If you read the writing of the average MFA student, you'll find perfectly composed, uniquely styled, completely boring stories. What's the deal? Some of the best, most highly trained writers in the world are producing work few people outside academia wants to read.
Photo by Trey Ratcliff
Of course, I don't mean to single out MFA programs. Too many writers—and I at times include myself in this group—are writing navel gazing stories that are perfectly written but lacking everything the average reader looks for in a story.
How do you write fresh, beautiful, experimental stories that are also interesting to read?
Confessions of a Boring Writer
I once judged writers who had fallen into this trap. And then I fell into the same trap enough times to realize just how easy it is.
Even knowing the trap is there doesn't make you immune to it. I've written stories I thought were fascinating, brilliant, and entertaining as hell, not to mention gorgeously written. Then, when I've asked friends to read them, they've told me, “Huh… I just don't get the point. What's this about, anyway?”
Why does it need a point? It's brilliant, you fool! Of course, I didn't say that. You're not supposed to be defensive when you get feedback, apparently. I wanted to, though. I really wanted to.
Overdoing Plot: the Other Trap
And then I've tried to go to the other extreme, writing stories with blood, violence, and action. I call it the Michael Bay method.
“You're overdoing it,” said my critique partners. “This doesn't feel real. Maybe tone down the action.”
Make up your mind. What do you want?! I'm starting to think I'm not the problem in this relationship.
Telling good stories is hard.
Live More Adventurously
“I don't lie. I just remember big.” —John Steinbeck (via Thomas Stenbeck)
There are two types of writers: the Emily Dickinsons and the Ernest Hemingways. The Dickinsons can write in a closet, sealed from the world, and through imagination alone create something emotionally charged and deep with meaning.
The Hemingways need to go on an adventure.
Hemingway never wrote a book about a place he hadn't been. He wrote The Sun Also Rises after visiting Pamplona, Spain to see the bullfights. He wrote The Old Man and the Sea after meeting Gregorio Fuentes, the Cuban fisherman the book is based on. He hunted big game in East Africa, visited communist rebels in the Spanish civil war, and was nursed back to health in a WWI hospital. Hemingway didn't lie. He remembered big.
If you're a Dickinson, you need to seal yourself in your garret and never come out until you've written something brilliant. If you're a Hemingway, you need to go on an adventure.
What Adventure Will You Take?
Is it any wonder then that so many MFA students are writing stories that never go anywhere when they're stuck on comfortable college campuses go to lectures every day? Some storytellers need the chaos of real life to tell great stories. What chaos are you experiencing?
I think we need to go on more adventures. We may prefer to sit in our comfortable coffee shops. We may rather pretend we're a Dickenson, that we create our best work shut up and safe from the world. But we know better. We know our souls are only satisfied when we're out on life's great safaris, carrying everything we own on our backs, the wind in our hair, the sunset before us, and our pens scribbling upon the page.
(More about this soon, but I'm taking my own advice. Here's a preview. What do you think?)
Do you write better when you have an adventure? Let us know in the comments.
PRACTICE
Today, go on an adventure. It doesn't have to be elaborate. Take a walk through a part of town that you've never been to. Eat something spicy. Sit down next to a stranger and have a conversation. (Don't forget your notebook.)
Then, write about it. Write for at least fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the practice box. And if you post, be sure to leave feedback for a few other writers.
Have a great adventure!
Some possible adventures:
1. Investigate the roots of the Muslim car-burning violence of a few months ago by talking to someone who burned a car.
2. Have an honest conversation w/ a Parisian about what offends them about Americans. Catch them off guard by apologizing.
3. Investigate: What can we learn from the French? What do they do better than we do? Practice doing it as an American and get feedback.
4. The collision of romance and reality in life – write about examples of it. See “My Dinner w/ Andres” for inspiration. Live out the implicit tension in a way that arouses emotions one day.
5. How are the French more or less free than Americans? Show your freedom in such a way that a Parisian will be envious.
I did, in fact, go on an adventure at the public library yesterday. I perused the various census records for the US, searching for great-grandfather’s brother David who moved to Michigan in 1896. While researching his family I happened upon something intriguing in the Ancestry.com files. I saw the death registration of a Donald Vance, age 92. Curious, I read the details and nearly fell off my chair. This fellow I’ve never heard of before has the same parents – born in the same places – as my great-grandfather.
Why have I never heard of this brother! All I know is that he died In Michigan in 1937. He’s not listed in the census records – or in any other family records, nor the 1920 US Federal census records from Michigan. I found no record of his marriage or of children born to him, yet the death certificate listed him as a widower. How can a man die at that ripe old age and leave no trace of having lived?
I’m calling this “The case of the lost brother.” Was he kidnapped at birth and only found his family after a lifetime of searching? Given to others to raise? Did he run off as a lad to the Yukon in search of ‘fool’s gold’? Was he a derelict on Skid Row who only sobered up for the last few years? Did he spend most of his life on a South Sea island married to some Polynesian beauty? Did he join the forerunner of the CIA and they wiped out his past?
Since I have a blank page on which to write his life story I can send him on real adventures — until someone comes up with more facts.
It sounds like you could make an interesting story out of this!
I’m tempted to — but what if his descendants find out about it and sue me for libel? 🙂
Ha! That wouldn’t be good. You could use him for inspiration, change his name and just have it all be fiction. 🙂
So crazy! I like the idea of not doing any more research. When Peter Shafer got the idea for Equus, he read a headline (or maybe the whole story) about a boy who had blinded several horses with hoof pick. He stopped reading and refused to do any more research because he wanted the mystery of it to stay fresh so his imagination could fill in the details.
That is so horrible! I wouldn’t read any more for fear of having nightmares about it. But we genealogists never stop digging. 🙂
Joe, I also posted this on your link to Paris this spring. Here is my challenge for you…..How fun. I love traveling vicariously. Okay, to really understand a culture you need to see how they cope with the less enabled in their society. My first suggestions is to make arrangements to spend a few hours in a special ed classroom with disabled children. The younger the better, ages four to ten is good as they still often have a certain innocence. I am not talking about children with mild speech or learning delays, I think you need to spend some quality time with young children who have severe impairments. . Look for the most medically fragile or the child with the most complex behavior issues and try to figure out what makes them tick. How do the specialists interact with the children? What are the family dynamics? How do the children respond to new people? Is there joy and humor in their lives? Is their environment adapted to suit their needs? Do children with vision impairments have tactile cues? Does the autistic child have a quiet place or weighted vest to help him calm? Does the medically fragile child have specially designed seating to help her be comfortable and part of the group? Look for the happiest child and compare him to the most miserable. Are the differences due to pain, personality or learned behavior. Yes I am asking you to intern as if you were going after your Master’s degree in Early Intervention. If confidentiality prohibits you from this exercise, check out the other end of the spectrum. How do Parisian’s treat their aged love ones in hospice care, assisted living facilities or memory care facilities? Best of luck on all your adventures.
On a more personal note, I am still saving money to drive the route my Dad took from Kansas to Oregon. I need lots of pictures and time perusing old and dusty museums before I can finish my Migration story. Yes, I write better about adventures I have experienced. Luckily, I am a tad impulsive and have gotten into plenty of trouble over the years, so lot’s to draw on.
Such a cool idea! Thanks so much for suggesting it. Where are you going in OR?
Actually, I live in NW Oregon, so have to drive to NW Kansas first and then trace the route back to Oregon. Dad was 23 and his youngest brother was 5. The family moved during the Dust Bowl after his dad died leaving a bankrupt farm. Dad stepped up to care for his mother and all the younger siblings. Several other adventures and disasters happened to make it such an interesting story to pass down to my grandchildren.
I do hope you will check on the spec ed programs. Every minute I taught this population was an adventure. You won’t regret it.
i think you mean garret. unless this is about the mafia. ;o)
Of course it’s about the mafia. Couldn’t you tell from the context? Ha! Good catch, Lori. Fixed! Thanks. 🙂
Adventurous soul
Cozily seated at home
Writes boring stories
I love this.
Mmm…I think I’m going to have to save my adventure for another day, but I agree that I need to be more adventurous to be more creative.
Try placing a varitey of “adventures” on slips of paper and drawing one from a hat. You MUST do that one. Then, of course, write about it. Have fun
Good point Joe!
Related: One of my pet hates is any story where the main character is a writer. There are so many fascinating jobs out there, why would you pick one which involves sitting in a room? Harry Harrison had about thirty jobs before he write full time, and life experience shows in writing. (Don’t get me started on politicians who have never had a job except being a politician…)
My point is that writers need life experience. I don’t mean they have to be over a certain age. But a writer at any age should have experienced life, to have noticed it and been involved in it. If you can imagine it all in your head without leaving your garrett (Brontes, Austen) then fab. But I think many of us need a bit more stimulus.
I am on job seventeen, by the way. And thirty four locations. I really have no excuse. 🙂
-Sef
17 jobs in 34 locations? Wow! Yes, I agree. Although I do like some of Philip Roth’s work from a writer’s perspective. He’s not everyone’s favorite, though, of course.
Just to be clear – it wasn’t cos I kept getting the sack…
I don’t dislike all characters who are writers (Misery, As good as it gets….) But sometimes it can seem like a lazy/easy option, when going out and finding what sewage workers and bingo callers do all day would have given the reader and the writer much more.
If the writer you had in mind is the Dickinson type, then I wouldn’t want to hear a story from their perspective at the main character either. Although Emily Dickinson seemingly relished her solitude for the most part and produced incredible work, I would not want to hear a story from her POV.
Hemingway, on the other hand, investigated the outside world to draw his characters into his books. I would very much like to read a book where a main character like Hemingway took us on his adventures. We would see bits and pieces of what he saw and then have to wait until he wrote about in his book to find out what actually happened.
You sound travel happy;)
This may sound awkward. I usually write 1st person POV in present tense, but I used past tense, so I don’t know if I like how it sounds. My adventure wasn’t substantial, but while cleaning the house, I pretended to be a housemaid. Hence the story….
I donned my uniform early this morning and went about from room to room, scrubbing lintels and dusting shelves. I felt quite quite happy to be part of such a great house, even if the staff does not seem to like me.
On my way to the kitchen for dinner, I overheard a conversation between the scullery maids. They were whispering that the son and heir of lord of the house had already returned from the Colonies earlier in the day. One of them, the one with the high-pitched voice, whispered something about him being quite someone to look at.
I stood still by the door, my dripping cloth crying bits of black and grey all over the floor. The girls caught wind of me and looked at me suspiciously. I wrung out my cloth and walked by them briskly. One of them gave me a hard look. I ate my bread and cheese in silence. After dinner, I escaped from the house. I have already finished my work for the day.
The sun seemed to follow me out the door. Bees talked amongst themselves in the clematis vines growing over the arbors. Slowly, I walked along, waiting until the shelter of the hedges permitted more freedom. Once enough of the shrubbery lay between me and the house, I slipped out of my shoes. Carefully, I concealed them underneath the dry hollow of a cranky old bush.
The wind called to me, and butterflies reminded me that all is still bright and beautiful. Dance, the white butterfly said to me.
My legs remembered each position. Freed from the stiffness of leather confines, my feet urged me onward. Without a thought for anything else, I embarked upon the dance that reminded me of its existence with every heartbeat. I flung my arms outward, letting the breeze dictate where I moved.
A deep voice began to sing the notes of an Italian opera. I stopped midair and let myself drop to the ground. There stood a gentleman dressed in a blue coat. I attempted to hide my dirtied feet as deeply under the shadow of my dress as possible. “Sir-”
“So faeries do exist,” he said. “I always wondered. You must have cast a spell, you red haired witch.”
I think the past tense sounded really nice. It worked well for the story and made it feel like it was in ‘the ‘past.’ Have you written any books yet? I enjoyed this so much I could have kept reading.
I haven’t finished finished any books. I am working on one right now, but I have to do more research before I can commit what’s in my head to the page. I’m glad that you enjoyed the piece.
He chuckled deeply, but kindly, as he applauded from a gent’s distance.
Nicely crafted and very well done. I followed you through the dance.
Cool character development. The odd one out. The meek unliked one. The need for feminine freedom, to dance, to fly as a butterfly. The sudden guilt and shame. Sprung in mid adventure by the masculine and status.
Well done.
It is extremely difficult to write about anything too closely related to myself. I think there’s another trap the Hemingways can fall into — after a while of writing about me me me, they don’t know how to branch out into non-autobiographical subjects or writing. My creative writing teacher mentioned this once…
I try to absorb stories from friends and the world around me and then mash them up into some kind of plot. Heh. Here’s my practice:
–
The days are freefalling past me but I feel like I’m dragging my feet. I grasp for pieces of the suns as they go by. Sometimes I catch a breeze. Usually I’m too late.
Mug after mug of coffee helps accelerate my processes. Self-medication for an illness I can’t afford to treat. A temporary fix and a shoddy one at that. But it was in pursuit of coffee that I snatched another moment today.
I walked to the coffee shop and paid $2.50 for a medium-sized medium-roast to go (they were out of dark) with room for cream. Then I walked back. This was my epic expedition. A few blocks sapped most of the energy I had for the day. I imagined myself leaving a little footprint trail of life behind, size 6, scattering seconds and minutes out behind me.
Someone else’s quick footsteps raced up and then hurried past. Like everything else. I couldn’t catch his face as he went by. I told myself it didn’t matter, that this was better than jumping at every little noise behind my back.
But he had somehow caught my face in his rush and turned around. “Oh hi there!”
I said, “I hope you’re not late.”
“I’m supposed to lead a meeting,” he said, walking quickly backwards. “I’m late.”
“Have a good meeting!”
“Thanks!” Then he rushed away, trying to catch up to a time he had missed.
A friend. A smile. Some words. That was my adventure for today. I sipped my coffee.
I share your hesitation to share anything too much about myself. I do pour bits of myself into my characters, which is why I am so close to them, but I ration how much I place in each one. If I am feeling a particular way, I make up a character or invent a storyline so I can create someone feeling something similar to what I feel without actually saying it myself. I definitely fall into hiding behind the people that I have made.
Your adventure was sweet though. Nice descriptions and a nice ending. You got the staccato sentence structure at the end. Like it!
“Go on an adventure,” he tells me.
“Walk into a part of town you haven’t walked in before.” I had
to stifle my own scoffing at that. The statement and the sentiment
both hit me as ludicrous. You see, I have walked streets covered in
Egyptian and Kuwaiti sands, African mud and African deserts. I have
walked the city streets and the old market alleys under the watchful
eyes if the gargoyle in the old tower in the ancient portions of old
Sarajevo. Yes, I have even stood on the bridge where the
Czechoslovakian Prince was assassinated, thus starting World War I.
So where do I walk now? On which
streets do I find my adventures? By what boulevards does such a man
drink his coffee to watch people and seek out adventures? The local
park with his children, of course. Where else could such danger and
accompanying bravery be found than in the superhero games of two ten
year old boys?
There is no other place but at the
playground that any man is going to feel greater, more accomplished,
more important than when he is directly behind his daughter pushing
her swing.
Leaping from jiggly rock to uncertain
log trying not to get wet while crossing the stream at the park
provides enough suspense, danger, excitement, and daring for this
father for one day, that is accompanied by laughter, hoots, and
lightly taunting hollers, to satisfy this adventurers need for
thrilling times.
There is no greater adventure than
watching one’s children grow, play, learn, and experience life and
play.
Hi. I like the way you pick up the instruction and drop in to your scoff/ retort emotion so that it unpacks itself into the glorious adventure of childhood and the observing parent. For indeed parenthood is also a surprising and mysterious adventure especially when we let our young free from own fears and into the precarious playground.
I like your style Trep. It resonates with me. Thanks for sharing. I’m off to seek adventure. (With my notebook and pen.)
Thank you for saying so. I hope that your adventures with pen and notebook were breathtaking.
Loved this. You really drew me in with “scoffing” about the assignment, and then bringing us back down to the simple things in life. A wonderful juxtaposition
If you use an acronym in an article, define it.
Do writers today really not know what an MFA program is?
I’m not from America. I have no idea what an MFA is. I just assumed it was some type of Master Arts type of degree.
I’m sorry. My mistake for assuming. Yes, you got it. It stands for Masters of Fine Arts, in this case, of Creative Writing.
It is on. The short brunette sits behind the wheel of her sleek racing machine. Ana is determined to win. She closes her mask and nods at her three male competitors. They are equally set on victory. They rev their engines; taunting her. The green flag waves. She slams the pedal as far down as it go will go and her body is pressed into the hard seat.
She speeds ahead. Ana has the advantage as her car was meant for this terrain. The boys eat her dust. She laughs while turning a sharp corner and almost skids off the road. Lesson learned. The next couple of turns are beautifully executed which gives her an even larger lead. She can see the finish line. Adrenaline flows in her veins. Ana is going to win. She is far ahead of the others as she crosses the finish line. The crowd, showing their delight, goes wild. A whole five seconds later the losers arrive.
They all exit their vehicles and let Ana gloat. She goes on for sometime about how she knew would win until Peyton, the youngest, can’t stand her jeers any longer. He tackles her to the ground in a playful wrestle. The others, Liam and Jack, join in on the sport. Ana laughs and screams, but she can’t escape. She doesn’t have the upper body strength, so she switches to plain B. She reaches until she finds the perfect spot, the ribs, and starts tickling him. He giggles and releases her. The others hesitate to advance out of fear of the tickle monster. They gain the courage needed and pounce on her all at once. Much giggling ensues until Liam howls in pain. He is wounded.
It is his finger that was injured but, thankfully, it isn’t serious. She comforts him and offers to give everyone to a quick snack. Ana pours Cheerios evenly into three separate multicolored bowls. She hands a plastic dish full of treats to each of them as they sit watching their show. With a sigh she sits in the comfortable recliner.
The doorbell rings. She answers to find Samy standing in sub zero temperatures.
“Come in out of the cold.” Ana says helping Samy with her winter gear.
“How were they?” Samy asks. She never likes leaving them and, although she trusts Ana, she couldn’t help but worry.
“The were great.” Ana replies. “I love babysitting them. They have such great imaginations.” She says putting her own winter jacket on. She takes her salary, says her goodbyes, and then leaves the three sweet little children with their mother.
Excitement in the exotic possibility of the daily domestic mundane. Well done!
The short sharp sentences add speed and competitive spirit. Adventure fast and furious. And the return to to the ‘norm’ artfully composed with slightly longer sentences.
It made me smile. Thanks for sharing.
Wow. I’m glad you like it. Thank you 🙂 I love how you described your first sentence in your comment.
I’m off to Myanmar in 3 days to research the sequel to As the Heart Bones Break – Nina runs away from her husband to the Burmese refugee camps on the Thai Burma border. I’ll be visiting Karen State, where most of the refugees come from. Also (and this is a BIG DEAL) I’ll be talking on As the Heart Bones Break with Karen Connelly, the ultimate Thai-Burma adventurer. You need to read her book – Burmese Lessons: A true Love Story, and her teenage memoir as a Canadian living in Thailand.
Wow. That’s so exciting, Audrey. What an adventure!
I’m stumped. Adventure has slunk from reach. The possibility
of a lurching, spine tingling tale has retreated in to a dark corner to suck
its thumb and hang its pathetic scared tail between its legs.
I’ll push on though. Stuff you tale. I’ve got spirit. I’m going to let
these fingers find their way. I’m going to let them climb keys and space bar,
seek new horizons, feel their way through the darkness and discolourations of
an uninspired mind.
You’ll see tale. You’ll wish you’d decided to come. Taken a chance.
Stepped out of your own shadow in to the sometimes shimmering, yet more often flickering light of risk.
I’m unsteady on this line. It’s a shaky ridge without clear
direction. It crumbles as my padded tips step carefully among its worn out keys
and dusty valleys.
A whir in the distance spirals up through the metallic vista. I pause. Breathe deep. Consider its meaning. Is it telling me to retreat? Return to the tired and murky yawn of the uninspired mind? Retract my steps back across the qwerty desert into no-hand land?
My heart thumps. Ventricle fists pound the thoracic cage like a crazed on fire literati might stampede much this same landscape. It’s aching to be free, to soar into the
danger zone, to grip a tale.
“Alas my friend, my heart,” I quietly say “There is no gripping tale this night.”
Hi,
I think this is a great article, and it holds some truth to it, but I don’t think there’s only “in the closet” or “out in the world witnessing history.” Personally, I hate the thought of cleaning, but when I’m actually cleaning, I can see why my characters would find it relaxing or troublesome, and it gives me more of a perspective as to how to describe the action itself rather than “just cleaning” (not to mention the mental freedom–that’s when inspiration strikes!). When I’m on the bus, everyday on my way home or in the morning, I let my mind wonder–and sometimes, I end up with exciting dialogue and sometimes I end up with plot twists. I think it all depends on the person–if you just clear your mind for a moment, then let your imagination take flight–well, you know what happens ;). -Karla
I wanted to try the adventure of writing a short story. Here is a 3500, or so, word shot at it.
The Worst Day
Mike rolls over, looks out the windows of his bedroom, “Oh,
gah!” Sitting up on the edge of his bed he looks at his watch,
“What the? What happened to my alarm clock?” Looking around his
bedroom his clock radio was off. It was still early, but it was
getting light outside. “Damn it! Gotta hurry, Mike, don’t wanna be
late and break your record!” Mike has been working in training and
customer service steady for nearly a year now. In that time he has
not been late, ever. This would make it 12 months straight, a
perfect year to start of with this job. How cool was that?
Mike hurried to the bathroom to shower. “Yup, the power’s out.”
He stood there flipping the switch up and down as if that act alone
would convince electricity to somehow flow again. Swearing lightly,
Mike stepped into the shower and turned the hot water on. Nothing but
icy cold water spewed out on him, stealing his breath before he could
turn the spigot off. “Oh, hell!Really? No hot water?” Mike
stepped over to the sink, did a vitals scrub with a washcloth, and
shaved. The shaving was, so far the most treacherous thing he had
faced in the first few minutes of the morning; Mike had sliced a long
bit of skin from the edge of his jaw. Now he swore like the
proverbial sailor.
Mike pressed another washcloth to his face as he got dressed.
“Alright, food.” Looking into the fridge did him little good on
power to cook with and no time to cook. “Damn it!” Grabbing his
cell phone, keys, and coat he darted out of the door and ran for his
car.
Once in his car he pressed the button to dial work. “Lisa? Hi,
this is Mike. I am so sorry, but I lost power out here and may be
late. I am on my way in now.” Mike paused to turn the key in the
ignition, nothing happened. No lights came on inside the car, no
sound came from the starter. “Not now! Lisa, my car is dead … I
don’t know … it may be that the battery is dead … yeah, I can
take the bus …. well, it will be two buses and … yeah, see ya as
soon as I can.”
Leaning back against the seat of his car and closing his eyes for
a moment Mike considered just calling Lisa back and using a sick day.
Still, he had already said that he was on his way in and, if this was
just a battery thing, which he was sure it was, it would only take a
little time after work to fix. He sighed, stuffed his old ball cap
onto his head and got on his way to the nearest bus stop to get to
the main depot downtown.
He was still sore from last nights work out and sparring with his
friends. His face was sore and a little bruised. Fighting was the
best way for Mike to stay in the present. “You’re never more in the
now than when you’re in a fight.” That’s what his old First Sargent
would say and that is how he felt. Mike was thinking back and going
over as much of the training that he could from the sparring matches
when the bus suddenly jolted and somebody fell, elbow first, into his
eye. That’s a hell of a way to be snapped out of a deep thought rut!
The transfer and the rest of the bus ride went without incident.
Mike could feel his eye swelling from the elbow he just took. As he
got off of the bus and took stock of where he was he also realized
that he had to walk another four blocks. As this bit of information
sank in something else was happening, a cold, bone chilling rain
started to fall heavily. “Really?” Mike rolled his eyes as he
started walking. The cell phone came out, he looked at the screen,
“What? How the hell did the display get broken?” Shaking his head
he called Lisa again, “Hey, it’s me … yes, I am in the
neighborhood … walking up from the bus stop … no, it gets about
four blocks away and that, I am told, is the closest to our office
the line runs … yes, “ he sighed, “it’s raining, too … I
should be there in about 10 minutes.”
“God, Mike, you look like hell!” The look of concern on her
face told Mike that Lisa was for real.
“Let me see your mirror,” he grumbled with more curiosity than
temper. Looking at his reflection he saw that his eye was swollen
nicely and was cut a little and the slice on his chin from shaving
needed to be washed up again, too. “I’m, uh, going to get cleaned
up before I get some coffee and get to work, alright?”
Lisa didn’t say a word she just nodded at Mike with a look that
was somewhere between concern and who-the-hell-are-you as she left
the lobby. Mike went straight for the men’s room. He stood there for
a few moments looking at himself in the mirror. He was looking harsh
right now. His brow was scrunched together angrily, his eye was
bruised, swollen, and a little bloody. He was looking old and rough.
He washed his face first with warm water and it felt good. Then he
rinsed with cold water, more out of habit than anything else.
Fresh coffee steaming in his cup, his computer fired up and
working properly, and a borrowed heater under the desk to warm and
dry his feet. “You know, maybe today is going to be alright.”
Mike was going over some of the files he had to deal with for the day
and making sure that there was nothing too pressing in the queue
before he got started. Once everything as as ordered as best it could
be, Mike put on his headset and pressed the button to begin the
dialing program. Upstairs everyone in the office area could hear the
contractors working on redoing the space for the coming office
expansions.
The call was going nicely, it was a friendly back and forth. So
far all of the specifications had been met. The person on the phone
seemed genuinely happy however, there was some misunderstanding on
the contract regarding payments if the customer decided to stop the
contract at any point. Not that they were going to or were planning
on it, they just wanted to understand the payment percentages.
It was during this portion that Mike heard a disturbing noise
directly above him. A long, heavy pipe fell and bounced unevenly on
the flooring. He had done enough construction and demolition to know
the sound of a mistake when he heard it. In fact, he even cringed
while imagining the scene up there. Moments passed before he knew how
bad it really was.
Just as he was finally about to finish up with the customer he had
been talking with for, what felt like hours of unmedicated tooth
pulling, a waterfall with fiberglass tiles dropped onto his head and
computer. The line, and the computer it was connected through, went
dead. He sat there, trying to collect himself and not explode in
rage, he looked at his coffee which now had pieces of ceiling tile in
it and said loudly, “I give up! That’s it! I can’t deal with this
today!”
He pushed his chair away from his desk, stood up, and turned
around. Building security and Albert Andrews, head of HR, were
standing there. “Mike, I am so sorry to have to do this.”
Mike leveled his gaze at Albert, deliberately kept his hands from
clenching, and said quietly, “You have got to be fucking kidding,
Albert.”
Albert looked scared, but also sad and surprised. He honestly had
not anticipated this coming down. “Mike, you are a model employee.
I swear, I will figure this out, okay? Just, please, go home and take
a day or two and I will call you to let you know what is going on
because this is not right.”
One of the security guys reached out for Mike’s arm. Mike shifted
his gaze to the fat guard, “Don’t, it ain’t worth it, man. I know
where the door is.” With that Mike retraced his steps back through
the lobb looking arguably worse than when he had come in.
The bus was relatively empty. Mike was calming down, well, getting
depressed was a more apt description. “Lost power, lost heat, dead
car, lost my job, what next, Murphy? I swear to god I am going to
break the next person to get in my face before the day is out.”
While he was muttering to himself Mike paid no attention to the guy
on the back of the bus. He was alone, wearing an old denim jacket and
a sweatshirt with the hood up.
At the depot Mike stood out towards the loading area waiting for
the next bus just under the eaves of the depot. He had no desire to
be around any of the people inside. He was reading the front page of
the newspaper in the news box as he didn’t have the change to buy the
paper. “More violence in the city, huh? Shocker,” Mike grumbled.
He stood up and stared out into the rain after reading the top half
of the front page, the cold and wet made him down right miserable and
ornery. Something cold and hard pressed against his head just behind
his right ear.
“Hello.” The voice said with a sick laugh. “You just gonna
give me your wallet and all your money, right. You not gonna turn
around or nothing, right. You do that and I don’t have to shoot you,
you got it?”
Mike repositioned his feet a little. “You know, this day has
just gone from bad to worse for meand then you come along.”
“Awwww, did I spoil your little pity party. Man?” he laughed.
The gun wasn’t pressed against Mike’s ear now, he smiled, he had
some breathing room. Enough, he hoped. Mike spun fast to the right,
ducking a little at the same time. He grabbed the mugger’s right hand
and the back of the gun before smashing his own left forearm through
the back of the muggers elbow. The mugger’s arm broke neatly at the
elbow. Mike then threw his would-be mugger into the rain filled
gutter, ready to do some stomping as payback for the day, when he
heard, “Freeze! Police!”
“You sure you don’t want to call a lawyer now?” The sergeant
asked Mike for the fourth time since lunch.
Mike was leaning back in the corner of the holding cell with his
back in the corner and his eyes closed. For the first time since
waking up late this morning he looked and felt like he might be
getting some rest. “I told you, this may be the only place I can
get some quiet and some down time.”
“I hate to break it to you, but that ain’t gonna happen right
now, either.”
Mike opened one eye, “No, you don’t hate it … “ Mike
growled.
The cop smiled big, “Oh, you got that right, Slugger man. The
Judge wanna see you and your friend for arraignment now so get up.”
Another sigh as another moment of peace and quiet had been
shattered by the real world. The reality of it was that Mike was
barely relaxing in there. He was on full alert with his eyes only
half closed. Earlier in the afternoon one of the other people in the
holding cell had tried to establish himself as top dog by
intimidating everyone or beating down anyone who wasn’t intimidated.
Mike wasn’t in the mood to play. Getting pepper sprayed by the guard
only added insult to everyone’s injury, so Mike chose to stay away
from and keep an eye the rest of the tank.
“Sweaty, bruised, a little bloody, tired, and in one hell of a
mood I gotta sit in front of a judge … any other day, no sweat, but
today, I’m screwed.” with that said Mike eased himself up and
walked out of the cell. As he left there was a chorus of threats and
promises to his safety.
The court room was unlike any he had seen before or imagined. This
one was a long line of seats that were bolted into the terrazzo
floor, all with hand cuff and leg shackle fittings on them. In the
middle of this wide room was a tall desk which was, clearly, the
judges bench. Mike and his mugger, who was now in a cast and rather
loopy with pain medications, were led into the center of the room.
They were sat down right in front of the awkwardly tall bench.
Mike had just started to get comfortable when the bailiff hollered
out, “All Rise for the honorable Judge Long!” The two stood up
until they heard the judge mumble something then the bailiff told
them both to sit down.
It was silent for several minutes as the judge reviewed the files
regarding the two men sitting before him. “Mr. Thompson,”he
began, “I don’t know you, do I?”
Mike stood at attention, “No, Sir.”
Judge Long looked confused for an instant. The bailiff reached
over, placed a strong hand on Mike’s shoulder indicating that he
needed to sit down, and told him, “Your Honor was asking a
rhetorical question.” I am so boned, Mike thought to himself.
The Judge continued, “I don’t know you from anyone on the
street.” He looked over the edge of the bench at Mike, who now had
to resist laughing as the judge looked so ridiculous. All Mike could
see was tufts of unkempt wiry black hair, bushy eyebrows that each
looked like they had bed-head from different beds, and some very
thick glasses over sharp and hard eyes. All in all, the judge struck
Mike as the most comical thing he had seen all day. He was having the
hardest time not laughing at the man on the bench. “Not knowing you
from anyone at all, not knowing you from Adam, Mr. Thompson, I might
see you walking along the street,” the judge looked at Mike’s face
and took in the black eye, the scraped jaw, the stained shirt and
ragged looking pants and then back at Mike’s face. Judge Long shook
his head, “You look like hell, Mr. Thompson. You look like a man on
the edge,” he paused to sip from his mug, “you strike me as a
desperate man who is willing,” he looked at the other man and his
arm in a splint, and read the note about the pending surgery that
evening to repair the damage, “and capable of nearly anything.”
Should he speak, say something in his own defense? Mike had no
clue how to read the judge. He glanced over to the bailiff for some
help. The bailiff shook his head slightly and slightly shushed Mike.
The message being stay quiet.
“No, Mr. Thompson, I do not know you at all.” The judge then
mumbled to himself unintelligibly as he shuffled papers. When he
spoke clearly again it was suddenly and surprisingly. “Mr. Micky
Brown! You, however, I do know! I know you very well, sir.” The
judge must have stood up as his face could now be clearly seen over
the top of the bench. “Mr. Brown you are already on parole from
your last sentence. You are going to be held until you are able to
stand for your hearing after surgery and recovery. Mr. Thompson,”
Judge Long shifted his gaze, “I do not appreciate it when John Q
Public takes the law into his own hands!” he paused for a few
moments, “you are being released on your own recognizance without
further delay. Bailiff, get them the hell out of here.”
It was late afternoon, almost evening, when Mike left the jail.
The rain was letting up, but it was still cold. Still closer than the
main bus depot, but further than regular walking distance, Mike
checked to see how much cash he had in his wallet. “$25.00? I hope
that’s enough for a cab ride home and a tip.”
When the cab pulled up to his building Mike saw the lights were on
again. Not wanting to think that things were getting better to trip
and fall on his face again Mike stepped carefully out of the cab. As
the car sped away Mike stood there, looking at the growing shadows.
He stepped back into those same shadows and waited. His phone was
turned off at the police station and he hadn’t bothered to turn it
back on again. Why he was standing back waiting he couldn’t really
say. It just seemed like the best thing to do.
After several minutes nothing had moved inside his apartment.
Margaret was home. He could see her moving about her place. Outside
there were a few stray cats, nothing out of the ordinary. He went
inside. There was a note pinned to his door. His gut clenched
reflexively. “Oh, God, what now?” he mumbled under his breath.
The note was from his landlord. It read;
So sorry about the hot water problem this morning. Got the boiler
replaced today.
Once inside his apartment Mike took note that the clocks were
flashing 12:10. The power had only been back on for 10 minutes. Not
that he kept much food in the fridge, enough for a few days at a
time, but that small amount was likely dead by now. “At least I can
get a hot shower tonight.” His voice sounded hollow in the empty
living room.
A gentle knock and a woman’s voice made Mike spin. “Hello,
Michael.” It was Margaret, his neighbor. “Your door was open, so
… “ She checked up on him, helped him when he was going through
bad times with his PTSD.
“Yeah, no, c’mon in, Maggie,” he grunted, “Margaret.” She
preferred to use full names as it was ‘just the proper thing to do.’
She was young, polite, friendly, but always stood at a safe distance.
That distance was safe for not just her, but for Mike, too.
Stepping inside his apartment she began, “Look, my boyfriend had
to cancel on our dinner plans tonight. I was going to cook dinner.”
“So, that’s not going to work out tonight, huh?”
“No, he has to work late.” Margaret seemed a little
uncomfortable. “I don’t have everything I need to cook a dinner,
but I have some wine and I can order us a pizza or two if you would
like to have a friend over?” She paused for a moment. “It looks
like you’ve had a really rough day and … “
“I’d like that, Margaret. If you would, please.” Mike started
to walk across his living room, “Oh, my phone is dead for now and I
need a shower. You can feel free to let yourself in when the pizza
gets here.”
About twenty minutes had passed and Margaret pushed her way back
into Mike’s apartment balancing two pizzas on one hand and holding a
bag with two bottles of red wine in the other.
Hours had passed, the wine bottles lay empty on the floor, empty
beer bottles stood in soon to be discarded six packs, and two friends
sat against each other on the couch taking comfort in each other.
“That was one hell of a day, Michael.”
Mike chuckled. He was chuckling at Margaret’s insistence on using
proper names, even when she was tipsy. She was a class act, he had
decided. “It was certainly a rough one.”
Margaret got up from the couch, stretched, stepped into her
slippers, “Mmmm, thank you for movie and opening up about your day,
Michael. I have to go to bed now.” Turning to look at Mike she
smiled a warm smile and hugged him. “Good night.”
When Margaret’s hand was on the door knob Mike spoke from the
couch, “You know, as bad of a day as it was, nobody died. I can
deal with that.” With a smile he added, “Thank you for coming
over, good night, Miss Margaret.”
On his way to bed he noticed that his phone, now charged had a
voice message. He played it, “Mike, this is Albert, from HR.
listen, like I said, this whole thing today was a mistake. You were
not on the list of lay-offs. As it turns out, the water pipe damage
has left things unsafe to work for a few days. So, you get the rest
of the week off, on us. See you Monday morning, big guy.”
Sinking further back into the couch, smelling Margaret’s perfume
lingering in the air, and that phone message made Mike chuckle again,
in spite of himself, “A free week off, nice, and nobody died.” He
fell asleep on the couch smiling.
I love your Paris idea! What an adventure. I am actually planning on being in Paris for a few days in May. Maybe one of your adventures could be meeting up with a blog follower 🙂
That would be so fun Abigail! We may be back home by then, though. 🙁 Right now we’re only going to be in Europe from March 1 to May 1.
Joe Bunting
joebunting.com
Oh, that’s a shame. We won’t be there until the end of May. I’ll just have to come up with a crazy adventurous idea for you 🙂
I have never had an adventure. Just the usual getting lost in the tortuos streets of Nairobi, battling a monkey in the bathroom at my grandma’s homestead (Now this was one adventurous monkey),learning to ride with a brakeless bicycle down a steep hill and so on and so forth. About the monkey, I’m still trying to figure out how on earth it got inside and whether its expectations were met so I won’t write about that. As my fingers roam purposefully on the keyboard awaiting the brain to signal, my eyes stray to the mirror hanging above the monitor. In a split second I spot the crescent scar on my forehead that had earned me my nickname, Munmun- then the imaginary lightbulb on top of my head.
Daddy still shakes his head in exasperation everytime he is reminded of the origin of Munmun. He must be recalling how his clothes were nearly soaked with his daughter’s blood as we rushed to hospital. I had later woken up to sight of my distraught parents and six stitches over a wound that would become a permanent warning sign. My sister calls it a monument; it commemorates the sour event and the consequences of disobedience. One of these was the good spanking they had gotten from our dearest mother. She is one strong woman, I tell you.
Anyway, that Saturday morning was the day we had intended for our adventure. My sister and I had left home early along with our frends to go quail-hunting. Everything went on quite well up until the accident. I had made the worst mistake for a hunter and under-estimated my prey. The bloody two-legged flightless bird led me on in its state of panic and I tripped over a rock. The damn rock embedded on the ground must have been the work of the devil, otherwise, quails too have guardian angels. Well, I didn’t see it in time and bum! Munmun was born.
The faces of so many unfamiliar people had never bothered me, at least not when they didn’t bother me. Maybe that’s why I was considered strange since I bothered others but in that moment I hadn’t really cared. My two friends fawned over him giggling and blushing over his every breath, the only thing i saw was a boy with brown hair in a hoodie. Nothing really eye catching about him, he lacked that energy that had me plotting out a new character.
“Who is he?” I had asked in a bored tone, i could be writing at that moment and could have been surrounded by my own imagination.
“Oh hes the new boy his name is Matthew.” I stared at them seeing the way they seemed so caught up in him. With a sigh I stood up walking to his table and sitting next to him. I had always been told that I just had an aura of confidence yet I didn’t really see it that way, if I made a fool of myself then so be it I messed up but I enjoyed it so the mistake became irrelevant.
I had struck up a conversation and I may have scared him, that;s what Erin says I’ve done he always seems to stay as far away from me. But oh well he wasn’t going to understand me anyway.
Who says that being at home and stuck in front of a computer leaves you stranded outside of a world of adventure? The challenge is to BE REAL in the unreality so as to infect logic and transform others. Such can allow a disabled computer geek in the middle of nowhere the chance to perform DUTY.
I build computer games using hypnosis INSTEAD of graphics. However, Terror Meters in the USA do the same thing, and no one told my MARINE CORPS.
So, I went into the USMC Recruiting office in 2006 in Kennewick, Washington, and told them I was going to do something different. President is just a role in an MMORPG world we call reality, but it’s not the highest role, and as President Bush was a bully in my White House, I decided, as I had decoded a puzzle in the Gospel of Matthew, to test a battery of tools I had unearthed so that I could, from my computer in Richland, Washington, do something effective.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Bill Gates, out of the blue, announces that he’s stopping support
for all but Windows XP.
All the plug-in support firms, like Adobe, stop support for
anything but Windows XP.
The poor can’t surf the Internet at home but must go
where there’s a supported operating system.
Bill Gates kicks the poor.
What does a FREE MASON as opposed to an ENSLAVED MASON build
upon?
A Free Mason builds upon SOLID GROUND because it will always
be there.
By Bill Gates setting expiration dates for Windows operating
systems, he has become a slave-driver on the whole world.
George W. Bush changes Daylight Savings Time.
Now, the poor KNOW they are poor because they have to
MANUALLY change their computer clocks.
On 19 December 2007, a STAR WENT SUPERNOVA.
People exclaimed, “That’s just like the star in the JESUS
Story.”
I sent a fax to the Washington D.C. Embassy of Greece to
ask they begin their judgment of my work.
JESUS and CHRIST are titles.
Until Greece KNOWS they have to JUDGE AGAIN,
they would not know to have to do this.
This day turned out to be Mount Arafat Day.
All of ISLAM foretold a GREAT JUDGMENT WOULD BEGIN THIS
DAY. (IT DID!!!)
Just after the Christmas 2007 holiday but BEFORE NEW YEARS, when
everyone is bedded down until January, the US Government drops a
CENSUS FORM that MUST BE TURNED IN OR SUFFER FEDERAL LAW VIOLATIONS.
Form says that it only takes 35 minute to fill out.
Actually takes days because you must call your electric
company and utility providers to get data.
This creates hated of FEDERAL GOVERNMENT.
This creates ripples in tension in economics as
these cities hadn’t planned on this additional expense for staff
support after Christmas.
John Kerry announces, “My wife Debbie (Heinz) and I are going to
SOUTH AMERICA for ALL NEXT YEAR!”
Who cares???
SIGNAL to SKULL AND BONES members that it’s time to
LEAVE
CEOS, like BILL GATES and others, start to leave their
corporations.
The US Government sells the US National Debt to the Chinese.
I send a fax to the Washington D.C. Embassy for China.
http://www.oocities.com/dibragerowtcom/chinese.html
I apologize that this was a BAD INVESTMENT
I up the stakes as PROPHET to shield the HONOR of the USA
from the DISHONOR of a BAD PRESIDENT.
I delivered the RAPTURE, being three tools to innate
abilities that were supposed to have arrived IN ANCIENT CHINA over
3000 years ago, but someone intercepted them and used them to write
a Torah and set chaos on our path.
I go online and get an article published to formally socially
distance Judaism from the Torah.
http://www.broowaha.com/articles/2957/marines-save-the-usa-from-an-infected-administration
Hereafter, IF anyone is using the logistics of the Torah as
invisible to the eyes planetary weaponry, such people are no longer
in Judaism’s shadow.
China’s economy collapses.
China could have pulled the loans to fix this problem. This
would have brought war to the USA.
China has an earthquake
Again, China could have pulled the loans because they needed
the funds.
There is a FREAK SHOOTING IN BEIJING at the OLYMPICS when BOTH
BUSH PRESIDENT are being the BIGGEST DICKHEADS.
China could EASILY have pulled the loans for any number of
DISHONORABLE REASONS.
I RE+SEND everything to the CHINESE, as well as to the
Olympic Committee in Switzerland BY DIGITAL FAX (I have the original
copies on my hard drive)
I BEG THEM as PROPHET to WAIT until Bush is out of
office, explaining this dis-harmonization of systems that they’re
running in the USA.
Dmitri Medvedev is SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER at the USA.
He discovered American Military Advisers in the
Georgian-Russian incident.
The TERROR METERS WENT RED FOR THE ONLY TIME THEY EVER WENT RED.
I sent a letter in fax to President Dmitri Medvedev, revealing a
DOUBLE-CROSS
http://www.oocities.org/dibragerowtcom/russia.html
My mom’s mom’s dad was the last Czar’s wine-keeper.
I am of the direct paper of KING DAVID.
http://www.oocities.com/dibragerowtcom/fof.jpg
I begged President Medvedev, as a RUSSIAN AMERICAN, to
please walk away from this mess.
Marines are TRUE.
By violating oath of office, the WHITE HOUSE was empty
of power.
President Medvedev, in the MOST HISTORIC MOMENT IN RUSSIAN
HISTORY, backed down from war.
and no one knows.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
I have earned permission from the US Secret Service to raise a call to the US MARINE CORPS to stop a coup. I found that the White House Putsch never stopped, but these bastards regrouped and in 2013, they began this process again:
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Bill Gates, out of the blue, announces that he’s stopping support
for all but Windows 7
All the plug-in support firms, like Adobe, stop support for
anything but Windows Vista
The poor can’t surf the Internet at home but must go
where there’s a supported operating system.
Bill Gates AGAIN kicks the poor (I moved my laptop
computer to Linux Ubuntu so that I am no longer beneath this man’s
foot, or so I had hoped).
I discover that out of the box, Windows 7 defaults to
time.windows.com
I wrote to National Standards (NIST.GOV) about this.
They knew it had happened but NO ONE TOLD THEM.
NIST was NOT HAPPY that this had happened.
Microsoft’s servers could have a blip from their
time servers.
All communications on the internet would
be off time
Microsoft now takes ANTI-TRUST in a new
level.
I began building my case on Bill Gates’ anti-trust in 1997.
Article I wrote was published in the UK set milestone:
Walking the Path to Microsoft Hell
http://oocities.com/dibragerowtcom/microsoft.html
The last line of that article concludes, ” It’s
not atomic weapons this time, but informational chaos and
disorder…and the man to destroy us all will be Bill Gates.”
By removing the US Government from control, I was
RIGHT!
Just after the middle of Summer, 2014, when everyone is getting their kids ready for a new school year, the US Government drops a CENSUS FORM that MUST
BE TURNED IN OR SUFFER FEDERAL LAW VIOLATIONS.
Bill Gates announces he has invested in EBOLA VACCINES.
TEXAS has as of 2014 October EBOLA PROBLEM.
BUSH FAMILY ARE INVESTED IN OPIUM.
Search YouTube for
CHINESE TROOPS IN TEXAS
FEMA DEATH CAMPS in TEXAS
FEMA GUILLOTINES and COFFINS and TRAINS
Ebola turns up in New York City.
“The US is under the highest security threat level since the Cuban
missile crisis and nobody is told.”
Gordon Duff,
USMC and Editor of Veteran’s Today Magazine
(21 Dec 2014 in email to me (David Brager)).
JADE HELM started in earnest on 15 June 2015 (6/15/15) and starts
officially 15 JULY 2015, as TEXANS are FRIGHTENED they are going to
be seceded by force.
The EPA hired crew spills toxic chemicals into the Navajo River
creating an END OF DAYS type situation.
With the ISIS in Paris, and the world is going into chaos,…
,,,this is where we are now.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
My concerns, from history past, was bad advice was given to FDR for
Japanese Internment Camps. There are FEMA CAMPS and
GUILLOTINES, and JOHN KERRY is pissing the RUSSIANS and USA off at
one another.
I am a RUSSIAN AMERICAN. PLEASE, I have a vested interest in
keeping the peace for I do not want to be put into a death camp
because of POLICIES from BUSH.
WHEN we catch these idiots who built “Armageddon” as written using
the last administration to attack the next administration using
mismanagement as weaponry, the US NATIONAL DEBT is paid.
These bastards cannot be of WE THE PEOPLE!!! They lose CITIZENSHIP,
ALL ASSETS, ALL DEBTS WE OWE THEM, and their LIVES! GAME OVER!!!
I did it all and I am not in the military, but someone had to do
it. Last I checked, that’s called DUTY.
No MARINE ever saw this
attack because…
1. The villains made cannabis illegal the very same day they made THEIR opium illegal
(of which their opium is moving through HOSPITALS and WAR ZONES to this very day (and worse, through the veins of PATIENTS IN PAIN, so if these not completely rational people get addicted, such people are willing to TORTURE AND DISHONOR AND SCAPEGOAT AND LIE to get more opium)) AND THEN
2. They created the FBI with a rule that no agent is ever to have used cannabis (someone at DEA had to fight tooth and nail to get cannabis labeled a hypnotic because IT MATTERS, for cannabis awakens the mind’s eye and allows one to SKIP the “I’m going to count from ten to one…” hypnosis induction so one is INSTANTLY in a subconscious state AND THEN
3. They ran Manchurian Candidate Project on the US Marine Corps to frighten an uneducated public so they could get policies in place so neither police nor military could use these best innate abilities AND THEN
4. They created the US Department of Education to set hypnosis only to the most Ph.D. levels of study in psychology, never revealing that it is a COMMUNICATIONS FIELD through and through AND THEN
5. They ran Stargate in the 80’s to make remote viewing look like a NEW discovery. I talked to Dale Graff, CIA’s lead at Project Stargate on the 23 April 2010 and asked, “Did you know there are remote viewing tools in the Gospels?” and he said, “No.” This is
WORLD EXPERT and he had no idea that on the back of the U.S. ONE DOLLAR bill that’s not a pyramid but a road backwards in space-time to teach the mind’s eye how to work.
This is SLOW and SYSTEMATIC GAME DESIGN. We know how to do this
now.
I met with FBI in 2010 to earn permission to BUILD THIS CASE. Next, I met with US Secret Service here in 2015. On the 23 June, 2015, from USSS Special Agent David Huntoon, I earned permission and GREEN LIGHT to proceed to my call to raise the MARINES…and I have no idea how.
What happened to ABRAHAM LINCOLN was due to JAMES BUCHANAN spending every dollar to create an invisible weapon using economics to rock the ocean so no one sees the PRESIDENT rock the boat. By BUSH replicating every stage and attacking OBAMA, yet another innocent man from Illinois (as Major General Smedley Butler caught the BUSH and HEINZ family (John Kerry’s wife is Debbie Heinz) last time with
the WHITE HOUSE PUTSCH), in applying internet tools to history, I found the White House Putsch never stopped their attack on the coffers, but Deep Throat was correct. FOLLOW THE MONEY.
I hate to admit it, but OBAMA is innocent. He is NOT THIS INTELLIGENT, but what is happening to his administration is due to MISMANAGEMENT AS WEAPONRY by the LAST ADMINISTRATION, in clear violation of OATH OF OFFICE. The BURNING BUSH family have a unique double-cross, and when I found it was sourced in Torah, I had to
build this case for FAMILY HONOR, for this is just a fair family fight: THE FAMILY OF DAVID verses the BURNING BUSH!!!
I no longer own DavidBragerForPresident.com because, with a COUP, my time was best spent supporting and building this case for the US SECRET SERVICE, THE FBI and the US MARINE CORPS who never saw it.
Why restrict your IMAGINATION? Your internet terminal is your window of OPPORTUNITY. If you see a problem no one sees, GET INVOLVED FROM YOUR LOCATION. In the end, it’s all about the WRITING!
Peace,
David Brager