair, a letter slipped through my mail slot. “Probably a bill, ” I thought but there was enough doubt to check. I loosened the rope from my neck and stepped down from the chair. It was a plain white envelope, no return address, not even a stamp. Inside was a sheet of paper, blank except for one word in the center: “Stop. ” I wake. The sun peeks through the blinds, annoyingly in my eyes. It must still be early. The clock reads 6:30 am. This is disheartening for two reasons: the first being my eyes are still heavy, which means I didn’t get enough sleep and two, I don’t hear the sound of my mother getting ready for work. Next to my clock is a letter. “Hey Alf, Wakie wakie, haha! Man, you shouldn’t drink so much. Meet me downstairs when you’re ready. Your pal, Habair. ” Is that why I’m so tired? I thought I quit drinking. It always made me depressed. Once at a party, it made me so sad, I spent the night petting my friend’s cat until I passed out on the basement floor. Concrete doesn’t make a good mattress; I could barely walk the next day. I thought I stopped drinking after that. And who was Habair? He must be one hell of a con to get me drinking. God, and my head. What the fuck happened last night? In the bathroom mirror, I find the culprit. A red and black bruise sits swollen on the right side of my widow’s peak—like someone tried to smash this ugly hairline out of existence. On the mirror was a note. “Nasty fall, man. Make sure to put some cream on it. ” Cream? Really? I needed ice and coffee. Ice to actually help it and coffee to get me going. I can’t remember a thing. And where is Mom? “Mom! ” I yell. She’s not in her room. The white sheets are matted tight, pillows fluffed. She must have left. Did she tell me she was going? I can’t remember anything. I watch the coffee drip into the pot, filling the kitchen with that bittersweet aroma. If coffee tasted that good, I wouldn’t have to drown it in cream and sugar. Cream, maybe I should put some on my head. The coffee feels nice on my hands. I notice a paper pinned to the fridge. There’s a news cutout with a car, twisted, resembling a pile of scrap metal. “Man survives grizzly car crash, driver lost, ” the title says. I search the article for the part where the grizzly bear drives into the man but can’t find it. In fact, there’s no mention of a grizzly bear at all. It turns out a woman was driving the car and hit a patch of black ice. She hit a pedestrian on the sidewalk and then spun into a light post. The car wrapped around like a piece of putty, squeezing her into the metal glob. She died instantly while the man somehow survived. The coffee rises to my lips. I don’t know this is happening; my body has taken control. It needs the coffee to process this. My lips burn but it gives my mind the jolt it needs to read the next two words properly. “Alfonso Sanchez, ” I read. Alfonso Sanchez. That’s me. The cup floats to the counter, having accomplished its mission. I tear the article off the fridge. I survived this? Now my head really hurt. I read it again. Then again. “Alfonso Sanchez was taken to All Hope Hospital where he currently resides in an induced coma. ” “Date: December 17th, 2015” The date on my phone reads August 6th, 2018. This accident was almost three years ago… What? Outside my living room window, the street is lazy with early morning traffic. There’s the occasional racer but most drive by slowly, still waking from their slumbers. Across the street, the “Donar Express” is now a “Domino’s Pizza” and over the buildings, the city has grown, now dotted with cranes and condos. “2 and a half years, huh? ” I whisper. My head throbs. What else could have changed? For one, there’s only one contact left on my phone. Habair. I now have only one friend named Habair. Apparently, he was waiting for me downstairs. Maybe he has some answers. I put on my shoes and head to the lobby. The elevator opens to white granite walls and flooring. Another change, not even a renovation in progress, a renovation finished. There is a man in blue checking the automatic door-opener. “You should’ve just changed these when you gutted the place, ” he says to a man in a pink dress shirt. “Only had a year left in them. ” The other man shakes his head and looks down at his phone. Before I can take in any more of this conversation, someone in a black shirt and jeans rises from a set of leather chairs and walks towards me. He smiles how an old friend smiles when they haven’t seen you in ages—arms stretched out as if I’m supposed to fall into them. I stare blankly and ask, “Habair? ” “Of course! ” he says and grabs me by the shoulder. “Oh dear, it looks even worse today. I told you to be careful! ” He is looking at the blotch of decaying skin cells on my forehead. The skin cells I had forgotten about until now. Now that I remembered it, the pain came back. “Yeah, ” I say, “it must have been quite the fall. ” “Ah, yes, you wouldn’t remember. ” He hums and shakes his head. “About that. ” “You might want to sit down, ” he says and gestures to the chairs. “$1500! ” yells the businessman. “Plus new doors, ” says the repairman, “the hole pattern is different. It’ll widen that hole too much and could pop right out. ” “Ridiculous. ” I sit on one of the leather seats and Habair snaps his fingers. He has my attention again. “You had an accident, ” he begins saying. I fill in the details for him. “I read it on the newspaper clipping, ” I say. “Was it really that long ago? ” He shakes his head. “I’m afraid so. ” “But why… how don’t I know this? ” I ask. “I feel like I jumped forward in time. All I remember are these weird dreams and then… my life. But it’s distant, like… I don’t know, like I just made a painting or something and the moment I finished, it blurred. The details are all gone. ” “Don’t you have the note? ” he asks. “What note? ” “The note, by your bed. ” “The one you left? ” “No, ” Habair shakes his head and smiles. It would probably kill him to frown. “The note you left yourself. The one that talks about your condition. ” He began explaining it. The condition I have; the short-term memory loss. “And you, ” I say pointing my finger. He raises his hands as if I told him to stick ‘em up. “How did I meet you? ” He smiles and lowers his arms. “A happy accident, ” he says. “I moved in here last year. A few times I found you here mumbling on about ‘what day is it? ’ and ‘what’s changed in the world? ’ I learned pretty quick how little you’d remember. ” “So… have we talked about this? ” I ask. “Oh yes, ” he says, “many times. And many more times I’m sure. ” “Do I ever remember? ” He shakes his head and for the first time, a frown falls on his face. I feel like I just kicked a puppy. “No, ” he says, “but someone has to watch after you. ” “What about my Mom? ” His eyes widen then relax. “I don’t know, was she not home? ” “No. ” “She must be on vacation still. ” My eyes fall to the floor. They trace the cracks along the granite tiles, observing the blotches in the seams. Nothing’s ever perfect. A sense of hopelessness falls over me. What is this life? He lets me sit in silence. If this isn’t the first time this happened, he must know how I feel right now. He must watch this face churn as my neurons fire signals into a void. When nothing fires back, I scratch my head and try again. Eventually, they move on, piecing together a puzzle and presenting it back to me. “This is your life now, ” it says in comic sans. Choice is no longer my reality. “So what do I do? ” I ask finally. “What do I do after this? ” “Well, sometimes we hang out, sometimes you wander off. It’s never the same really. If it's raining you tend to go out for whatever reason. When it’s sunny and nice, you stay inside. I don’t get it. ” “And last night? ” “It was raining, ” he says with a laugh. “We went to an Irish pub and hammered back some Guinness until you started getting sick. ” “But I don’t drink. You must have pushed me to. ” He cocks his head back and looks back into my eyes. “Well, I don’t want to drink alone. Want to grab another? I heard it helps with a hangover. ” I look outside and see the dark shadows on the buildings. The darkness deepened by the sunlight above. Maybe I’ll just stay inside today. It’s a lot to take in, if I’m not careful, maybe I’ll get an aneurysm. Maybe I already have. How would I know? I spend the rest of the day watching the news, trying to catch up, not believing tomorrow, it’ll all disappear. August 15th, 2018 I wake, the sky is... August 28th, 2018 I wake and the sky is clear… September 10th, 2018 My lips burn... September 17th, 2018 I wake… Habair wants me to meet him downstairs…. December 2nd, 2018 I meet Habiar downstairs... March 12th, 2019 I wake… there’s cranes and condos. May 31st, 2019 I wake… I meet Habair downstairs. September 1st, 2019 There’s an article on the fridge… I meet Habair… December 16th, 2019 I wake… there’s a letter, worn and wrinkling... my lips burn… I go downstairs to meet Habair…. He’s not here. I sit on the leather chair facing the windows. It looks dark outside with the buildings blocking the morning sun. An old couple use the automatic door and bring in a bag of groceries. The groceries bounce on the frame of the old man's walker. They shake their head at me as they walk by. Nice to meet you too. The next people passing by act the same. They look and stare but none seem to muster a smile. Had I done something to them? Perhaps they had all wanted me dead and the car accident didn’t take care of that. Now they were trying different means; maybe scowls will do the trick. I wouldn’t bet on it. When the clock strikes 12, my stomach rumbles. I’ll have come back after lunch. Figuring out what’s going on is going to be worse on an empty stomach. And who knows what time he meant to be here, he didn’t even say on the note. He can do the waiting. I pop some chicken fingers in the oven; I never was much of a cook. As the oven warms, I check the dates of the other foods. To my surprise, there isn’t an expired piece of anything in the fridge. At least it meant Mom still cared for me. She never did waste time keeping old stuff. While the fingers cook, I turn on my computer and load YouTube. It doesn't look right... I don’t remember it looking like this. Who are these people? Where did all the good people go? In my hunger slumber, I close the browser. My patience is thin like… like four slices of black forest ham on toasted rye, topped with melted provolone and arugula. I never was much of a cook but sandwiches were an exception. Instead of searching through this new YouTube, I dive into my computer. Back when the torrent websites were being taken down left and right, I decided to store all my downloads deep in my computer. I’m sure they would’ve been found in seconds if my computer was seized, but I felt safe knowing it might take them a few seconds longer. Among the classics, The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile, and 21 Jump Street, there’s a folder named, “Memories”. Among the files are, “eternal sadness of a lost mind”, “Sunday Love”, and “Brodney Suicide, says coffee clerk. ” The videos are made by me mostly, sometimes by this woman named Brodney. We’re searching for something, talking about metaphysical stuff—existence, reality. The smell of burning chicken snaps me away. I start chopping the blackened bit of breading off the chicken. Why did I stop these videos? It would have been very helpful. I return to the computer and notice the last video was made August 6, 2018. I keep watching and hours roll by. There’s a knock at the door. My knee meets the underside of my desk. I didn’t notice how focused I had become. The world felt like it drifted away. Maybe that’s something old me never felt. I think he would’ve liked it. There’s a man outside in a black shirt and jeans. His features are sharp and hair slicked back. He knocks again. “I’m sorry I was late! ” he says. I open the door. “Are you Habair? ” I ask. “Yes, your friend Habair. Can I come in? ” “You never said what time. ” “What? ” “What time to meet you. ” “Oh, yes, ” he looks down at his hands, “it’s supposed to be in the morning. I was stuck in a meeting. ” He smiles for some reason. Is that supposed to make me believe him? It’s a Sunday. “Alright, well, come in. ” I gesture him in. He might know something. “What is it we were meeting for? ” He steps inside, keeping his shoes on. I watch his eyes scan the apartment and fall to my desk. He takes a step towards it and nods his head. “So, you’ve watched them? ” he asks. “For hours, ” I tell him. “Do you know what they are? ” “Yes. ” He begins explaining my condition then goes onto my obsession with reality. Apparently, it became so bad I tried committing suicide. “They had a bring in paramedics to tear the door down. ” I look at the door. Paramedics don’t do that. Who’s ever seen a paramedic tear down a door? What did they do, chisel it away with a syringe? “How did I do it? ” “You tried to hang yourself, ” he says and points up the wooden support beam that runs across the living room. “They found the rope there. ” The beam was certainly sturdy enough. Sometimes I’d do pull-ups to gauge how weak I had become since the last time I tried. I rarely surprised myself. Anyway, it was plausible and he seemed to know a lot about this day. Strange that I never mentioned him in the videos. “Do you want something to drink? ” I ask him. “I need some water. All this talking is making me thirsty. ” “No, no, I’m fine, ” he says, taking a seat on my grandmother’s rocking chair. “Do what you need to, I’ll be here. ” I open the cupboard and see an old mug from my mother. “I love you, Son, ” it says. She gave to me on my thirtieth birthday. Tears begin to well as I remember the video telling me she was dead. It gives me an idea, though. “I’m actually going to have some tea. Did you want some? ” I yell to the living room. “I’m fine, thank you! ” Habair yells back. I fill the kettle. The coils surge with electricity and it rumbles like an oncoming train. Maybe I could trust Habair. Maybe he was an honest friend who spoke to enough neighbours to know what happened. Something behind his smile told me otherwise, though. That, and the fact my door was the exact same wooden slab from when we moved in. I checked above the handle while we talked. There were 4 digits etched into the wood; the combination to open the lock. My mother carved it when she realized her memory was failing her. She would read it before leaving and if you followed her you’d hear her hum those four digits, “3, 5, 6 3. ” I sometimes worried the wrong person might hear her and think it was her bank card pin, only to be declined after an insensitive robbery. Luckily, that never happened. The kettle clicks and I pour the boiling water on a bag of Orange Pekoe. I then douse it with cream and sugar. Just like the coffee, it’s the only thing that makes it bearable. In the living room, Habair waits, flipping through a book on the coffee table. “ Duma Key by Stephen King. Any good? ” he asks. “Don’t know. My Mom made the collection. I could never keep up. ” “I see. ” “Do you know where she is? ” “You don’t know? ” he asks, his face scrunching. “I guess you don’t. She’s on vacation. ” He smiles. There’s a pause. I feel the cold steel of my knife in my sweater’s sleeve. He seems to notice something’s changed. Before I say another word, he’s out of his chair and heading for the door. He manages to open it but I grab him by the collar, pulling him back. He falls to the floor. I lock the door and draw my knife. I don’t know what’s happening to me but I want more answers. Habair pushes himself back against the couch and he closes his eyes. I grab him by the shirt and push him up on the seat. Again, he closes them and I slap him across the face. His eyes stay open this time as he watches the knife, inches away. “What’s gotten into you, man!? ” he yells. “My Mom is dead! ” “A long vacation, that’s what I meant. You—” I tighten my grip on his neck. He wiggles out, “you’ll see her one day. ” “The day I tried to kill myself. Where were you? ” His eyes are piercing, demanding my attention. Meanwhile, time ticks and no answers come. I push the knife closer. “You seemed to know a lot about it, ” I say. “Were you here? ” “Y-yes, ” he says. “Broken door and all? ” “Yes. ” I push the tip of the blade into his cheek. Not by much, just enough to know he’s real. A red bead forms on the tip. “What are you hiding?! ” His muscles relax. Not only does he smile but his eyes smile too. Laughter follows. I take my hand off his throat but leave the knife close. “Do you know what makes this real? ” he asks. “What? Answer my questions. ” He laughs some more. “Fine. I was here the day you tried to kill yourself. I called you to the door and knocked you out when you opened it. Then I took all those triggers you gave yourself to remember what you were doing and trashed them. ” “You forgot the videos. ” “No, ” he says, “it makes for more interesting content. But by the time you realize what’s going on, it’s usually late and you go to sleep. And the next morning, it’s like nothing happened. ” “But… how did you, ” I can’t get the right words out. How did he… “Maybe it’s time you answer my question: do you know what makes this real? ” “What real? ” “This, everything, life. ” “I don’t know, God? ” I answer. Habair laughs. “No, you do. This isn’t reality but it is to you. ” Is this what those videos were questioning? So many had titles with “reality” in them. Did he have the answers I was looking for? “If this isn’t, then what is? ” He cranes his neck, making more space between his neck and my knife. I follow him. “You wouldn’t like reality, believe me, ” he says. “Not if this is the world you built yourself. ” “Try me. ” “Reality is a bleak landscape of red, stretching on for eternity. No one has reached the end, even after 100 million eras. Above hangs an ever-present light, shading whatever it touches in yellow. The sky is grey and we don’t have the resources to build anything with colour. We eat the soil and give back to the soil. There are homes and ruins scattered throughout but it always ends the same—they are abandoned because they are not needed. ” “So what? You built these worlds for yourself to wander in like some video game? Am I one of you trapped inside? ” “No, you don’t get it. You built this, you’re still building it. ” “So I am one of you? ” He shakes his head. “You want to know what you really are? ” “Yes. ” “Do you even know what Alf stands for? ” he says. “Alfonso. ” “Artificial Lifeform. All of you find someway to forget that. ” “I… I don’t understand…” “You’re an amorphous mass of neurons, abandoned like thousands of others. A failure left to rot away while the next one is created. You sit in a bath, fed nutrients from the soil and each nerve fires away, building each piece of this world. You brought this all into existence. “Bullshit. ” “You continue to define it all—explain it. Always it’s growing. Every action has a reaction. What you are is nothing; what you imagine to be is everything. And when you die, it’ll all disappear. ” “Bullshit! ” “It’s true. You’re a mass of neurons far greater than that one sitting in your head. You all start the same. A few connections here, a few there. You can’t remember much of your childhood, can you? ” “No one can. ” “Because your world was just building. ” The words pile, like stacked books over the memories of my life. Everything was nothing? All a story I created? “So what? You just like to come and visit, see what’s new? ” “This world is special, ” he says. “So many end up like the real world; their landscapes stretch on endlessly. There’s no flavour—no life. Some don’t even give rise to a body. When I'm inside I just float aimlessly. And I wait until I fall asleep. But not you. No, the one that threw you out never would’ve imagined you made this. When I found you, that’s when I knew I had something special. ” “Well, it must have got a whole lot boring watching me do the same thing over again. ” “That was on purpose. ” I tilt my head, letting my body ask the question I can’t muster. “It was remarkable how your mind created the car accident. How it created your condition. You see, my clients want to experience your world. They want your memories. When I took the first one, I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if you’d live or die. But you went into a coma in this world and came right out. So I tried again. This time, there was no coma, you just didn’t remember the day before. So every night, I scavenge your memories as I do with all the abandoned Alf’s. But you, you are the best. ” “And if I kill you? ” I ask, pressing the blade against his neck. “Then I die and you create all the struggles you’ll go through to get rid of a dead body in this world. I can return as someone else. ” “And if I kill myself? ” “That’s it. No more world and I keep searching for another Alf like you. ” I don’t notice his eyes shut. When I do, he is asleep. I slap him, stab his arm, pour cold water over him but nothing wakes him. He is gone. I try to stay awake. The coffee, the sugar, the lights. I try and wonder what waits at the end of this blade. What if I do go and end this all? The hours count down. Then the minutes and each second begins to feel like a day, every hour a month and the day… Eventually... December 17th, 2019 I wake and the room is dark… my lips burn… I go downstairs to meet Habair. The sun comes out… I turn on my computer… there’s a folder of movies. Hmm, The Matrix. That’ll do.

Movie patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle plant.

Has anyone thought about that Egyptology may have gotten their beginning wrong

Glory be to the most high our Heavenly Father the Lord Jesus the saviour. the alpha and the omega. Movie patterns of evidence 3a the red sea miracle remix. @radicalk1dd i prayed to find a new job and god amswered it later that day. my district manager offered me a mew job... long story short. Galatians 4:25 already mentions Mount Sinai is in Arabia.

O Allah. The most gracious the most merciful. 26:37 Very import point here, the next few seconds. Amazing. God will always be in control. Woooow thanx for this interview and these GREAT movies. thanx. Amen ❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍👍🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 Hi.

 

Sounds like the Roman Empire/ church illuminati nwo and anonymous all wrapped up into one to me. Movie patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle sea miracle. I am about to post the 3000 most common words in the English lexicon. 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The music far overpowers the narrator. Movie patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle house. Movie patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle youtube. Movie patterns of evidence 3a the red sea miracle karaoke. This is such a Christmas gift! I feel so blessed to listen to this video. Movie patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle band. I watched this and it proofed allah has deep connection to saudi arabia and children of Ismail as he promised he will make him a great nation. that's the reason he sent his wife and first born back to mountain so god can look over them. unlike jews, arabs accepted jesus as their messiah and prophet. arabs preserved the site instead of making into a zoo like what jews did to Jerusalem. I would rather support arabs instead of jews.

 

Can you do something about the sound please. The Beautiful truth is that is real. New video!  Professor Exposes Impossibilities of Evolution. Movie patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle day. Movie patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle free. This was gross, I hope everyone gives this a thumbs down 😕 they took the truth and twisted it into a lie. if u want the truth, watch: patterns of evidence: the exodus. That is the actual truth. Logos is rising. Movie patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle water. Faith that can part the seas it's what my brother's thoughts of me.

THANK YOU LORD. The flight from London to Beijing is ten hours. My wife and I board the plane early and look for our seats. The seat next to mine is already occupied by a fat white guy, mid-forties with a face the color of raw bacon. He must be British. He looks like an enthusiastic eater, drinker, sweater, snorer and farter. This doesn't bode well for the journey ahead. I don't make eye contact, hoping he gets the message and doesn't try to engage me in conversation. The seat next to him is empty so once I've taken my seat and got myself comfortable, I open the China Daily and flap it around loudly in the hope he'll move and give me some well deserved extra room. On page 6 there's an article about Taiwan. It claims 71. 6% of Taiwanese youth 'identify as Chinese' and that 'more and more' Taiwanese people are expressing their opposition to Taiwanese independence. It also says the Taiwanese government has 'separatist ambitions'. I wonder who carried out this poll? Probably not the Taiwanese. I don't really identify with being British but having looked at the alternatives and finding nothing better, I've concluded that British is my best option. I have a habit of becoming more British when abroad. This annoys me. I've tried to change but can't. I become hyper sensitive to the lack of (British) manners, the substandard level of queuing, being shoved, bad driving, the lack of potatoes on menus. I also miss corduroy trousers and the opportunities to wear my chestnut semi-brogues. Oh and the shit chocolate bars one has to endure. Next time your in America for instance, smell their chocolate. Smells like vomit. Savages. I'm visiting Taiwan on this trip and I make a mental note to do three things: (I) Not act British, (II) Ask the local Taiwanese what nationality they identify as, (III) Sample the local chocolate. The plane is filling up with passengers. An ordinary looking middled aged Chinese man takes the aisle seat next to my bacon faced travel companion and the chance of him moving seat now reduces to approximately zero. In the row behind me, I overhear a condescending English voice ask the person next to him if she's heard about Tiannemon Square. She says yes, sounding Chinese and then he follows up by asking if she knows how many people died there. Wow. That's his opening gambit? That's his way of introducing himself to his Chinese travel companion, on a flight to China with China Air. Not 'hello' or 'are you comfortable' he's going straight in with the Tiannemon Square opening. That is bold to say the least. His tone is haughty provincial secondary school teacher asking for homework that he knows hasnt been done. Frankly it's wildly inappropriate, rude and diplomatically as constructive as a turd in the punch bowl at the British ambassadors reception. Now he's slowly and loudly telling her the numbers - 'Two. Thousand. Four. Hundred. And. Twenty. Eight. ' Was it that many? He seems to think so and sounds pretty sure of himself. My blood pressure rising. The Chinese lady says 'well we don't know the exact number' but her response is not enough for me - I need to say something. I'm thinking of witty put downs but decide he just needs punching really hard in the face, repeatedly. Who will punch him for me? Aren't there any Chinese on board that speak English that can punch him. Captain Knobhead, as I've named him, has the audacity to reply "you don't know how many died because your government doesn't tell you the truth. " Everyone is hearing this. I'm fucking livid at this point. Later I will think I should have asked him if he knows how many Chinese died as a result of the British government flooding China with cheap opium in the nineteenth century and in this imaginary scenario I get a standing ovation from all the passengers, but for now I tell myself I don't want to start a fight before we've left UK airspace and that the Chinese lady is defending herself just fine. I think of various other excuses which I like I roll out at times like these when I should speak up but don't and do what any decent coward would do and turn to the person next to me for validation, in this case Baconface. Let's see if we can roll our eyes together at Captain Knobhead's boorishness. Baconface is just staring ahead into space oblivious, he doesn't want to get involved either. He is absolutely right, best not make a fuss. Eyes front. Keep Calm and Carry On Hanging on in Quiet Desperation. It's the English way. I'm actually starting to like Baconface. We've have a lot in common. The pilot welcomes us and doesn't sound Arabic which is always a relief. He says the flight will be generally smooth but we may experience a small amount of turbulence over Denmark. That triggers my first 'flight reflex' and I immediately think of a YouTube video I once saw showing extreme turbulence with people screaming and luggage and all sorts flying around the cabin. I think it was called "LMFAO Worst turbulence EVA!!! ", or something similar. I try and think of other things. I take out the emergency procedures guide from the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me. This doesn't help. There's a warning not to open the doors which I've never noticed before. Are they are saying someone can just go up to the doors and open them mid-flight? Shouldn't they be locked? How did I not know about this? Would we all get sucked out? I guess those not wearing seat-belts definitely would. I decide to leave my sea belt on for the duration. My wife discreetly tells me the couple in front have a baby. So now there's the possibility of a screaming baby soundtrack to accompany us on our marathon of physical discomfort which ten hours in an economy class seats never fails to deliver. Which one will be the defining memory of this flight? Which will be the biggest test of my endurance? I imagine the baby will get sucked out pretty quick in a door opening scenario. What else would fly out the cabin door at 37, 000 feet? I guess iPads, phones, headphones, caps, blankets, food trays, newspapers and neck cushions. And my slippers, which I'm not wearing. I put them back on, just in case. We are still on the Tarmac. The plane taxis along the runway for what seems like ages. I tell my wife I think we're nearly there and she looks confused and she says 'where? ' and I can't be bothered explaining the joke so I try to find a window to look out of which isn't easy when you're in the middle row. Then, the engines crescendo and I'm slowly pushed back into my seat and I spot a window which provides a small view of the ground falling away as the plane floats and drives into the sky at 45 degrees. The miracle of flight. Or the unnatural abomination, depending on your viewpoint. I sit firmly in the latter camp, on the ground, you know - where animals without wings belong. Isn't take off the most dangerous part of the flight? I think it is. I read it somewhere. Where did I read that? The plane climbs. I take my glasses off and focus on the sights, sounds and smells of the cabin. But first, where is the safest place for my glasses? I opt for the storage pocket on the seat in front. Sights... The flight attendants are all gone now. I guess they're still strapped into their jump seats. What an odd name for a seat on a plane that nobody wants to jump out of. Mind you if we have to jump out, you know to lighten the load or something, I guess it's cabin crew first. That would be the decent thing for them to do. I need to stop thinking about jumping out of planes. Small comforting signs glow yellow, green and red: Toilet, No Smoking, Seat Belt. The ominous green Exit sign is of course quickly ignored - why do I need to know where the exit is at 7, 000 feet a few minutes after take off? I won't be getting out. I'll be making my exit in ten hours on the Tarmac at Beijing International Airport thank you very much. Or will I? My twisted, high-altitude induced fuzzy flight logic takes hold again. What are the chances I won't reach Beijing? There IS a chance. A dozen video screens in my field of view remain synchronized to the 'Welcome Aboard' message. Tasteful soft lighting, recessed behind overhead luggage racks calms and reassures and I forget the game of Die-in-the-sky that I'm playing. I take off my slippers, again. Yes I'm quite calm thank you very much indeed. I could be on a luxury train. Like the Orient Express. Except this 'train' has nothing but 12, 000 feet of cold air between my toes and the North Sea. I think of the long cold fall to my death for the eighteenth time. Here we go again. When I'm sucked out of the emergency exit, what will be the biggest shock: the minus 30 degree temperature or the sudden realization of my imminent death? I study the backs of the heads in front of me. The one in front looks female and has short black hair, possibly Chinese. To her left is a white baldy-head. Maybe he's British or American. They must be together, given my wife says they have a baby - which thankfully must be asleep as I've neither heard nor seen it. It could be mute of course. Either is fine by me. The seat to the right of short black haired lady is empty. I will probably get to know the back of those two heads quite well during this flight. Sounds... I focus on the steady drone of the engines and that weird hissing sound (air con? ). The engine noise is interspersed with the occasional distant slam of an overhead luggage compartment. It's almost quiet once you've tuned out the hum of the engines. Smells... Long haul flights have no particular odor, bar the occasional fart of which we have already had one. Not by me I hasten to add. It was either baldy-head in front or Baconface next to me. They are my primary suspects. It was fresh, so probably hadn't travelled far, although it was weak so I could be wrong. I'm not a good fart detective. I've already farted once but it didn't smell. The cabin crew bring drinks. Captain Knobhead has moved to an aisle seat three rows ahead and wants wine. The stewardess explains it is only served with food so he's not getting any. Haha. Great. Fuck him. Baconface says he doesn't want a drink. He is Scottish. They are serving beer. I virtue signal to myself silently by thinking just because Baconface is Scottish, doesn't mean he is a raging 'pish heed'. That's exactly the kind of lazy, ignorant stereotype I just can't stand. Knowing Baconface's nationality, I wonder how Captain Knobhead of HMS Bellend would have introduced himself had he been in my my seat? 'Jock eh? Not wearing a kilt then? '. Maybe he would ask if Baconface identified as Scottish or British. He would definitely have commented on him not ordering a drink. My wife goes for half a glass of apple juice topped up with water. I have a jasmine tea. I used to get shitfaced on flights but what's the point? I'll feel bad enough from the jet lag when I land without adding alchohol to the mix. My new tactic is to adopt the time zone of the destination I'm flying to as soon as I board the plane. This means I'll be having a coffee after my dinner - because technically it will be breakfast time in Beijing. I pull my tray down, put my jasmin tea in the recessed cup holder and pull open the 'pocket' in the chair in front to stash my iPad but hear a ripping sound and realize I've just torn the fabric off the seat in front, exposing its metal frame. The storage pocket is of course below my tray opposite my knees, not behind the tray. Whoopsy. I quietly stick the fabric back on without the stewardesses noticing. I sneak at look at Baconface. His eyes are closed. Is he sleeping, or did he watch me vandalize the upholstery and quickly close his eyes as he saw my head turning towards him? Hmmm. I blindly reach down under the tray into the seat pocket for my glasses and to my enormous relief they are still there. I put them on. The screen at the front of our section shows a map of our progress. Ely and Dover are highlighted and we are already over the North Sea. The view on the screen pans out to show the whole earth. From this angle, the plane icon still looks like it's in the UK. I stare at the plane hoping to see it move, to see some evidence of our progress, but it doesn't budge. I need to think about how I'm going to pass the time. I take my glasses off again. I have a whole bunch of albums, TV series and movies downloaded to my iPad. I will get through those later, no need to rush. I need to pace myself. I drink some more jasmine tea. Nice and slow. Drinking it at this speed will take a good fifteen minutes. My wife tells me I can lean my chair back as the person behind me is already asleep. How did they do that? We've only been airborne 30 mins. I'm not ready to lean back. I haven't even eaten my dinner yet. I get comfortable-ish and squint at the progress map ahead. There's now a line behind the plane icon leading to a spinning yellow cog icon over London. We haven't even been airborne for an hour and Amsterdam is already on the map. That's progress! This flight will fly by! After dinner (Beef and rice) I fart. Twice. I released one earlier, shortly after taking my seat and glanced sideways to see if Baconface noticed the vibrations. He didn't. That means our chairs aren't connected so I'm free to fart as much as I like. This is good. These after dinner ones also don't smell so I'm fine. Smelly ones will be taken to the bathroom. I do have some standards. We are a few hundred miles south of Svalberg, flying at 37, 000 feet, ground speed 546 miles an hour. I'm not impressed. 546 mph isn't that fast. Satellites travel at 11 miles per second. That's fast. It's minus 59 degrees outside. That's definite scarf, hat and gloves weather. Would I freeze on the way down at 59 degrees and then shatter into a thousand pieces of Jerry upon impact? Like a giant bag of skin, bone and hair colored M&Ms. I need to stop fixating on the dangers of flying. I need to change channel. I wonder what Svalberg is like. I could probably live there and be content. It's probably like everywhere else in the world - cleaner, cheaper and less crowded than London. More things to think about as someone behind me snores. Out of nowhere I smell body odor. I think it's coming from Baconface. How does one just suddenly start smelling of body odor? Is it something to do with sleeping. Is that why we need to wash when we wake up? I'd Google it but there's no internet. Fuck. The overhead lights go off. The only meaningful light now is from the little TV screens on the backs of chairs, some of which are now switched off. Am I being told to sleep? Where is my coffee? I'm regretting the hot chocolate Milano I had just before boarding. It's worked its way through my system and urgently needs to come out. I think it's planning to take my dinner with it. Going to the toilet will be on my mind on and off for the next thirty minutes. I notice my underpants are tight. Underpants? Why the hell am I wearing underpants? Don't I always wear boxer shorts on flights for the additional breathability which aids comfort and prevents the genital area from overheating? What are the chances I get deep vein thrombosis in my gonads as a result of wearing tight underpants on a long haul flight? There IS a chance. Acute Deep Vein Testicular Thrombosis. ADVTT. I've got a newly discovered chronic medical condition on my hands, or more accurately in my balls. Is there a doctor on board? I refuse to start my vacation with ADVTT Can I take my underpants off without anyone noticing given its pitch black in the cabin? What if Baconface wakes up and I've got my trousers round my ankles with my hairy ass in his face? That could derail our fledgling relationship. It appears that no video screens are working. They are all switched off. It is 11. 33pm. We have been flying for 3 hours and 8 minutes. Only 6 hours and 52 minutes left. Yay. I need to make my own entertainment. I find my slippers, wake up my wife and go to the bathroom to poop. I'm surprised how many people are still awake as I make my way down the aisle. Some of them look at me and I make my relaxed 'I'm-only-going-for-a-pee' face for their benefit. When I arrive at the toilet it's occupied but they don't take long and they don't leave a smell. God bless you, kind stranger. Inside the toilet, it's very bright compared to the darkness of the cabin. A sign on the tap says 'component not working'. I guess I won't be washing my hands then. I'll just be taking whatever diseases are in here back to my seat. I hover over the toilet clutching the edge of the sink with my hand on the opposite wall for balance but can only muster a fart. Interesting. I push but get nothing. I don't want to force it, a prolapsed asshole at 35, 000 feet is no way to start a vacation. I've got quite enough on my plate with ADVTT thank you very much. I get lost on the way back to my seat, fumbling in the dark and disturb a lady who I think is my wife but isn't. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and I stare at her smiling, waiting for her to move. I touch her shoulder. I think I say "hey! ". Once I realize it's not my wife's face staring back at me, I apologize and carry on until I find the correct row. 11. 56pm. I think I have a headache. Aren't they supposed to come round with water now? My screen seems to be working again. Maybe I need to watch a movie. I'll just put my chair back and close my eyes. Someone switches the light on. It's 4. 41am. It wasn't proper sleep but I'll take it given its consumed a giant chunk of time. 4. 45am and the drinks trolley comes round. I have coffee. What time is it in Beijing and where are we exactly? The flick flight map shows we are over Ulan Bator. Outside air temperature is -61 degrees. It is 707miles to our destination, time to destination 1hour 40. This is a very good result. Having survived for 8 hours and 20 minutes I feel positive about my chances of landing in one piece inside the plane. Channel 14 shows the view from the front of the plane. It's daytime. I estimate it's about mid day local time. I wonder what it's like to live in Ulan Bator. Baldy and short dark hair woman in front have swapped seats. She gets up to look around and she isn't Chinese. I haven't heard their baby once. That is one very considerate baby. I think I need to poop again and this time I think it's for real. That takes the edge off my positive mood. The urge to poop subsides. An announcement tells us it's breakfast time. I hear 'chicken congee' but not much else. Captain Knobhead is speaking to one of the cabin crew and loudly says "Chicken Porridge? ". Prick. When the stewardess comes round to me I discover there's omelette too. I opt for the omelette. The sticker on the foil says 'cheese omelette'. This just gets better and better. I roll back the foil and there's some small roast potatoes and a sausage too. The first bite of the omelette is fine. It needs salt though, and I'm not really getting any cheese. The second bite is the same and I've uncovered a rasher of bacon underneath. The potatoes look better than they taste. I don't try the bacon or sausage - who knows their provenance. Could be 'country chicken' for all I know. That's rat in China by the way. Avoid it if you are offered it. Unless you like rat of course in which case I'd recommend 'well done' to avoid catching one of the seven deadly diseases they are known to carry. The last bite of omlette has some cheese in it. I eat the croissant with 'monounsaturated spread' and jam. My wife spits out a half chewed melon ball and says 'old'. I think she says 'cold' and I say 'cold? ' and she goes 'no, old' and we go back to eating. She offers me her croissant but I decline. I'm thinking about the KFC in Beijing airport and hope its open when I land but I worry that it's Kentucky Fried Country Chicken and I also worry about the fried chicken place on the high street where I live which is actually called 'Country Fried Chicken'. I will investigate if the owners are Chinese when I get back to UK. In fact, it's probably easier to just report them straight to the council and leave the investigation up to the food hygiene standards people. I'm not much of a Country Chicken detective. Distance to destination 363 miles, ground speed 574mph outside temp -81 degrees altitude 37, 000 feet. With all the lights on again, I can see Baldy in front has a well moisturized head. It's freshly shaved and I see classic male pattern baldness in the hairline. The top is pleasantly pink which extends over the crown meeting the tiny black dots of stubble around the sides and back. The skin around the stubble appears ever so slightly blue. You can get a tattoo of stubble all over your head if you're bald. It looks like you've just shaved your whole head and aren't really bald at all. Of course it does mean that when you get old, like really old, say 80, people might say might 'If I had a full head of hair at your age I wouldn't shave it all off'. Leaving you with the conundrum of admitting it's a tattoo, or lying. Do you want to be lying about your hair when your 80? I start to count the black dots of stubble then realize there's no need to waste more time as there's less than an hour before we land. I get an involuntary erection. Not on account of staring at his bald head, I should add. At least I don't think it is. What can one do with an involuntary erection on a long haul flight? Nothing. It's wasted, like so many opportunities in life. If you see an opportunity, grab it with both hands, unless it's an involuntary erection on a long haul flight, in which case keep your tray down, sit on your hands and hope the person sitting next to you doesn't want to pass by. After we land Captain Knobhead gets up and I finally see what he looks like. He's mid fifties to early sixties, tall, pale complexion with rosy cheeks, well built with a full head of messy grey-white hair and university lecturer clothes. He actually looks like he'd be quite handy in a fight. The plane descends making those odd bumping, thumping and whirring sounds as various cables and flaps and hydraulics do their landing shit. I don't know much about planes but I know they are dangerous. Isn't landing the most dangerous part of the flight? I think it is. Lower and lower we slide downwards then a gentle landing. We taxi pleasantly and I'm consumed by the joy of still being alive. Flying is fun, I should do it more often. It's the safest form of travel. I read that somewhere. Most passenger stand immediately and start getting their bags down from the overhead luggage compartments. My wife and I get up, as always far too early and as we wait standing for the doors to open Captain Knobhead turns to the woman behind him and loudly says "You're not Chinese! Where are you from? ". He just won't quit. She's polite, smiles and says 'India' and Knobhead makes a slightly better attempt at a conversation and mentions he's married. Poor Mrs Knobhead. She's really taken one for womankind by removing him from the eligibility pool. I look at my wife and she says maybe he is into 'Asian cuisine' and I say 'what do you mean? ' and she says 'you know, sex with Asian women' and I laugh and wonder why I haven't heard that phrase before and I say 'what, like me you mean? ' and she laughs and I'm glad we finally figured out Captain Knobhead's game - he's clearly a sex tourist. I notice Captain Knobhead has those little string attachments holding his glasses round his neck. Then we all begin to shuffle of the plane. I reach for my glasses but can't find them in any pockets or my bag. It's too late to check under my seat and we have a connecting flight to Taiwan in about an hour. Fuck it. They're gone. It's 6. 20am London time and 2. 20pm Beijing time. I've lost my glasses and 8 hours of my time but I'm alive and couldn't be happier. In fact I think I'm euphoric, either that or jet lagged in a good way. We head to International Transfers. I check my connecting flight ticket for information. Gate 31. Departure time 3. 45pm. The flight from Beijing to Taipei is three hours.

YAH Bless Ron Wyatt and his family for being obedient to follow the Almighty's will! Ron's rediscoveries helped me to understand scripture in a more concise manner, and to help teach the truth in the bible in many study sessions! His reward will be in the New Jerusalem where he will here Well done by Yahusha. There’s nothing left for me here. Yet I keep coming back. The official investigation came to a close six years ago, it’s not terribly likely I’ll find some vital clue that the cops overlooked. But wherever Natasha is now, I want her to know I didn’t give up so easily. My family came to Russia nearly twenty years ago. Dad got a job with Soyuzmultfilm, a big animation firm headquartered just outside of Moscow. I was just a boy then, excitedly awaiting the birth of my little sister. The film Dad was hired to work on never saw the light of day, a remake of the classic “Hedgehog in the Fog”. Not such a problem under Soviet rule, pay continued regardless of performance. He liked the creative freedom it made possible, but when the Soviet Union collapsed, Soyuzmultfilm more or less collapsed with it. The studio survived as a leased enterprise, but ninety percent of the staff were laid off. My father was among the few who weren’t. The meager pay was just enough, along with what my mother made as a nurse, to keep us all in food and clothing. I remember one winter, Natasha begged for a Dendy. She was too young then to understand the concept of money, and the rhetoric she heard at school and on television about “equality” and “a classless society” only further confused her. Gorbachev had resigned a year earlier, but the curriculum at school did not yet reflect it. Nor the lingering Soviet themes in the media. A sort of widespread cultural disbelief, as we all witnessed the dream of global Socialism perishing before our eyes. “Why is it Mikhail’s family has a Dendy, but we can’t afford one? What makes them different? What about Grandfather Frost, can’t he bring me a Dendy? ” Each question like a knife in his side. I was forbidden to explain the facts of life to her, Mom insisted she didn’t need to know such grave things yet. That conditions might improve before she grew much older. They didn’t. The next few years were the hardest of our lives. Law and order rapidly decayed. Gangsters operated openly in what were once nice neighborhoods, selling all manner of imported American products. Filling in the gap, I suppose, until domestic industry could be revived. During those years, we often ate only every other day. The heat was turned on for just an hour each night before bed, so we could fall asleep. Natasha sought refuge in her beloved cartoons. In the mornings on weekends and after school every day, she never missed a chance to watch Peter the Possum. Before the collapse, Peter was a government attempt to copy the style of early Disney animation, with a view to using cartoons as a propaganda vector. Accordingly, about half the Peter the Possum cartoons I’ve seen have plots which in some way communicate the merits of Socialism and the evils of Capitalism. Even when they first aired, they looked archaic. Peter wears the same big buttoned pants and suspenders as Mickey, and does that strange, constant dance all the cartoon characters at the time seemed to perform even while standing still. Knees and elbows bent, then straight. Then bent, then straight. Squat, stand, squat, stand. A perpetual jig which background elements like hills, buildings and cars also danced in time to. “Dumpity doo! ” he would often exclaim, usually at the end of sentences and for no obvious reason. I recall an episode in which a gang of rats conspires to chop down the tree Peter sleeps in, then fashion it into a shelter so they can charge him rent. The transition between these plots and the post-collapse ones is like night and day. Peter suddenly seems much less concerned with politics and primarily focused on teaching children English. Not much of it, mind. Simple phrases like yes, no, hello, okay and so on. As we shared a room I was helpless but to endure Natasha’s repetition of basic English phrases while trying to focus on my for granted that she’d always be part of my life. When she got that free ticket in the mail, I initially thought nothing of it. Dad studied it more closely, as it bore the Soyuzmultfilm logo across the back. Only because he thought it such an interesting curiosity did I bother asking him about it. “It’s an invitation to Cosmotopia, a theme park that was under construction by the state during better times. I remember colleagues excitedly describing the attractions back before the lease and wave of layoffs in ‘89. Last I heard the state abandoned the project out in the boonies. ” I asked why bother sending out tickets for a closed theme park. “Delayed mail, maybe. Still digging through store rooms full of packages from just before the collapse. I hear stories of babushkas receiving ten years late some letters from deceased sons who fought the Nazis, that sort of thing. They must have sent these free tickets out as a promotion in advance of the grand opening. ” It didn’t sit right with me, though I couldn’t put my finger on the reason until years later. Why invite Natasha? She was in diapers then. So much I should’ve realized, so much I should’ve done. Of course when Natasha found out, she demanded to go. No amount of patient explanation that the theme park was now defunct would satisfy her. She was never a reasonable child, prone to tantrums and difficulties separating fantasy from reality. I would blame the cartoons, except Mom says she was the same way as a girl. We just never anticipated she’d run off like that. Despite the stacks of drawings she’s accumulated, all of Peter the Possum. Despite warnings from her teachers that she only seemed to be growing less attached to reality with each passing year. Each of us blamed ourselves when she vanished. Dad still thinks it’s because he was always working and basically let the television raise her. Mom for the same reason, and myself because at the time I was going through a phase where I wanted nothing to do with my family and spent as much time as I could with the boys. Looking for trouble, or making our own. The police determined she reached the ruins of Cosmotopia by a commuter train which still travels out there, as some of the support buildings were rented out to other businesses after construction ground to a halt. Otherwise the stop would’ve long since closed down. The employees of the storage business closest to the park insist they never saw her, but that the park is a popular haven for squatters, addicts and runaways. More than once I’ve stayed past sundown and glimpsed flickering light within the windows of the fiberglass Fairyland castle. The indoor campfires of vagrants and Krokodil junkies. I carry a small knife with me but harbor no delusions about how safe I am in such a place. So apart from those few times, I’ve always made sure to leave before night falls. Even that is no guarantee. The train is often a moving flophouse for passed out drunks and dodgy looking Alexeis in track suits. Today the sky is the usual shade of grey. Wholly uniform, no blotches or gradation, just a matte grey expanse. As if it’s not the clouds, but the color of the sky itself. The sort of sky which makes you wonder if you’re really still on Earth. Of course there are sparse trees nearby, and ragged tufts of struggling grass to remind you. But their colors, muted by the dim sunlight, sort of blend together. Like the trees, the grass, the mud and the train are all made out of the same “stuff”. I briefly wonder if I am too, or if I’m separate. A light wind tosses dried leaves about the sterile concrete train platform as I step off. The station itself is a crumbling, derelict mess. Most of the overhead lighting has gone out. The remaining tubes flicker at random intervals. The concrete is cracked and worn, the signs are all rusted to shit, and there’s a thin layer of debris and garbage coating the surrounding area. Cigarette butts, discarded candy wrappers, torn newspaper and so forth. The accumulated filth of human activity. Nobody comes to clean it up because nobody is paid to. Most likely nobody complains, either. There’s a monument to Yuri Gagarin built into the entry gates. His face made from colored stones, many of them pried out of the concrete by vandals over the years. The inset sign is an advertisement for the section of the park that’s space themed. They don’t bother to chain the front gates anymore, it never kept anyone out. I brought my bolt cutters anyway, as now and again I find some locked door, overlooked until then. The handles terminate in bent wedges such that it doubles as a crowbar, making it supremely useful for these kinds of excursions. Naturally, it also makes a serviceable club. The other thing I’m never caught without is an LED head lamp. Before, I used the light on my phone in dark service tunnels until a disoriented junkie startled me into dropping it. The light’s now busted and the screen’s got a mess of cracks in one corner. Live and learn. Once past the gate, I head for the fun center. “Fun” being subjective of course, having rather a different meaning in this country now that it’s under new management. The narrow selection of arcade machines languishing along the far wall of the stout little structure give no indication that they were ever sincerely meant to be enjoyed. “Sea Battle”. “Magistral”. “Winter Hunt”. “Autorally-M”. “Radish”. “Safari”. All of them just barely sufficient imitations of some Western game. Usually Atari or Williams games provided the general design concept. Then the programmers, working for peanuts with government guns at their necks, phoned it all in. The result is something comically rudimentary even for the time, and just barely playable. Their reason to exist was only ever to prove a point; that we Russians had every luxury under Communism that any American had under Capitalism, wanting for nothing. The two soda machines in the room were similarly austere. One simply a grey steel box which dispensed carbonated water, and the other a Cil-Cola machine which was broken into and looted years ago. The first time I found it, out of morbid curiosity I cracked open the last remaining can and took a sip. Flat of course. Otherwise surprisingly inoffensive given the age. Tasted vaguely like Kvass. I used to power up the arcade machines now and again just for laughs, but there’s little point as you can’t save your high scores. That would constitute blatant competition, you see. On my way from the fun center towards Fairyland castle, I paused to take a picture of the clown train. I often wonder who designed this and why they thought it would appeal to children, rather than traumatize them. It’s a small electric train resembling a centipede, each section of the body its own wheeled car with a pair of cushioned seats, now thoroughly beaten up by years of exposure. The front is, for some reason, the rusted head of a clown. I’ve often seen kiddie rides of the same make and model show up on urban exploration forums, they make an irresistible photo op. The park is divided into Cosmoland, Fairyland, Futureland, and Cartoonland. As the names suggest, the first is space themed, all of the rides named after and meant to represent historically important orbital missions. Futureland is even heavier on the propaganda, as it is specifically the “global socialist future” being represented. The “housing of tomorrow” near the entrance always catches my eye. Disc shaped fiberglass pods, four to a cluster, stacked two clusters tall for a total of eight small apartments in each tower. Each tower’s a different color, all of them now faded to the spots where the paint hasn’t flaked off yet. Increasingly communal living in the future was simply assumed for obvious, ideologically driven reasons. That said, while they don’t look like much now, I’d take one of these pods over panelak any day. As I continued towards Fairyland castle, something new caught my eye. Same old building I’ve passed a dozen times before, but somebody must’ve been through here since the last time, as a mess of vines were cut away to reveal lettering just over a row of second story windows. “Animation Center”. Presumably someplace children could learn how cartoons are made. Parts of the old facade still survived, yet more fiberglass. At one time making the building resemble something from a cartoon. The majority of it must’ve been torn down since then, revealing the ugly, rectilinear concrete truth hiding behind it. It reminds me of a story I once heard in which a visiting American diplomat was taken to the Kremlin aboard a train which passed by fields filled with false wooden tanks and airplanes. The intent, presumably, was to fool the diplomat into returning to the US with a grossly inflated impression of Soviet military might. That the train “just happened” to pass all of that hardware was something I suppose they hoped would not seem suspicious. So much of how this country was run back then relied on carefully cultivated illusions. To fool the outside world, but also its own citizens. Not so different from this park. To the eyes of a child, Fairyland, Cartoonland and the rest would have an airtight appearance of reality to them. Small but fully functional civilizations, populated by spacemen or costumed elves who, so far as the child knows, actually live there. All of it an elaborate farce, no deeper than the thickness of the facades masking the buildings. All to preserve the happiness of children who are none the wiser. Natasha must’ve come here sincerely believing that she’d meet Peter the Possum. That his fantasy world she saw on television was a real place she could run away to. How it pains me now, that I was ever the sort of person she’d want to escape from. What I wouldn’t give now to hear her repeating after Peter, word for word, sprawled out before the little black and white television set in our room. How vivid it still seems. Like something still happening now, a place I might physically return to if I focus hard enough. That feeling is also an illusion. Perhaps the cruelest of all. That the past still exists, that the immediacy of these visions connotes reality. As if we should be able to travel as freely through time as we do through space. What it must be like for a bird with broken wings. So often I find myself lost in thought. Reliving memories of Natasha so completely that it startles me to resurface from them. But during those precious periods of somber reflection, the vast gulf in time between where I am and where I want to be shrinks to almost nothing. It’s as if I’m right there with her. So near, yet so far. No matter how convincing, I cannot reach out and caress her face. I cannot braid her hair. I can visit, but never stay. Observe, but never change anything. The natural order of things, surely? But then, why does this restriction feel so wrong? So artificial. That was me, wasn’t it? And here I am. I was there once. Why, then, can I not return? The only direction I cannot move in is the one I most desperately wish to. Seconds ticking mercilessly by, each one carrying me further away from her. There’s nothing like losing a loved one to make you contemplate the nature of time. It becomes a nemesis. A tormentor. The only barrier preventing your escape from Hell, back to the paradise you were swept from by the relentless passage of minutes, hours, days and years. What do any of those words really mean? Does the universe know what a minute is? If there’s a smallest indivisible unit of matter, and a smallest measurable distance, could there also be an objectively smallest unit of time? If so, time does not pass fluidly, but as a sequence of still frames. One after the next, after the next, quickly enough to create the illusion of movement. And if it’s true that events could have unfolded no other way than they have, the predictable chain reaction of so many atoms interacting with one another, then all of this was predetermined. Something like a movie. So many still images strung together like film, all of us simply actors playing the only parts we’re able to. No small number of people find that perspective unsettling. Personally, I find it comforting. It would mean that there was nothing I could’ve done differently. That it wasn’t my fault. The alternative is that time doesn’t exist. That what looks to us like the passage of time is just the accumulation of changes, more and more atoms out of place compared to how we remember it. If so, then time is truly irreversible. You’d have to manually move every atom in the universe back to where it used to be. The past is destroyed by the future. Impossible to visit, impractical to recreate. Our memories, then, are ghosts. Lingering echoes of a world which no longer exists. I don’t know which view is stranger. That time isn’t real, or that we all amount to moving pictures with the appearance of life. Upon prying the door open, I discovered one of the windows was busted. I cursed myself for not noticing sooner, else I might’ve just crawled in through it. A frigid gust stung my skin as I edged around the mess of broken glass on the floor, countless little shards sparkling in what little sunlight came in through the opening. A light rain began to fall outside. Just as well. A whole new building to explore, exactly what I came looking for. And all things considered, not such a bad place to wait out the weather. A reception desk in the corner sat strewn with reminders of the past. Rolls of unsold tickets. A hand stamp, a coffee mug. Not even moldy inside, just a solid lump of dried black crud. The lid of an electrical box mounted to the wall behind the desk hung open, revealing row after row of bulky, archaic fuses. It subtly hummed. Evidently this building also still receives power. As I proceeded further in, I found the floor littered with what I first mistook for overhead projector transparencies. When I picked one up to study it more closely, I found it was instead an animation picting a very familiar monochromatic possum. More and more of them as I continued, until I couldn’t avoid walking on them. Along either wall hung light tables of the sort used to display X-rays in a doctor’s office. Many with animation cels pinned to them, though the bulbs were long since burnt out. I swept my light across the far end of the room and, to my surprise, there was some sort of indoor ride. Nothing fast or exciting like a rollercoaster. Rather, individual moving booths like the ones in haunted house attractions, or the educational rides that carry you slowly through a variety of life sized historical dioramas. I searched for some way to reactivate them, but the only obvious control panel was rusted out. Wouldn’t have done me much good anyway. After edging past the halted people carriers for a ways, the track abruptly ended. Dismantled by someone, only a sheet metal floor beyond that point. The ceiling, curiously, was also sheet metal. Both scratched up as if somebody’d been over them with steel wool. Bit by bit I worked my way down the darkened, serpentine tunnel. Soon I reached a section with working lights. One of the walls in this section of the tunnel was lined with pull down projector screens. Tied to a motion sensor I guessed, as once I drew near enough, projectors mounted in alcoves along the opposite wall sputtered to life. I doubled back, worried the sensor might’ve set off an alarm somewhere. Or that at the very least, the commotion might attract unwanted attention. That’s when I saw it. Laying on the seat of the nearest moving cart, perched on the end of the dismantled track. Now, it could’ve been anyone’s stuffed Peter the not for the initials drawn on the tag in black permanent marker. It knocked the wind out of me. All these years without finding the slightest trace, now I held Natasha’s own stuffed animal in my hands! The police. The damnably corrupt, lazy police. They might’ve found this six years ago if they just searched more thoroughly. But they only ever do as much as procedure requires, if that. Anything more depends on how generously you bribe them. I should never have taken their word for it. Should’ve gone searching myself the very day she disappeared, rather than wait for government stooges to half-heartedly bumble through this park before declaring it hopeless. “NATASHA!! ” I cried out. “NATASHA!! ” My voice echoed down the remaining length of tunnel, meeting with no a scratchy voice answered back. Not from the end of the tunnel, but from just beside me. “Use your indoor voice, little comrades! Respect the other visitors! Haha, dumpity doo! ” I spun around looking for the source. The projectors, having warmed up during my panic, now cast moving images of a familiar figure on the pull down screens opposite me. Black and white. Surrounded with momentary black flecks, dust caught in the film or defects from wear and tear. A certain possum in suspenders performing that familiar, perpetual dance. His beady little black eyes, unseeing, simply dark spots on film, nevertheless seemed to follow me as I headed further down the corridor. Another straight passage with projectors to one side and screens to the other. Another motion sensor brought them to life in a synchronized clickety clack of spinning film reels. “Hey! Yeah! My name is Peter the Possum, but you already knew that! ” Still bobbing rhythmically as he walked, Peter seamlessly moved from one projection screen to the next. What probably passed for an astonishing trick back in the day, really just accomplished by synchronizing the four projectors. “Today you’re going to learn about the magic of animation! Haha, wow! Dumpity doo! ” He’d not said but three sentences, and was already aggravating. His voice not high pitched, really, but somehow shrill nevertheless. Distorting mildly here and there due to fluctuations in the current powering the projectors. Peter walked slowly across the screen, leaving behind a trail of after images to reveal all the frames in his walk cycle. He whistled. “Lookit all those drawings, just so I can walk around! Yeah, dumpity doo! That’s a lotta work! ” I continued around the corner, leaving the rest of the film to play out behind me. “I’m talking to you. ” I paused, then peered over my shoulder. Couldn’t be, surely. “Hey! Dumpity doo! That’s twelve frames for every second! Think of all the time put into bringing me to life, even for a minute! ” I again turned and pressed on, wondering what exactly I hoped to find. Realistically? Her remains. Some bones, perhaps a few scraps of her clothing. Enough to bury, I hope. Around the next bend, yet another row of screens and projectors. They hummed to life as I drew close, flickering cones of light given the appearance of mass by the plentiful dust drifting through. Each little mote visible only while illuminated, as if springing into existence the moment it enters the light’s path. “Ah, there you are. Cartoons sure are great, little comrades! Dumpity doo! But they always end too quickly, because of so much work for every second. What if there is better way? Bright minds at Soyuzmultfilm always are thinking about the future! There’s a secret project in the works. You can keep a secret, can’t you little comrades? Sure you can. Imagine, if you will... a cartoon that never has to end. Wouldn’t that be something? Hey, wow! Dumpity doo. ” Gimmicks, I figured. The carts would accelerate as if hurrying past, synchronized with the film so that Peter appears to scold them for it. Smoke and mirrors. Eventually I came to a section of the tunnel that was even less put together. No wall panels here. Just bare concrete, a skeletal steel framework for supporting the ceiling, and electrical wiring snaking up and down the walls. Exposed conduits passed overhead, supported by the rusted metal beams. For lighting presumably, though some sort of transparent plastic tubing ran along with the cables. No projectors, though. Just screens for a ways, then stretches of corridor with dusty white sheets instead. To cover up the exposed electrics I assumed, until a strange contraption rounded the far corner. I backed away, no idea what the rolling pile of parts could be. Having never seen anything like it before or since. Something like the mobile base of a power wheelchair, with an up-facing monochrome CRT monitor mounted to it, a mirror positioned above the monitor at a 45 degree angle, then a fresnel lens to magnify the reflected image. “Haha, wow! Dumpity doo! What is a cartoon character, anyway? Am I just a collection of lines? Am I the light coming from the bulb, or television screen? You’re mostly water, but are you that water? Or are you the rest? ” A moving projector. Not literally, I could see no spools of film. Rather, the mirror redirected light from the monitor through the fresnel lens, casting the contents of the screen onto the white sheets lining the walls. Sparks flew from beneath the wheels, and fell from overhead as the contraption trundled towards me. I could see a brushed electrical contactor at the top of the pole, sliding along the metal ceiling. And another beneath the wheels, touching the floor. The same way bumper cars are powered. “I’m not the light, am I? That’s just the medium. I’m the painstakingly drawn black marks which block light, defining the shape of my body. The absence of light. A living shadow! All to realize the age old dream of bringing life to the lifeless. Duuumpity dooooo. ” No longer jolly, the tone of his voice had begun to change. Particularly the dumpity doos. They now had a tense, vaguely threatening quality on top of the unsettling distortion. I jogged ahead until I came upon the first of several rooms. Inside I found something like an automated printing press. Rolls and rolls of printed tickets. Every few seconds the roll would rotate, dispensing another row of tickets to be cut by the next machine. Then one of the separated tickets would be deposited in an envelope, sealed, and funneled into a cylindrical capsule of some sort. The capsule was then loaded into an opening in the side of a transparent plastic tube. I realized it must connect to the tubing I saw running along the ceiling of the corridor on the way here. A moment later, with a pneumatic hiss and a loud “thoonk”, the capsule was sent on its way. To be mailed out. Had to be. Some kid would get it in the mail, tantalized by the promise of a new life someplace fantastical and comforting. Then he’d go to the address on the back and wind up here. For what purpose? How could the machine know their names, or what addresses to send the tickets to? It couldn’t. Must be controlled from somewhere else. For that matter, why is any of this still running? I never thought to question why the park’s power hasn’t been shut off. The next room I passed through looked something like a dentist’s office. A row of swiveling, full body chairs lined one wall. Instead of headrests, each had a sort of metal harness shaped like the contours of the human head, for holding one as still as possible. These head braces all had dried blood on them. More dried blood coated the floor around each of the seats. I began to feel queasy and once again considered turning back. Only the stuffed animal in my jacket pocket deterred me. Why would any of this be in an animation studio? One that’s part of a theme park, no less. What happened here? I rummaged through boxes in a corner. Full of odd little gadgets, metal cubes the size of dice but with a screw-like protuberance on one end and a tiny red bulb on the other. I heard an electrical whirr and the sound of sparks. When I turned around, there was the mobile projector. Following me? Looked that way. It cast Peter onto one of the walls as it moved, walking along. The background scenery was now simply blackness, so only Peter was actually being projected. Gave the rudimentary appearance that he was occupying the room with me, if two-dimensionally. As he plodded along, as before, his eyes seemed to follow my movements. Could it really be watching me somehow? I studied the wheeled contraption anew, this time noticing something like a closed circuit television camera nestled in there among the wiring, vacuum tubes and so on. The next two rooms were behind doorways inset in the right hand wall. The first bore a sign reading “high speed xerography”. I pried it open with my multi tool. The only light inside came from a bulb beneath a fast moving spool of transparent plastic. I recognized the markings on it as frames of animation for Peter. Must have something to do with the roving projector in the corridor. Made that same incessant clickety clack, ratatat sound as the reel to reel projectors earlier. The dust was so thick that I had trouble breathing. Waving it away from my face didn’t help, only made the dust swirl madly about. I searched for a light switch and found one, but flipping it accomplished nothing. Another dead bulb. The next door bore a sign which read “Prototype dimensionalizer”. What? I pried the door, deadbolt tearing away a chunk of the wall with it. The inside of this room was as dark as the last, but this time the bulb worked. When I flipped the switch, after a long hum and some flickering, the room was at last bathed in warm tungsten light. I couldn’t understand what I was looking at. Something like a power transformer occupied half the room. The machine which occupied the remainder looked like a convoluted maze of small mirrors and lenses. For channeling laserlight, as I discovered when I turned it on. The first component to activate was a pump. For circulating coolant, according to the label. Next I heard various clicks, an electrical hum faded in, then something began to appear on the central pedestal. Faintly at first. Like a ghost. Then it grew increasingly sharp, clear and solid until it appeared to me as if the apple sitting on the pedestal before me was actually there. On a whim I reached out to pass my hand through it. Only it was solid. I couldn’t believe it even as I wrapped my fingers around its contours and picked it up. The damn thing had real weight to it! Without thinking I took a bite, then immediately spit it out on account of the bitter flavor. When I withdrew it the fruit bled a syrupy black liquid that, from the stains on my teeth and sleeve, I figured for ink. Only around the bite mark though. Somehow the core of the apple consisted only of static. Like what you see on a television not properly tuned to any channel. No seeds, no juice, nothing sweet to sink my teeth into. Just erratic black and white fuzz that I dare not touch. I set it down and did my best to wipe the residual ink from my hands and face, succeeding only in spreading it around. I continued examining the machine, this time searching for clues as to what the apple was made from. Instead I found someplace to load film or slides. The slide already in the machine was, unsurprisingly, a photographic image of an apple. No wonder it came out so realistic! On the outside, anyway. From a shelf by the transformer, I withdrew a spool of film still in its protective canister. Upon opening the canister and holding a length of the film up to the light, it turned out to depict a crudely drawn egg. I turned the machine off, then noticed a moment later that the apple was gone. Abruptly vanished into thin if it were never real? I puzzled over that for a few seconds, trying to work out whether the machine actually created a solid object or only a convincing illusion. Some sort of tactile hologram? Or actual conversion of light into matter? But then why did it vanish? Useless to guess, I decided. The only answers would come from experiment. With that, I carefully attached the spool and fed the film into the indicated slot. Curiosity was now firmly in the driver’s seat, urging me forward. Clickety clack, clickety clack. The projector lurched into motion, reels spinning, light slowly intensifying as something new appeared on the pedestal. Grainy, monochrome, yet with the appearance of solidity. As I looked on, cracks appeared in the egg. I expected a trickle of ink. Instead, a cartoon chick emerged. The creature appeared stylized in that old timey way, like Peter Possum. But with an undeniable physical presence. It finished climbing out of the shell and took its first steps. Is it alive? It moves, certainly. It cannot react to me, as those reactions would need to have been drawn in advance. But it occupies space, walks about, and presumably has an appropriate amount of weight like the apple. Who built this? How could such a marvel be kept secret for any length of time? If it really converts energy directly into mass, it’s a technological miracle. Did the state suppress it? Did they even know about this? Of all the possible applications, why cartoons? I continued to watch the chick, now rapidly aging into a hen. It strutted about, pecked at the floor, then laid an egg. The hen expired, decomposed into bones, then the bones wore away into dust before vanishing completely. The animation then looped, with the new egg just beginning to hatch as I shut the projector off. The partially hatched egg disappeared as abruptly as the apple before it. I ran my fingers through my hair, eyes wide, exhaling sharply in disbelief. Yet I could hardly deny what I saw. Was Can the machine create something that’s alive? I wouldn’t have said that about the apple, but I just watched the chick move around. If not life, then something close. However it couldn’t react to anything, simply carry out a series of motions drawn in advance. More of an automaton than a living creature. But then, aren’t we...? Is our behavior any less predetermined? What exactly did they mean to accomplish here? Why build any of this? If this is the prototype, what was the finished product meant for? A product of its time and place, I decided. That window of time when such bizarre, blue sky projects received unconditional government support. Guaranteed funding, little or no oversight provided they met whatever sort of quotas a theme park is expected to. The product of unrestrained creative vision and engineering brilliance, given temporary freedom to flourish. Only to then be forgotten. Derelict, abandoned beneath crumbling concrete ruins. What other projects like this might be out there, buried in some obscure, decaying facility? Nearly completed until the collapse halted further development. Stillborn, perhaps for the best. Seeing no feasible way to remove the machine, or to power it even if I did, I reluctantly left it behind and broke into the next room. I suppose I hoped whatever I found in here would explain the contents of the room before it. If anything, it only further confused me. Inside was an entire wall taken up with tape players, networked for some reason. Cables strung between them in a tangled mess behind the rack of archaic machines, red lights on the face of each one blinking seemingly at random. I swept my light around, found a switch and flipped it. Now able to see more of the room, I identified a tape storage bin by the door and picked one out to look at it. Each tape was labeled with what I recognized as the symbols denoting a particular phonetic sound. I stood there in silence, soaking up the ambiance around me. The clicks and whirrs of the tape players, the gentle hum of the electrical systems. A subtle buzz each time one of the little red bulbs illuminated. I couldn’t make sense of it. Why build all this? Technologically well beyond the scope of an amusement park ride, how did they keep it a secret post-collapse? Countless engineers must’ve been involved. The secret police couldn’t have ‘disappeared’ them all. Hoping for some answers I pressed on, head lamp illuminating only about twenty feet of tunnel before me. As I trudged along, splashing through occasional puddle, I began to hear someone talking in the distance. Reverberation as it passed down the corridor distorted the voice, such that I couldn’t understand a word of it until I was nearly on top of the source. I can’t really say what I was expecting. I didn’t come here for this. I came for closure. To find my sister’s bones and lay them to rest. Not to find rocity. This monument to perversion. I stood there, jaw hanging open at the spectacle laid out before me. Able to perceive, but unable to accept the reality of it. The corridor emptied out into something like a subterranean warehouse. Short lengths of chain dangled from various beams crisscrossing the ceiling, dripping sporadically. An immense projector screen hung from the far a certain possum doing his perpetual jig on it. Nearly all of the floorspace was taken up with row after row of workstations. Desks, each built around a light table, with a camera pointing down at it supported from an articulated boom. At each desk sat some poor slob, looking run ragged. As I circled cautiously around, from this vantage point I could now see that they were all restrained to their seats with the same harnesses used by some of the rides. The seats were nothing more than cushioned toilets. All of them worked furiously to draw frames. I got just close enough to recognize Peter Possum as the subject. Then it clicked for me. They were animating the figure on the projection real time. “Welcome to where the magic happens! ” Peter bellowed, the speakers in here much more powerful than those in the corridor. “Do you see now? The glory of a dream brought to life? ” At this volume I could for the first time detect a strange stilted quality to his speech. It brought to mind the room full of tape decks. Stitching together voice samples into whatever line he was meant to say, on the fly. The more I understood, the less I wanted to. The sickness of it overwhelmed my mind. Then it dawned on me. If these people were all lured here with tickets, Natasha could still be among them. My heartbeat quickened. A desperate shred of hope, but that’s all it took! I began to frantically work my way down row after row, carefully checking their faces one at a time. They fought me off when I tried to stop them from drawing. Panicked, fearful. What would happen if one of them missed too many frames? Do they even know? The prospect sufficiently frightened them that every time I tilted one of their heads back to get a look at his or her face, the miserable creature wailed, shoved me off and resumed work. I studied the nearest one and noticed a feeding tube passing right into his side. Conveying some sort of beige nutritional sludge into his stomach, maybe contingent upon meeting some quota of frames per hour. How old was he when he first arrived? Scanning the mass of huddled, weary slaves, I couldn’t detect any pattern to their ages. Men, women, girls and boys mixed indiscriminately. Some as young as ten, some as old as fifty. They all had a little red blinking light at the base of their neck. I leaned as close as I could without disrupting his work to study the gizmo more closely. A metallic cube with a miniature red bulb poking out, exactly like the ones I found in that room with all the dentistry chairs. Read the rest here.

Thanks loved it... Movie patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle book. This morning i started reading exodus (for the first time) and tonight i happened to watch this video out of nowhere. Thank you for your contribution.

Correspondent - Suellen Roberts

Bio: Founder & President of Christian Women , Veteran TV Producer, currently film producer who inspires media professionals. Married Jimy Roberts,Billy Graham(Ret)

 

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