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Showing posts with label David DeLane Snow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label David DeLane Snow. Show all posts
NEW BLOG TITLE:
SNOW's JOURNAL is now the new name of my web log. I just thought a change would be nice as there is such a smattering of eclectic topics that I go through. I do not really stick with a particular train of thought in my posts but whatever whim comes to my thoughts.
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MY FATHERS
Moses Moran, Jesse Moran, John David, Elmo Lee, Bobbie Lee, David DeLane SNOW
Jesse Moran 23 July 1856 - 20 April 1939
John David 28 April 1886 - 18 Oct 1972
Elmo Lee 19 March 1918 - 10 Jan 1985
Bobbie Lee 28 July 1941 - 3 April 2008
David DeLane 12 July 1963
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REFERENCES
REFERENCES
Internet
{Just a small sampling of a starting point...}
http://peterjfast.com/2011/08/25/part-two-let-us-worship-the-creation-instead-of-the-creator-the-clash-between-the-pagans-and-the-radical-idea-of-monotheism/
http://www.beliefnet.com/Faiths/2007/09/Why-The-Bible-Forbids-Paganism.aspx
http://www.apostolicolivetree.com/pagan_holidays.html
http://bible.cc/matthew/6-7.htm
http://www.biblepages.web.surftown.se/fg01.htm
INTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION
At first the “idea” of doing such a project was exciting. But as pen was pressed to paper, the enormity of the task I set before myself began to sink in as daunting. Though it was of my own choosing, and I revel in the learning experience; I only hope it will be profitable for others in the sharing of my discoveries. For I ventured upon this work with an opened mind eager to accept whatever gems lay before me. The daunting part came in how to share that material in a manner that was as “politically correct” as I could. By that I mean not as a source of contention or for argumentation. Yet, no matter the approach many will find offence either way in both camps.
The intent of this work is not toward the conversion from either of the two communities: Christian or Pagan. Rather it is intended as a beginning resource for understanding. My hope is that this material may be used for shedding some light on the background in which the Biblical events played out. The Judeo-Christian people lived among a plethora of deity worshiping nations. But who were those nations, their gods, their beliefs and practices that the ancient Jews and early Christians lived among? What was the major difference between the multiplicity of deities the ancient Pagans worshiped, and the single view of the Jews? Relationship? For starters, the pagans lived, feared, and personified the natural world. Where as the Jews viewed the natural world as being wholly set apart from deity, and that deity was its sole creator. Yet, Christians believed one step beyond the Jews in that, man could have a personal relationship with deity on an individual basis.
This work will primarily focus upon the ancient Pagans through the lens of internal evidence of the Biblical text, and then expand that view with external historical evidence. Keeping the focus within this context may prove more enlightening to the modern reader. It is hoped that this material will lead some to investigate far more scholarly works. May, both the modern Christian and Neo-Pagan find this effort beneficial, and become yet another resource among their growing library of knowledge.
The reconstructionist view of Paganism today is growing by leaps and bounds; yet, it is based on the lives of our ancestors. Likewise, the Judeo-Christian experience has developed far beyond its historical beginnings. Yet, it is these very modern expressions that are not the topic of discussion in this volume of work, nor are the relationships between those two communities. May our growing understanding of the ancients foster a more accurate desire to be better descendants.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to give thanks to several people, both Christians and Pagans alike: Mike Cope, Rick Fairchild, Michael “Mickey” Fruge, Goran Waldeck, Anthony Belcher; for their encouragements, advice and friendship, (some via the Internet). Also, countless thanks for all those who have gone before me and whose labors I have drawn upon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I'm doing research for a new book I want to write. I'm entitling it: THE PAGANS OF SCRIPTURE. From time to time I will be posting notes for the book...
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
David DeLane Snow was born in Irving, Texas in 1963. He lived in various small towns in north-central Texas, and grew up in Brownwood. Later, DeLane Snow lived for twenty years in Corpus Christi, where he served as a Chaplain’s Assistant in the Texas Army National Guard. For several years he has been employed in the Mental Health field, and currently resides with Alice Snow, his wife of more than thirty years, in Lewisville, Texas.
Religiously DeLane Snow was raised as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses for thirteen years. After many of his own family members “fell away” he later married, and then converted to his wife’s faith as a Southern Baptist, for fifteen years. Being baptized for the first time in 1984 he soon became a Sunday School teacher, then in 1987 was Licensed as a Lay Minister and began attending Howard Payne University’s seminary extension programs in Corpus Christi, Texas. After many years of searching and struggling with personal issues, DeLane left Christianity in search of the Pagan Expression of spiritual matters.
In 2002 he entered a Wiccan Coven, a Neo-Pagan eclectic study-group; yet, due to employment scheduling issues departed after a few years. But still continues to claim the Pagan Path as his own. Being a “Solitary Practitioner” DeLane Snow continues to seek out self improvement, striving to create a network of like “believers” for the past fourteen years. With the advent of this work’s research he has come to another cross road in his journey.
VIDEO: "My Ferrets" Cleaning Day...
My grand children came over and we made breakfast and did some cleaning; and the cage too.
[NOT VIEWING on iPad 2]
grrrrrrrr!!!
BLOG
I want to re-envision this picture in Photoshop.
(I have used the idea in my story already).
THE WATCHER'S SCROLL
{ The Original Version }
“Beneath that evening star dome, lead
Lord Elrond with his people shed
the woes of a war torn land
healed by a fulfilled king’s hand.
5 Aboard their swan-carved ships
with praises high on ruby lips;
one - with Halflings dressed in vests
rewarded for a legendary quest.
Yet some later said by folly of pride
10 those brothers fought and lied
their bonds they broke and took
all loyalties of oaths forsook.
Shelda`Mar pleaded for we few to come
aboard Valithnor’s ship, Cirdan’s drum;
15 unto those undying lands of hope and grace,
yet outraged, Vendu`Mar abandon his place.
On faded docks did Vendu`Mar argue
against his brother’s command he drew
harsh words like a bitter sword that bites,
20 though Shelda`Mar in sorrow took flight
The wizard Gan`Mereith admonished us
to be wary against our growing lust;
Sal`Gilvan and Veth`Dema barked back
with their own words of black.
25 We stayed like an anointed remnant,
who saw it our goal to rule as imminent,
teaching a new lore to lesser men
with a diverse tongue, Sinenya I penned.
[click to enlarge original Elven Script]
Like unto Sindar was Sinenya made
30 with new characters and words I laid;
letters designed for new purposes crafted
for initiated secretes were they drafted.
For the greed of some soon railed apparent
as our original cravings became too variant;
35 instead of being counselors to students in need
many wayward misguidings did breed.
Celegreth of the elven Crystal Caves,
and Kwandol the dwarven mason, made;
a Great Hall like greeting hands
40 domed six hundred years, still stands.
Close to the bay a watchtower stood
with a bell’s tolling alarm it would;
chime forth the hours of the Great Hall
for secret Brothers to heed its call.
45 In that kingdom’s darkened hall we met
among fireside rituals fussed and fret;
knowing inwardly we hoped against hope,
preaching failed expectations, we groped.
High in that Watchtower’s nest
50 its bell replaced we thought best;
with a pyre set eternally aflame,
for others to return without shame.
On the day the oil-soaked wood was lit,
by Fay`Symodare’s death all were hit;
55 the shadow that fulfilled Mereith’s woe,
the bane of mortal man became our snow.
From his ashes we gathered a portion
entombed in an urn with grave distinction;
the rest we scattered upon the sea
60 and swore our own would mix free.
Crafting an Original.
I'm still writing on my novel, pecking away. I am also working on a craft item: A Scroll Box; right now just the box for the scroll. Thinking that if I can manifest this literary concept as a three dimensional object maybe I should be able to better understand my novel's character who created the Original one.
THE SWAN
FROM ASHES (By Mike Cope, and others...)
___________As it originally appeared_________________
He picked me to go next. I'll start us off and you are all invited to contribute. So here goes...
The landing craft bucked and pitched as it sped toward its destiny on Omaha beach. Nearby shell bursts sent sprays of water, drenching the occupants within.
Dr. Solomon crouched as near to the bucking floor as he could and flinched at every explosion and ricochet. He looked at the soldiers in front of him and felt sick knowing how many of them would not survive the day. The craft made a final jarring lurch and the big ramp went down, men charging forward into the bloody waves of Normandy.
Bullets pinged off the enormous steel crate beside which the diminutive Dr. Solomon sought cover.
"You're up doctor!" shouted the lieutenant.
"I should have just settled down and opened an ice-cream shop," he thought to himself. He was only supposed to observe these people. His Prime Directive was not to get involved in any way. But since the explosion and fire that had destroyed his laboratory and left him marooned among these people he had come to know and like them, even love them. Day after day he watched his friends and neighbors go off to war, never to return. His heart sank with every radio report. Against his better judgment he looked up his friends in the history database. He knew exactly where, when and how each of them would die. That was when he decided to violate his mandate, an act punishable by death if he should ever be found.
With trembling hands he threw back the bolt on the giant crate and swung open the door. His invention might save some lives. It would most likely change the course of the war. It would very probably change the course of history-- and that was unforgivable.
The crate shuddered as his invention came to life. It seemed the vibration would tear the landing craft apart if the Nazi artillery shells didn't do the job first.
High above the beachhead from the relative safety of a German pillbox an SS observer peered through binoculars with interest at the little landing craft and its occupants. He saw the door of the unusual box swing open. Something stirred within it.
"Mein Gott!" he gasped...
All guns turned. The redirection of bullets fired upon the craft as the newly deployed forces strived to engage the enemy. Though many were instantly mowed down before they could wade their third step out into the waters. The incoming rounds did not let up. The Lieutenant's horrified expression was not so much the direct result of witnessing the sudden loss of his men's lives, but because of the doctor's invention. With every ping of incoming rounds a pool of blue light ate up the bullet while it was still in mid-flight; about the stranger and his cargo. Like some kind of "force field". The doctor turned to the young Lt. and said, "--
"Get to a field radio as fast as you can, and tell your men to cease fire.Everybody on the beach must get down." [The] Lieutenant was looking at the crate in a trance. What the hell is that Doc? Lieutenant did you read me all your men must lay down there arms. I turn this thing on. I dont know how to turn it off. or if it knows the difference between us and the Germans.
?"Stand aside lieutenant, we've got work to do."
The machine lumbered forth, crab-like, incoming fire absorbed completely by its force-field. The more bullets it absorbed the larger and brighter the protective dome of energy grew. Soon it had expanded to enclose the landing craft and its surviving contingent of soldiers. It scuttled down the ramp, into the water and up onto the beach providing an oasis of safety for the ever growing number of soldiers who clustered around it.
Though the rippling screen of energy devoured the shells of every weapon directed against it, outgoing fire was not affected. The advancing American forces no longer in danger took their time and placed every shot with deadly accuracy.
Perhaps this is enough, thought Dr. Solomon as he and Lt. Hanley watched from the landing craft. If I only shield our boys, if I use only passive interference, it won't be so bad for me if the Council finds me, he told himself.
Just then a mortar shell exploded among a group of soldiers just beyond the protective dome. Bodies and parts of bodies were thrown high into the air. Solomon cringed.
"Watch this," he said, thumbing a toggle switch on the black control box he held in his hands. The machine reared up on its steel legs, doors within its chest swinging open, the barrels of some strange, unknown weapon emerging, pulsating with energy.
Dr. Solomon pressed a red button and a beam of blinding green light shot from the strange machine ambling up the beach toward the German defenses.
Lt. Hanley stared in disbelief. "Sweet merciful Heaven, the damned thing works," he said to nobody in particular. "I gotta hand it to you doctor, that's really something," he said, turning to face his companion. But Dr. Solomon did not hear him. His attention was fixed on a small indicator screen on his control box. He looked worried.
The mechanical beast swung its weapon wildly, as if it were confused. "Didn't you hear what I said?" Dr. Solomon implored. "The men must cease firing!"
The lieutenant keyed the mic of the field radio and screamed, "Cease fire! Cease fire! Pass the word. All units stand down!"
The orders were screamed through bullhorns, barely audible over the sounds of battle. Slowly firing from the American forces subsided and the infernal machine swung it's gaze back to the German lines.
But suddenly a shell from a naval vessel from somewhere in the English channel split the air overhead. Dr. Solomon's machine reared up again and swung to face the direction of the ship.
Feeling like the weight of the world up on his shoulders. Like a man who started something that he could not stop. Reaching in his pocket. The doctor pulled out what looked like a egyptian medallion. Doctor looking over it. thinking, I wonder if Moses new what the hell he had. 5 thousand years ago.
As the mechanical Turned and began firing towards the naval vessel, the Doctor studied the glowing image in his hands. "Do I let it change history, will this add to my mistakes, or do I stop it all now? How do I decide?" He looked desperately around him, as the Nazis again fell before his invention. He needed a sign, something to tell him what to do....
He felt a sharp sting as if a bee stung his neck and swatted his hand to his throat. He nearly dropped the precious control box and barely managed to grab it with both hands before it smashed to the deck. His eyes widened as he looked down at his blood covered hands and realized the strange bubbling noise was coming from him. He sank to his knees and pitched forward onto the hard steel plating. With his waning strength he tugged at Lt. Hanley's leg.
"Holy crap, Doc!" Hanley yelped, turning his attention from the amazing machine to where Solomon lay crumpled on the dirty deck in a rapidly growing pool of red. The lieutenant dropped to his knees and pressed his palm to the hole in the other man's throat. Solomon shoved the control box at him.
"I don't know how to drive that thing!" screamed Hanley, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. With his final reserve of strength Dr. Solomon sputtered, "History is... in... Your hands. You must contact... The Council... The Council..." His voice trailed off. A gold medallion with the image of a scarab minted on it rolled from his twitching fingers and clattered loudly on the deck. The mysterious Dr. Solomon was no more.
"jimminey Christmas, son-of-a..." Hanley growled through gritted teeth, not completing his thought. He grabbed up the control box and stood, completely dumfounded by the array of knobs, dials and switches. He swung back towards the battle, his panic academic as the mechanical beast was no longer on the beach. From atop the cliffs of Normandy great green flashes could be seen and with each flash more Nazi guns fell silent. The monster was headed inland, toward the villages of France, an uncontrolled and unstoppable juggernaut.
Hanley bent down a scooped up the medallion. He turned it over in his fingers, examining it. "Solomon said to contact the council," he thought. "Council of what?"
In the fading afternoon light of Omaha Beach, Lt. Jordan Hanley was a man in over his head.
A radio static squawked nearby. Without the immediate cover of the mechanical beast and the nearby German forces seemingly defeated; the Americans that were alive along the Beach of Normandy gathered their wits, and aided the wounded. Sporadic, makeshift camps began to emerged within minuets of the silence. The young blonde hair farm boy from Indian, Jordan James Hanley had done more growing in the last hour than he ever experience his entire life. He began yelling orders for his remaining men to advance forward in an effort to locate the dead doctor's invention. He knew his mission, he was uncertain of the Beast's course.
Looking at the blood smeared control box and its array of switches took a gamble and depressed a small red button on the side. Scanning the horizon before him no longer saw the green flashes of light illuminate the darkening skies overhead. A small ping began to sound as a yellow indicator blinked with three second intervals. "Darn thing's got a homing devise on it." The Lt. said aloud. Next to him a Sargent came up, stopping his own near salute looked around, "Sir, Sargent Bakerson reporting - what the hell was that thing?" Trying to come up with a credible response, the Lt. said,"-
?"Our best hope of winning this thing, Sargent - a new weapon. Gather your men, we're fixing to move out in a few." "Aye, Sir." After returning his salute, Bakerson began directing sixteen men. As they gathered themselves and gear into a formation, the Sargent took point. Hanley stood post, "At ease. Men - follow me." Causually he passed them, heading up the steap embakment in search of the mechanical device, he now refered to as "The Beast".
?"Mike Six Four Charlie. You copy? Over." Belched another squawk of static from a radio. The reluctant private who had assumed the mantel of Radio Telephone Operator noded to the Sargent at his left shoulder. Bakerson called up ahead to the Lt., "Sir, call coming in." Again it squawked out, "Mike Six Four Charlie, Do you copy? over. This is Delta Six Tree Sierra. Copy? over."
Taking the handset, the Lieutenant answered back, "Delta Six Tree Siearra, this is Mike Six Four Charlie, reading you loud and clear, over."
?"Mike Six Four what is your location? Over." "Delta Six Tree, I am one click above entry point Alpha heading northeast." "Belay that Mix Six Four you are to link up with Echo Company's Charlie at point Brovo Two. Do you copy that? Over." Looking a little pissed, the Lt. replied, "Rodger that Delta Six Tree, we are to link up with Echo at Bravo Two. Over and Out!" Shoving the phone reciever back at the Sgt. Hanley barked, "Change of plans men." Then pointing down the cliff line they started heading dew south.
An hour later they came upon a crater. The area way a mess of gear and body parts, men were slaughtered everywhere. Picking through what could be salvaged and arranging what bodies they could for burial, the Lt. made preparations for camp as the day edged toward nightfall. Getting the mike from the RTO, Hanley called out, "Delta Six Tree Siearra, this is Mike Six Four Charlie, you read? Over."
A moment later he was answered, then replied into the handset, "Rodger. Look Delta Six Tree, Echo is a zero here. You copy? Over."
A long stretch of silence. Then a moment or two later, "Mike Six Four you are to link up with Lima at rally point Foxtrot Two. Do you copy? Over." "Delta Six Tree - Copy that: Foxtrot Two; link up with Lima Company's Charlie. Over and Out." Looking at his men desiring so much to rest, could only nod at his Sgt. who pointed at the sky and made a circling motion then pointed out. With slumped packs, re-geared up and moved out following the Lieutenant. Changing course once again they headed northeast.
After about forty-five minuets later they again came up on yet another slaughtered group of American soldiers. A young man was placing a makeshift cross of sticks on a grave as the new platoon arrived behind him from the south. Ignoring them he continued patting the cross headpiece into place. The Lt. approached him asking, "What happened here, Private?" "Do know, Sir." After dropping his salute, added, "This spidery looking tank sprayed everyone with a green light and most of them just exploded or lost limps. Sorry, Sir I hid scrambling for my radio and things. My Lt. is dead, Sir - they're - they're all dead - Sir." The young man before Hanley was beginning to take on a distnt stare.
"You did good, Private; nothing else you could have done, son." Then, "What's your name?" Without missing a beat, he came to attention replying, "Private First Class Patrick O`Reilly, Sir - RTO!"
?"You playen me, PFC?" The Lt. looked at the young colored soldier's blood and dirt smeared face with a wary smirk. "No fool'en, Sir. Named after my grandfather, Boston born and bred, Sir." And then a bold, proud grin came over the Private's face as he added, "I take after my mama's Georgian roots, Sir." Shaking his head, the Lt. exhaled, "Too long a tale, Private. Go hook up with Sgt. Tracy for some rations, look like you could use some." Naturally relaxing to At Ease, Patrick began to walk away, then a step of two returned to the Lt. with, "Thank you, Sir."
?"-omon - ooou." Break of static, "no means -" Whistle and squelch, "ever" static noise, "age" then the radio called out again in a distant voice, "jet! Do you understand me!" Patrick was standing over his radio trying to angle the antenna just right as both Sargent Bakerson and the Lt. came up. Hanley strained a bewildering look at the speaker trying to descern the speaker's voice that suddenly repeated itself clearly.
"Do you hear me? Solomon, you are by no means whatsoever to engage the Phoenix Project! Do you understand me!"
By then the Lt. was trying to contact the voice, "Who is this? What is your call sign, over?" But only silence answered in return, not even static - the radio just went dead. Feeling a chill run through him as he listened Patrick's words all he could do was stare, "Sorry, Sir - Nothing." Then facing the Lt. the Private continued; standing up, "Sir, yesterday at 2300 hours, my Lieutenant, Marlowe received a call from that same voice, Sir. An hour later a messenger approached him with a package, and I overheard him tell the Lt to link up with your unit and give it to a Doctor Solomon who was attached to Mike Company." Unwrapping the brown paper package, Jordan marveled at what he now held. A flat silver ring about five inches in diameter inscribed with photographic symbols topped and bottomed with letter esk characters. The ring itself could move within another ring clamped with four squares: north, south, east and west. The North clamp was large with a "window" where a letter/symbol appeared perfectly matched up. Northeast, northwest, south west, and south east were talon like nails that reached toward the middle without touching, almost forming a "window" at their tips.
As if hoping the private had more information about the mysterious medallion shaped ring, the Lt. looked up. Patrick hadn't a clue. Dismissed, he returned to his coffee as the men had began to bed down for the night. A fire watch sentry stood guard over them all pacing back and forth with weapon at the ready.
From his place in the tree, the young boy looked over Jordan's shoulder at the amazing disk. It was pretty, and kind of scary - but it had to be imoprtant. Why else would so many men die? He decided to move higher into the tree to keep a watch on Jordan and then men, so he could take that shiny, bewildering disk. It just might feed his family for a while, if he could find the right buyer. Silently, he inched into a more comfortable position, and waited.
?"THAT's IT, Stop there!" The Sentry yelled out while aiming his rifle at the young boy up the tree. He began kicking at the feet within the sleeping bags, "On your feet, intruder alert!"
?"Sarg over here!" Arriving Sargent Bakerson, said,"----------
?"Kid, just who the hell do you think you are? Dumbass, creeping up on soldiers!" The child looked at him, totally unfazed, as the Sgt began to express his displeasure in the most creative stringing of curses the soldiers had ever heard. When he stopped to take a breath, the boy said -----
?"Please sirs, I meant no harm. My family is hungry. The Bosch occupy my farm. They took my brother away. I have not eaten in two days."
The sentry hauled the thin, dirty boy to the tent where Lt. Hanley had set up his command post.
"Kid says he ain't eat in two days," Said the gruff-voiced sergeant.
Lt. Hanley looked at the sad faced boy practically dangling by the ragged collar caught in the grip of Sgt. Bakerson's huge, hard fist.
He scowled and said impatiently, "I don't have time for this. Bakerson, get the kid some chow and send him on his way."
He turned his attention back to the unusual package that had been delivered by Private O'Reilly. He was at a loss as to what it was or what it did or how it related to his runaway robot. He examined it closely in the lantern light. His thoughts were broken by his radio operator who suddenly appeared by his side.
"Sir, patrols report no contact with the machine and the fly-boys say the same thing. It's like the damn thing just disappeared. Too dark now to spot it from the air, they say they'll resume the search at first light."
Lt. Hanley squinted at his RTO. "You have any idea how far that thing might travel overnight Corporal?"
"No sir."
"Yeah, well neither do I, but from the way it got off the beach Hell bent for leather, it could be anywhere."
The French boy upon overhearing this twisted free from Bakerson's grasp and ran to Lt. Hanley.
"Sir! Sir! I have seen your machine not half an hour ago. At first there was only a horrible thrashing sound in the hedgerow. It split apart, but there was nothing there. Then some of the Bosch raised an alarm and ran to see what was happening. Suddenly the machine appeared, like a great silver dragon spitting green flames. It killed the Germans and then disappeared."
"What do you mean disappeared?" Asked Hanley.
"It is to say that one moment you could see it and the next you could not."
"You mean that thing can go invisible?" Marveled the radio operator.
"Yes! Invisible! That is the word." The boy seemed pleased at his mastery of English.
Lt. Hanely's frustration was growing.
"Well, swell," he muttered. "How are we going to track it now?"
"Pardon me sir," Said the boy, "The machine is-- what is the word? Invisible... but its tracks are not. It was headed straight for the village of Saint-Lô. I can show you!"
Hanley leaped to his feet and began barking orders.
"Bakerson, round up a jeep! Corporal, grab your gear and send for Private O'Reilly! Get back here on the double! We roll out in three minutes!" He clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Kid you really earned your chow tonight-- and there's plenty more where that came from!"
There was a voice in the darkness.
"Col. Schroeder?"
The flight from Peenemünde to Berlin had been bumpy and unpleasant. Verner Schroeder was not a comfortable flyer and this was his first chance for sleep since he was called from his work to meet with the Fuhrer.
His work, like Dr. Solomon's, was top secret, of a military nature, and quite likely to change the course of history. These were not the only things the two men had in common. Like Dr. Solomon he was supposed to observe this particularly tumultuous period of human history, and like Dr. Solomon he was trapped in this time-period when the explosion that destroyed Dr. Solomon's laboratory rippled through the entire network of portals and laboratories of the Council of Historical Reconnaissance, trapping any agents in the field wherever and whenever they might be. But unlike Dr. Solomon, the former Professor-- now Colonel-- Verner Schroeder's violation of his Prime Directive had not been of his own free will.
Schroeder was considered an oddity among the researchers of The Council. Strictly an academic, he hated field work, preferring to study history from the safety and comfort of his library, far from the bad food, poor sanitation, primitive technology and frightening medical practices of times long past.
The accident had changed all that and Schroeder, trapped in Germany, had been compelled to turn his considerable scientific abilities to the advancement of the Nazi agenda, a distasteful situation at which he continually balked. Unlike Von Braun, his colleague at Peenemünde, He could not in good conscience turn a blind eye to the party's outrages as long funds flowed for research.
As an SS colonel, Schroeder had influence and authority, but his Gestapo "liaison" was always close at hand and his contact with the world outside Germany was limited. He had tried to track Dr. Solomon, to keep him in check, but with the outbreak of war in Europe in September of 1939, that had become almost impossible. In the early Spring of 1942 Schroeder had gotten word from another field agent that Dr. Solomon had met with Vannevar Bush, of the Office of Scientific Research and Development. But from that last scrap of information Dr. Solomon and his whereabouts had disappeared into the fog of top secret black projects.
"Herr Colonel, I hate to disturb you," Said the timid voice again.
"What is it?" snapped Colonel Schroeder. "Any news from the French Coast?"
"No Herr Colonel. There has been no word at all, from any units on the Atlantic Wall. The radios have all been strangely silent since just after the first reports of the allied landings at Normandy."
"So much for the Fuhrer's impenetrable Fortress Europe, eh Hans?" Sneered the colonel, rubbing his aching temples.
"It is something else, Herr Colonel... A message."
"Well? What is it?" Snapped Schroeder.
"The Phoenix has risen."
Schroeder bolted upright in his bed.
"Mein Gott! What has Solomon done? He has no idea of the nature of the forces he has unleashed. Quickly, Hans! My boots! We must leave at once. Perhaps even now it is too late."
"Colonel Schroeder, what does this mean? What are we going to do?" Asked a startled Hans.
"We can perhaps save the world instead of trying to destroy it, but we have no time to lose-- machen sie schnell!"
Out there, in the darkness that covered the beaches and fields of France, under piles of rubble and in hastily dug graves, something unnatural was beginning to stir. The phoenix had indeed risen.
The full jeep was bouncing down the rubble scattered roads in the predawn hours with its headlights off - blackout. Silence was the mood as Lt. Hanley sat there thinking of the events of the day and how all the twist and turns lead him to his current actions. Taking the Ringed Compus out of his shirt pocket he again investigated the pronged points, and the movable outer ring as it slid soundlessly through the top "window". The strange markings fascinated the man. What could they mean? After a spray of creek water washed the jeep, another thought jumped through the Lieutenant's mind. Remembering the golden Egyptian medallion and its image of the beetle - scarab minted on one side and an Eye on the other; Jordan removed it from his other pocket. Strange. There was one symbol in the middle of the Eye, and the same three symbols on the Compus' East, South, and West locked blocks that held the movable ring in place. Puzzeling it all out in his mind, the Lt. grinned - looking at the driver, "Eyes on the road Sargent."
Hanley held the ring up in front of him with his left hand and in his right he held up the medallion. As the jeep raced over a branch in the road they all jumped in their seats. With that, the Lt. merged hands; sliding the medallion "behind" the ring with the compus "on top of" it seemed to make scene to him - somehow. There was a click. Like a magnetic feel to it. "Strange!" Came his audible whisper.
"Dam right it's strange." Bakerson blurted out, " Ain't nothing right about this whole mission - Sir." The Lt. smiled back and said, "------
THE STORY CONTINUES...
THE INSTITUTION
_______________________________________
The chipped paint was smelled like they had been dabbed in urine instead of being scrubbed with bleach; a fresh coat would have been better, and the floors - sore needs of replacing or least buffing. The yellow encased, blinking florescence lights lacked attention as well. If fact the entire building reeked for a demolition crew who cared. Moans filled the halls. Amid the muddle of shuffling house shoes, and odd inappropriate laughter a single, pitiful voice continued to be ignored, "Nurse." "Nurse." "Nurse."
The only nurse on the floor of the Institution at the time was Rachel Margret Littleton. Over worked, underpaid, seven years alone. The other staff who came did not seem to last very long.
Just as she was crushing up meds a dingy yellow gowned man shuffled up to Rachel's cart, and asked, " -------------
sweet that rocks!!!
"Okay, Mr. Stouthammer, I'm glad the music in your head rocks, but Miss Littleton has to give Becky her meds now." The man turned away as Becky Brownthers opened her mouth way back. Afterwards she -------
"Pardon me Nurse Ratchet, might I trouble you for an extra pill?" the man in the dingy gown jabbed a thumb at the empty air beside him. "Teddy has been a bit jumpy today. You see, it's his brother Harvey's birthday today and he had his heart set on an outing to see him."
Nurse Ratchet squinted at the empty space beside the little man and said,
"Sorry Mr. Jacobson, Teddy dosen't get morning meds. But - here's yours." Heading to the elderly man with a thin whisp of spiked hair who had been calling after her since last night, Rachel offered a small paper cup of stool softer and Lithium, "Okay now now Mr. Blackwater here's your morning meds." Trembling hands reached for the cup but at the last second instead of accepting his doasage, hit the nurses' hand away, flinging the pills across the floor he started screaming at the top of his lungs, " YOU! --------
"YOU! You are the one who stole my eyes last night!!! Give them back!" Nurse Rachel stepped back in fear, eyes widened. Mr. Jacobson had never given her much trouble in the past. She didn't know what had gotten in to him and she was more than a little frightened. She took a deep breath and a step back saying--------
"It's going to be allright Mr. Jacobson - Martin, if you open your lids you'll notice they are in - Oh, Okay?" Still screaming like his flesh was rotting off he suddenly stopped in mid yell, and said, " Thank you, Nurse." "Nurse." "Nurse...."
Sudden Rudy Finkler noticed the pills at his feet, edged down and scarfed them up without Rachel's notice; she had forgotten about them in the misdirection. Rudy eased back into his room and squatted on the floor.......
pulled his pants down, and took a big ole "wendy's frosty" dump, and said "yes master"... pulled up his pajamas, and smeared it all in his room, because he was pacing about.... The wretched smell filled the facility... {sounds like work, huh dave?}
Without missing a beat, nurse Littleton called down the dimly lit hallway, "Sanders - Sorry, but Mr. Finkler did his morning thing again."
Sanders was a huge black man. A retired Linebacker from some football team big in the 1960s. Sanders Graham Ellington, Jr. to be precise. His mop water was fresh hourly but smelt like it had never been changed. Sanders wore hospital scrubs and proudly displayed his plastic beaded Rosary outside his shirt. His hair had long since turned white and his back hunched from battles he bemoaned to himself while mopping. As he went down the hall to Finkler's room, he said, "--------
Getting him into the shower room was often a challenge that required a great deal of creativity. This morning's promise of extra pudding at lunch did not rise to the challenge. Finkler's counter offer was a handful of feces flung gorilla like out of his open door. It spattered the closed door opposite his with what Mr. Finkler considered a certain poetic wetness. He poked his head out the door with a satisfied grin on his face.
By way of reply, Mary Ann Riscenburger just smiled back at Rudy's brown smeared grin. She held tightly onto her precious dolly, remembering her own baby which she had accidently allowed to be burned in a house fire twenty-two years back. Actually it was one of her own dresses that she held; it was all rolled up in a bundle. From the dolly-dress she liked best but never wore; looked up into the questioning face as the nurse offered her a spoonful of pudding mixed medication.
She still talks to me you know; my baby that's is; smiling nervously to the nurse. She told me it wasn't my fault, that I didn't start the fire.
The nurse dropped the spoon as she gasped, realizing in all the years she had worked in this godforsaken place, Mary Ann had never spoken a word.
Mary Ann began rocking back and forth, back and forth, murmering to the dress dolly "It's OK, sweetheart, Mama's here" and pacing the floor. She looked up at the nurse and said lucidly, "It's so bad when the wee ones have the colic". Sanders, returning from the cessspool that was Finkle's morning game, almost dropped his mop. It was as if.....
He had seen the child himself. He stepped back with a horrid look on his face, not wanting to let any one know what he had just saw he quickly turned and walked away......
The child he had seen, was of the "paranormal", he has seen her walking next to Mary anns' bed, kissing her momma, on the cheek, and saying, " It's okay, momma" it wasn't your fault, and i love you".
Sanders made for the "break room" - a converted closet, that was the only place he knew of in the building that the patients avoided. He opened his thermos, and took a swig of his all Irish "coffee". He could NOT be seeing spirits - there were people locked up in here for just that! "Slow deep breaths, man", he told himself - and slowly began to calm down as he recalled his favorite episodes of Barney. The door flew open, and....
Their stood the little girl, he dropped his mug, with a despate look he said what do u want. The little girl replied with a screeching voice, you know what u did...
After another swig of "coffee" Saunders left the confines of the closet. He walked right through the little girl who dissipated as he did so. A chill ran through the orderly.
Saunders called out to the nurse, "Hey Rachel, you seen Kenny? How long does it take to take a break?"
TO BE CONTINUED.......
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