The Unread Book Of Words by Roy E Parker - HTML preview

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                      The Story of Karl

 

Karl sat on the edge of a small bed containing a little girl of eight years old who no longer had a daddy. He sat and told her the story of his life, he wanted her to know that he loved her still and wanted her to understand what had come to be and why.

 

 

The voice of the wind sang off key as it brushed through the night landscape bringing a chill to the bones. Sickly patches of orange bathed small areas of the streets in pools of grotesquely distorted light, killing the colour of the world. Not by accident these lights have been installed, all part of the large plan, all part of the suppression of the masses. Keep the vibrations low and don't allow them to grow, crush out all individuality and grind under the heel all original thought.

 

As Karl walked along the street, a street that used to be lined with trees but now lined with ever watchful cameras, spying, observing the common people, nothing to do with law and order, nothing to do with imaginary terrorism, no, just a frightened power base waiting for the people to revolt against the Nazi New World Order. Karl could not understand how the people have sat back and allowed their freedoms to be taken away. Could they not see that terrorism is that which the state has used to induce fear and remove peoples freedom. Could not they see that the state is nothing short of a monstrous shame controlled themselves by a malevolent force and willing, without the slightest hint of conscience to commit atrocities, of mass murder with out even the batting of an eye.

 

Too many people remained asleep cocooned in their own little world of work, sleep and worries about there own rising debt. No time to think, to look and see the bigger picture. Surrounded by the most sophisticated brain washing hardware ever devised, told lies from birth, controlled from birth, all individuality stamped  out from birth what else could he expect. Add to that the systematic poisoning using processed food even water with the adding of the highly toxic fluorine. Karl remembered well the words of the professor; drinking fluorinated water for a year is nothing short of a chemical lobotomy. Not to mention the so called sweetener that had its origins in an American Air Force chemical weapons laboratory and now sold to the masses as a safe alternative to sugar.

 

He remembered back a few hours with a chill, the incredible sunset, spectacular colour bathed the skies in warmth and coated it with beauty. Nobody asks why? Here in the United Kingdom we did not see such splendid sunsets, but now, now we see them. The truth of it was that it was simply artificially caused by pollution molecules scattering the light. Not industry or the people have caused such pollutants, but a horrid concoction deliberately sprayed in to the air. Chem-trails, something few notices and even fewer know about. Chem-trails looking like trails from ordinary aircraft but lasting more than the 30 seconds that ice crystals always last from ordinary jets, and never do ice trails criss-cross the sky like chem-trails do.

 

Karl also remember how hard he had worked on his book, the painstaking research, the nights without sleep writing it and the impossibility of fining a publisher. How far and wide the hands of the Illuminati reaches. Even he, a well respected writer and recognized journalist could find no out late for the most important story of the decade, of the era. He was met with odd looks, sniggering behind his back and out and out ridicule. Then the call into the office and the regrets but we no longer require your services. No other newspaper would suddenly touch him. The problems followed, the financial problems leading to his bankruptcy, to losing his family to finding the bottle. One day the idea dropped on him, lecture, take his story to the people, he could, he would, and he did. That of course wasn't easy, venues suddenly becoming unavailable, double booked or closed for renovation. Last minute cancellations without explanation, but he persevered, carried on and built a reputation, largely unreported, but then the kind of publicity he received was always adverse, mostly lies, always derogatory.

 

Karl crossed the narrow road just has he did every week at this time on his way home from visiting his only friend, an old man who knew more than he ever said, who was never surprised at Karl’s latest revelation, latest discovery. A good friend who listened and sympathized, who helped out with a few quid when he was desperate. It came as such a shock when the black van with the blacked out windows and no number plate came out of nowhere.

 

He sat and told his daughter everything, how after the accident he watched the old man go in and remove the manuscript that had taken Karl three long years to complete and burned it. How he soon realised that he had died in that accident and knew he had to visit his child one last time before he had to go to the good place, to the light. He looked down at his girl, she was sleeping soundly and he wondered with tears in his eyes if she had heard a word. He kissed her forehead and walked into the night, just one more victim of The New World Order.

 

...And still nobody cared, and still the people slept on as the steam roller of death rolled ever closer towards them and their inevitable destruction. And soon to be, the new age of chaos and destruction of the new hell the hell on Earth.