Terry

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Posts by Terry

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  13

  Arguing with Still-in best friends : hard heads and broken hearts

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  (re :johnny santa cruz).

  i found an old diary entry from 15 years ago.. .

  i ended up posting it in 2004.... .

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• 

  Terry

  I used to say, "Wouldn't it be interesting to get the Bible Students from Pastor Russell's day in a large auditorium with Rutherford's followers, and then bring in the Brother Knorr (my era) crowd along with Present Day JW's and get them chatting with each other.
  
  My contention is this. They'd be arguing and fighting in less than fifteen minutes!
• 
  13

  Arguing with Still-in best friends : hard heads and broken hearts

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  (re :johnny santa cruz).

  i found an old diary entry from 15 years ago.. .

  i ended up posting it in 2004.... .

  1. 
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  3. 
• 

  Terry

  I'm surprised the Watchtower never published a giant book of excuses for just this very occasion :)
• 
  13

  Arguing with Still-in best friends : hard heads and broken hearts

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  (re :johnny santa cruz).

  i found an old diary entry from 15 years ago.. .

  i ended up posting it in 2004.... .

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  (RE :Johnny Santa Cruz)

  I found an old diary entry from 15 years ago.

  I ended up posting it in 2004...

  ____

  HARD HEADS and BROKEN HEARTS

  ___

  When I was 12 I met Johnny.

  He and I became the best of friends. We went everywhere together and his family became my foster family I stayed at his house so much.

  
  

  But, Johnny started a Bible study with me and I eventually became a Jehovah's Witness. His whole family was JW.

  
  

  I married his sister JoAnn when I got out of Federal Prison (neutrality issue during VietNam war).

  Our continued friendship was never in any doubt at all. But, I moved from Texas in 1974 to California to find better employment.

  I was sick of lousy JW-type jobs as a janitor or assembly-line worker. In California I got a job as an artist and my life began to turn around.

  
  

  Fast forward........................................................................

  
  

  1975 - predicted by Watchtower 'prophets' as "The end of six thousand years of human existence" arrived and departed.

  Within four years, I dropped out and was disfellowshipped.

  
  

  But, oddly enough, Johnny never shunned me.

  Shunning is absolutely required to snap you out of it and get you back inside the fold.

  He was still in Texas and I remaind in California.

  
  

  I would write him letters and he would read them. I would call him on the telephone and he would talk to me.

  
  

  When I moved back to Texas he never failed to speak to me. Same with his family. I was persona non grata; but, I was never shunned.

  
  

  In 2004 Johnny sought me out again.

  He moved back to Fort Worth from Corpus Christi, Tx.

  We'd meet once a week or so for breakfast or lunch. We'd always have long soul-searching talks.

  
  

  Afterward, I'd write it all down.

  
  

  In the course of our conversations I always wait for him to cue the JW discussion. I never introduce it myself. He will invariably say something or other and I'll reply in such a way that the conversation starts rolling.

  
  

  One day he mentioned somebody I use to know who was "apostate" for awhile and now has gone back into the Kingdom Hall and been reinstated. (Doug Summers).

  (Note: many years later I discovered Johnny lied. He was trying to trick me into exposing Doug.)

  
  

  Johnny spoke: "I just don't understand brothers who leave the organization and try to get other people to leave too."

  
  

  Me: "Seems logical IF they leave for reasons of conscience."

  
  

  Johnny: "If you don't believe what the society teaches then just leave. Why get yourself disfellowshipped? You will lose your friends."

  
  

  Me: "I suppose having your family and friends held in a hostage situation is not much of a choice, is it?"

  
  

  Johnny: "What do you mean?"

  
  

  Me: "What kinds of groups exist in this world that you are not free to leave without forfeiting your family and friends? It is clearly a hostage situation. The Society holds the power to "kill" you at Armageddon, as it were, if you don't do what they say. That is what a hostage holder does--they use threat of death to use you for power parlay."

  
  

  Johnny: "The elders cannot disfellowship anybody for any reason other than unwillingness to ask for forgiveness."

  
  

  Me: "You know THAT isn't true."

  
  

  Johnny: (sheepishly) "Well, I should have said there is no scriptural reason other than failure to be contrite over which you can be disfellowshipped."

  
  

  Me: "Why do you think so many people leave the society?"

  
  

  Johnny: "I know of maybe 50 to 70 people personally who left the organization after 1975. I can't help but think they were only in the religion to save their own butts and didn't love Jehovah at all. So, when Armageddon did not come; they figure the danger was over and left."

  
  

  Me: "You are saying that is the ONLY reason a person would leave? What about discovering your religion was guilty of FALSE PROPHECY?"

  
  

  Johnny: "I don't regard the society as prophets. So, they can't be guilty of being false prophets."

  
  

  Me: "They represent themselves as prophets, dont they? They speak in the name of Jehovah. They set dates. They claim the dates are "gods' dates", they declare they are the mouthpiece of God. They claim the Watchtower is edited by Jehovah. They require you regard them as the faithful and discreet slave who gives food at the proper time. If you disagree with their opinion you are disfellowshipped. So, how does this in any way differ from being a prophet?"

  
  

  Johnny: "Jehovah corrected them. They don't set dates any more. Jehovah allowed them to be embarressed. Don't think God won't hold them personally responsible for any who were stumbled over the date setting."

  
  

  Me: "What is the test for a False Prophet for? Isn't it to prevent people from being stumbled in the first place? If somebody speaks in Jehovah's name and sets a date under HIS authority and it doesn't happen---that is the cue to leave THAT organization. That is what those so-called Apostates are warning about. The Watchtower Society did not pass the test of the false prophet."

  Johnny: "I've never read anything by an apostate that would cause me to want to leave the organization."

  
  

  Me: "The charge of being a false prophet is not a clue???"

  
  

  Johnny: "Why would I leave and have no place to go? I'm never going to be convinced to believe in the Trinity or Hellfire? There are no other churches that teach true doctrines."

  
  

  Me: "Jesus' sacrifice provided nothing? If you believe that he is the mediator; why doesn't your calling upon him as the mediator grant you audience with Jehovah? What does the JW organization offer you but men's opinions?"

  
  

  Johnny: "I have to believe Jehovah works through an organization."

  
  

  Me: "Ahhhh, but you DON'T HAVE TO believe any such thing. If Jesus is the mediator between God and man why is the Society a wedge mediator between man and the Mediator??"

  
  

  Johnny: "They aren't!"

  
  

  Me: "Doesn't the society teach that they have the only TRUE religion because Jehovah teaches THROUGH them only??"

  
  

  Johnny: "Yes?"

  
  

  Me: "If you disagree with their current opinion or theory (which they claim is from Jehovah) and that changes to an opposite view does this mean:

  
  

  A. Jehovah just keeps changing his mind

  
  

  B.The Governing Body just keeps changing their minds

  
  

  ?????????"

  
  

  Johnny: "They are imperfect. They make mistakes. Jehovah doesn't use perfect humans to do his will. King David did all kinds of wrong things and yet Jehovah used him and praised him as his anointed."

  
  

  Me: "Oh, I see. David claimed his adultery was commanded by Jehovah? David claimed killing Uriah the Hittite was required by Jehovah? David was punished for trying to do God's will and being mistaken about it?"

  
  

  Johnny: (long pause) "I didn't say that".

  
  

  Me:"Then your analogy to being imperfect and being like David is NOT a workable analogy. The WT society teaches and commands to be taught MISTAKES in the name of Jehovah. Then, they later claim they were only guilty of being zealous."

  
  

  Johnny: "The point is---my point is just that! Jehovah makes sure all mistakes are corrected. No other religion is willing to correct thier mistakes."

  
  

  Me: "Other religions don't have to correct mistakes; they have fixed belief systems. JW's doctrines are based on opinions that constantly change. Pressure from outside forces them to make changes. When they are wrong--they get tons of letters and hundreds of people are disfellowshipped for nothing. There are backfires."

  
  

  Johnny: "Which Jehovah can be using to correct them".

  
  

  Me: "Okay. Fair enough. Correct me if I am wrong. Jehovah allows imperfect, mistake-prone representatives to MAKE FALSE STATEMENTS OVER AND OVER rather than insuring they SPEAK THE TRUTH in the first place? Right?"

  
  

  Johnny: "Well, no"

  
  

  Me: "The Governing Body is like a Pharmacist dispensing the medicine that Jehovah prescribes. The purpose of the prescription is to get life-giving medicine to sick people. Jehovah is the Great Physician. You seem to be saying that the Doctor Jehovah allows the Pharmacist (the GB) to give the wrong medicine to sick people rather than using a Pharmacist that will get the perscription right in the first place....."

  
  

  Johnny: "Well,.........?"

  
  

  Me: "What possible purpose can be served by choosing to speak through persons that will speak something over and over that DOES NOT REPRESENT YOU accurately?? The impact on faithful people is a hard one. They do what they are told unwittingly. They become the victims of false rules that are later revoked because of wrong opinion."

  
  

  Johnny: "Each Christian has to use their intelligence to know better than to follow the silly rules. I have always learned to 'play the game'. I don't get into trouble because I never get myself in a situation where I can be outsmarted."

  
  

  Me: "Are you saying the elders are not bright enough to do the right thing?"

  
  

  Johnny: "I hate to say it; but, 99% of all the Elders I know are just plain stupid!"

  
  

  Me: "And that is the kind of organization the True God has put in place to represent him?"

  Johnny: "I don't know of any other place to go that has something better."

  
  

  Me: "Why do you think you have to go to ANOTHER ORGANIZATION? Why won't God listen to your prayers through his son Jesus?"

  
  

  Johnny: "He does. He will."

  
  

  Me: "So what exactly do you get out of going to the Kingdom Hall with its stupid elders, its changeable policies, it's false date-setting and constant evidence of being a false prophet?"

  
  

  Johnny: "My family and friends are there. I don't want to leave them."

  
  

  Me: "And that differs from a classic HOSTAGE SITUATION exactly how?"

  
  

  Johnny: "We are going in circles now."

  
  

  Me: "Have you ever caught the Society being wrong about something?"

  
  

  Johnny : "Sure, lots of times. I don't let it destroy my faith in Jehovah."

  
  

  Me: "What if they are wrong in their opinion about something vital to your relationship to Jehovah and you violate that vital thing? Would that not make you a follower of men rather than of God?"

  
  

  Johnny: "I can't see that happening".

  
  

  Me: "What if they are wrong about 1914? What if they are wrong about being the channel God uses to publish Truth? What if they are wrong about celebrating the Lord's Evening Meal and Jesus expects you to partake and you are forbidden by a wrong-headed theory? What if you are expected by God to help downtrodden people and instead you are only a glorified magazine salesman? What if the only effective thing you have done your whole life is put money into the hands of people in Brooklyn NY who buy real estate, invest in stocks, wield power over hapless people and change their minds at regular intervals and pass it off as flashes of revelation from god?"

  
  

  Johnny: "I have faith that Jehovah is in charge and he is running his own organization."

  
  

  Me; "And the false prophet test does not apply, then?"

  Johnny: "They are not inspired to be a prophet".

  
  

  Me: "What does the WT do that is different from what a prophet does? In what way, if any, do they differ?"

  
  

  Johnny: "A prophet is inspired. The WT only calls attention to prophecy that has already been given by true prophets. They are not giving fresh prophecy. They are giving opinions about already existing prophecy. They err when they go beyond scripture. Scripture plainly teaches you cannot know the day and the hour."

  
  

  Me: "What day and hour did they set in 1975? I thought it was only the year they set?"

  
  

  Johnny: "You know what I mean."

  
  

  Me: "So, when Jesus stood up in the synagogue and applied the already spoken words of ISAIAH to himself and further said "Today this prophecy is fulfilled" he was not acting as a prophet?"

  
  

  Johnny: "Yes, he was."

  
  

  Me: "Then, speaking out about when and how a previously revealed prophecy is fulfilled CAN BE the work of a prophet too?"

  
  

  Johnny: "I know what you are getting at. I just refuse to believe the Watchtower is a prophet of god. They are not inspired. The GB are imperfect. When they err, Jehovah corrects them. I demonstrate my faith in Jehovah's arrangement by not thinking I'm smarter than Jehovah. I wait on Him to correct his own organization. That is not my responsibility."

  
  

  Me: "Okay. Fair enough. Just answer me this: what is the purpose of the test of a false Prophet if not to identify a false Prophet when what they predict DOESN'T HAPPEN?"

  
  

  Johnny: "If the society ever tries setting a date again; I'll be the first to leave. They have learned their lesson. Jehovah corrected them."

  
  

  Me: "And how long was it between "no more date-setting" in 1925 when Rutherford made an ass of himself and the setting of 1975?"

  
  

  Johnny: "50 years."

  
  

  Me: "When they need a flurry of activity to push people into action they will act according to their Adventist roots. Date-setting is in the DNA of the Watchtower Society. Without 1914 they would be nothing and have nothing but 12 old guys sitting around with hand puppets. And their hand would be up your butt for nothing."

  
  

  Johnny: "Not a pretty mental image!"

  
  

  _____

  
  

  What interested me back then was opening up the vacuum sealed compartments Johnny kept his reasons in.
  
  

  He didn't allow any two doubts to touch each other for fear, like raindrops on a window, they'd coalesce into a stream that could wash the delusion away and he'd be left feeling very bewildered and empty-handed.
  
  

  EPILOGUE: I attended his very large JW funeral and hugged and kissed him in his casket.

  How I loved and continue to cherish his memory.
  
  Do YOU have friends like this still inside?
  Tell me about them, please.

  
  

  
  
  
  
• 
  12

  Chapter a Day (I will post) from my Sci-Fi novel

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  chapter one.

  the monorails of mars (1905) ____.

  like watchful eyes—the twin moons of mars voyeured above the chaos.

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• 

  Terry

  
  

  

  

  WHITE HOUSE 1908

  “Newspapers call this the Heroic Age of Exploration. Hero—that kind of word misunderstands the very nature of a man.”

  Roald Amundsen stood speaking softly, centered in the Oval Office of President Theodore Roosevelt. He gazed about appreciating the room and its implications of history, power and responsibility.

  Roosevelt had cleared his schedule savoring prospects of listening to wisdom and experience of one of few men on Earth he might call his equal or his better. Roosevelt—the Bull Moose President, admired self-made men above all.

  Theodore Roosevelt had been a sickly boy who had determined to exercise and build his body into something impressive, athletic and indomitable. He succeeded.

  T.R. seated himself at his desk placing both feet on top the leather blotter revealing a smart pair of cowboy boots. He thought of himself as legislator, cowboy and naturalist. Today, he was happy to play audience as well.

  "I am convinced a light supper, a good night's sleep, and a fine morning, have sometimes made a hero of the same man, who, by an indigestion, a restless night, and rainy morning, would have proved himself a coward." Amundsen mused.

  Roosevelt had rarely met a more self-effacing man. He flashed his best smile.

  "Well, Bully for you! What do you make of this Mars situation—? Give me your best appraisal. I sent you my file. Everything we know or surmise was in it. I won't ask you if you've cracked it, of course you did!"

  Amundsen leaned forward and hoisted his Gladstone bag off the floor; rummaged through it, and extracted a notepad. He thumbed a page or two and assumed the demeanor of a lecturing professor.

  "One fact jumps out at me—Tesla and Edison; men of opposite temperaments collaborating to create something bizarre: a so-called electric bridge to Mars!”

  T.R. removed his legs from the desktop. Walking over to a small table he poured himself and his guest three fingers of Russian vodka. They saluted and tossed back the drink. The President sat facing Amundsen. The two men resembled boys hunkered down in a tree house, hatching secret plans.

  “Isn’t it obvious--? If they achieve the impossible they become rich and famous.”

  "Sir, they’re both those things already. I suspect something more sinister is in play; something connected to Pastor Russell. ”

  “Edison and Tesla are egomaniacs, not followers of any religious movement. I don’t see what you’re driving at.”

  “What about a coup d’état? Russell says Christ returned invisibly. He’s rallying citizens of a new kind of heavenly government opposed to regimes like yours, sir.”

  The Chief Executive rubbed his belly and belched, then pardoned himself.

  "I don’t mind competing with invisible insurgencies or invisible rivals."

  Amundsen cracked a smile and flipped a couple of pages in his notebook.

  "There’s more to it than religious delusion, Mister President.”

  "Call me Teddy, please!"

  "Thank you, sir—let’s explore this. What if a Christian leader could produce a theocracy with an invisible Christ and actually convince people he himself was speaking on Christ’s behalf? The Pope won world dominion as the substitute for Christ—his Vicar. A convincing proxy-Christ could misdirect misled Christians; condition them to do as they were commanded—even turn them against you.”

  "High treason can get you shot in time of war.”

  "Martyrdom breeds zealots and it’s seen as proof their faith is real. Besides—if you die a martyr you get an expenses paid vacation on the streets of gold.”

  "You wrote me about this Trojan horse idea of yours—how does it work?"

  "A true believer’s mind welcomes a certain thing and accepts it loyally on faith. “Such a mind is very receptive to control. Think of Bible prophecy as you would a Trojan horse—it contains an unseen power ready to defeat the unwary.”

  "I'm confused here, Roald. Which power is leading this overthrow and takeover?”

  “A Christian figurehead who is a proxy for Christ could convince millions of true believers to refuse to fight for their country and to obey their own substitute theocratic Governing Body instead.”

  The President stood motionless turning thoughts over in his mind; listening and weighing them.

  “I’m a quick study, but the more you explain your theory, the more I want to take a snooze! How can one poor misguided man like Russell be harmful to anybody?”

  The Norwegian explorer rubbed his chin and shifted gears wearily.

  “Russell is being controlled somehow. His role is to convince others. He thinks god is whispering to him and the man has enough money to spread his ideas. The most dangerous men who have ever lived have thought they were doing god’s bidding. He predicts 1914 is The End. Thousands of people believe him, you see?”

  "Tell me in plain and simple English—are Martians coming to Earth with weapons as an invasion force? Convince me and I’m going to give you whatever you need to investigate this theory of yours and get to the bottom of it.”

  Amundsen had been waiting for the right question and this one was the key.

  “Mars will leverage surrender through an invasion of susceptible religious minds. When the army of Mars appears—these non-combatant dupes will welcome it! It will be seen as the beginning of the Great Tribulation. Such world events are only considered a bad thing if you are on the losing side—the Teddy Roosevelt side. If my theory holds true—you and all world governments will go down in defeat.”

  Roosevelt’s eyes widened with understanding.

  “Voltaire said it best. What can you say to a man who tells you he prefers obeying god rather than men, and he thinks he'll go to heaven if he cuts your throat? I know enough about human nature to know I am going to act on this immediately.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  

  

  SENATE INTERVIEW 1909

  “When you returned on the shuttle, Miss Boyd and Mr. Clayton, you were very ill with fever. What can you tell us about that?”
  Jack Clayton and Louise Boyd sat in the center of the Senate Chamber behind a long, drab table. A pitcher of water and two not-very-clean glasses had been placed in front of them indicating questioning might well go into the wee hours of the morning.

  At each door guards had been posted with orders: no person should pass. For all efforts to maintain secrecy, news reporters and their editors busied themselves crafting dummy introductory headlines to be filled in later. Hundreds of column inches of speculation had been drafted. Whatever came out of the hearings would be ballyhooed into headlines on every street corner boosting sales and stirring pandemonium.

  “I recall nothing of my arrival on Mars or subsequent activities. I don’t know if the fever I suffered is the cause of this amnesia or not. In my delirium, so I am told, I blurted out warnings of an invasion. Sometimes I’ll get flashes of this and that. Not any of these flashes are coherent, however.”

  Questioning by Senators continued . . .

  “Do you feel in any way manipulated by mind-control today in this Senate Chamber, Miss Boyd?”

  “I do not.”

  “What about you, Mister Clayton? Are you actually a puppet of Aliens?”

  Jack Clayton grinned. “My Puppet Masters require that I answer no.”

  Laughter erupted among the younger Senators while the Old Guard fumed and squawked until the chairman pounded his gavel.

  “Mister Clayton, I realize you are not an American citizen, but could we ask you to treat this occasion with at least a modicum of respect?”

  “I was always under the impression mind-control was guaranteed under your Bill of Rights under Freedom of Religion. Forty-thousand Christian denominations attest to the joy of its practitioners. Who am I to disagree?” Clayton winked.

  

  
  
• 
  12

  Chapter a Day (I will post) from my Sci-Fi novel

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  chapter one.

  the monorails of mars (1905) ____.

  like watchful eyes—the twin moons of mars voyeured above the chaos.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  Xanthippe4 hours ago

  I love Louise Boyd. I don't know who is disliking this book? Why! Just one small gripe, you've got Amundsen and Clayton in the library talking about Nobile who's on Mars, then Nobile is running his hand over the book spines.
  ____
  Nice catch!
  I have several rewrite versions on my Google Drive in different stages toward the final version of the book.
  The Nobile error comes from my hasty retrieval of an earlier version pre-final edit.
  Glad you noticed that. I should be more careful.
  ___
  As to people not liking? I think it has a great deal to do with style.
  Just before my final edit, I trim about 85 pages from the book.
  Can you imagine? That's a good indicator of the old adage:
  Brevity, thy soul is wit.
  I'm witless. (A former Jehovah's Witless, in fact) :)

  ___
  I fell in love with Louise Boyd as well.
  She was a real person whose non-fiction life was beyond extraordinary.
  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvGCqmNvRXI
• 
  12

  Chapter a Day (I will post) from my Sci-Fi novel

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  chapter one.

  the monorails of mars (1905) ____.

  like watchful eyes—the twin moons of mars voyeured above the chaos.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  SCOTLAND 1908

  Jack Clayton hung suspended by his powerful hands from entwined limbs of two massive yew trees, two-hundred and nine feet above his immaculate estate.

  Clayton swung his legs out and back twice and heaved his body upward. He tucked and then somersaulted gracefully onto the lower limbs, tier by tier until vaulting to the ground quiet as a jungle cat.

  

  “I challenge you to race!” The shout came from behind him. The Norwegian’s baritone voice snapped Clayton out of his reverie. He knew that voice!

  “Let me guess,” Clayton shouted, “I have to race on foot and you’ll be behind the wheel of that contraption!”

  

  Roald Amundsen stood tall and gaunt in the long approach to the Manor house, arms akimbo next to his 120 horsepower Fiat #4. His deep set eyes gleamed.

  “I had planned to race this beauty for the Vanderbilt Cup, but I caught a bug and my physician would never agree to give me clearance. How are you—what of that fever—any lasting effects?”

  Clayton joined the Norwegian explorer in the front seat of the race car. Amundsen tediously explained every knob, lever and dial as they drove up to the main entrance of the Manor House. Clayton listened curiously, laughed loudly and spoke conspiratorially. “I’m unable to summon any memories of Mars at all. I hope it is temporary.”

  Later at the Manor house, Clayton’s servant served and cleared away the evening meal. The men never paused in convivial conversation. They invested, each within the other, a special covenant and code beyond the rest of civilized society.

  

  The evening faded well into night and Clayton dismissed his house servants, leading Amundsen into his library. Clayton had his chef prepare spumoni and champagne. They entered a vast library chamber with a sunken floor and vaulted ceiling. The shelves burgeoned with 3,000 leather bound tomes.

  Nobile ran his hands over the spines of the books commenting on volumes he had read. Clayton spoke of elephants and gorillas and an escarpment in Africa.

  Presently, Amundsen broached his purpose.

  “I am mounting an expedition to Mars and I believe Umberto is in trouble and I must investigate. If Nobile is alive—he’ll have military intelligence to offer absolutely vital for our side’s advantage in a possible war with Mars.”

  Jack Clayton jumped to his feet excitedly and began pacing to and fro in front of the fireplace. His eyes flashed as he spoke and he clenched his jaw purposefully.

  “I’ve intuited this war—but tell me—who is the source? Who is privy to war plans on that planet?”

  Amundsen stood sipping his drink with a mischievous smirk.

  “Now don’t laugh, the source of the warning is a Pastor of pyramidology.”

  Clayton chuckled and then hesitated—Amundsen obviously wasn’t joking. “Roosevelt has boot tops too high to step in that sort of muck. He wouldn’t listen to a lunatic—unless of course, you are holding something back.”

  Amundsen smiled indulgently. His face was not built for it. But smile he did.

  “Many men in power have spiritual advisors and T.R. is no different. Teddy and Pastor Charles Russell both stood deathwatch beside a mother dying of fever. They have bonded in that shared experience. But—I had the most influence.”

  Clayton had been listening with mounting skepticism as a pragmatist who never gave a moment’s consideration to invisible things in heaven or hell. “What are you shoveling in my barn, Amundsen?”

  “Just quiet that famous practical mind of yours and hear me out. My father use to tell me, ‘Roald, believe half what you see and nothing you hear.’ I live by that code and it has served me well.”

  Clayton nodded empathetically. He relaxed and made himself comfortable. Amundsen paused and pondered his presentation carefully, and then spoke.

  “This pyramid peddling Pastor pontificates pretty potent prognostications, Jack.”

  Clayton laughed out loud—he and Amundsen shared a passion for Beowulf and the 3,182 alliterations concocted by its anonymous author.

  “So you’re saying this Pastor possesses a mysterious means of cunning communication with a minion on Mars?” Jack riposted languishing on his leather couch, stretching his long limbs and rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  “I know you well enough to trust your instincts—but, you’re going to have to show me whatever proof there is.”

  Amundsen excused himself and exited the library. He returned scarcely a minute later with a thick dossier bundled under his arm. He tossed it to Clayton like a medicine ball.

  “You and I have had occasion to visit the Magic Circle in London. I was there when you and mister down-on-his-luck had your famous confrontation.”

  “John Maskelyne—yes, I bribed him as I recall.”

  “You did bribe him to divulge the secrets of his great illusions. He and that other magician seem to have invented all the great magic tricks—“

  “George Alfred Cooke, yes—so they claimed. What is your point, Roald?”

  “Patience, my friend; you demanded he debunk his own illusions. You were seeking facts to fit your preconception. That is confirmation bias. I need to point this out to you so you don’t make a mistake looking this material over. Be neutral, this time. Be open. Let the evidence take you where it will.”

  “Roald—did you know John Maskelyne invented the pay toilet? My point being this: for money—any clever fellow can make shit appear and disappear.”

  “I thought you Brits said shite; Americans say it that other way.”

  “I’m a man of many contradictions. Now leave me in peace that I might flush the turds of out of this dossier.”

  “Very well, my good fellow, but—one last thing; I know Maskelyne was a skeptic who made it his mission debunking fraudulent Spiritualists, con men, card sharps and flim-flam. He was no different than you in detesting imposters.”

  “On the contrary—I admire the cleverness of a poseur. Think about it without your own bias, Roald. People want to believe there is something beyond living and dying. A masterful magician and a cunning clergyman eagerly exploit witless wankers willing to buy bullshit by the barrel.”

  “More alliterations. I should never have loaned you my copy of Beowulf.”

  “I have my own autographed copy on my library shelf, Roald.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? It must be worth a fortune!

  “I’m lying. But see how readily I was able to exploit credulity?”

  Amundsen reddened and shook his head. He chuckled good-naturedly.

  “It is that easy, is it? Well, point taken.”

  Clayton snatched the file in hand and leaned back on the couch.

  “Now, good-night; I have work to do reading this without my sorry bias for fact.”

  
• 
  12

  Chapter a Day (I will post) from my Sci-Fi novel

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  chapter one.

  the monorails of mars (1905) ____.

  like watchful eyes—the twin moons of mars voyeured above the chaos.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  CHAPTER FIVE
  

  __________________

  SAN FRANCISCO 1907

  Outside the San Francisco Chronicle the largest blocks of debris remained exposed. The newspaper building had taken the violent tremor in its stride. It now stood defiantly intact as a sentinel. Inside, the Chronicle publisher, M. H. De Young, sat in his favorite leather chair preening his mustache with scented wax. Presently a young newspaper reporter appeared in the doorway. He cleared his throat meekly. “Sir . . . Mr. De Young, sir? She’s here—shall I bring her in?”

  The 57-year old man looked up with a mischievous grin on his weathered face. “Never keep a rich and beautiful lady waiting. Yes—bring her in immediately.”

  “Welcome, Miss Boyd! Come in and find a comfortable chair or couch.”

  Louise Boyd greeted De Young then seated herself. She sat upright with perfect posture, gazing evenly into the older man’s rather pasty face. She radiated poise, composure, and affluence. Above all, she never suffered fools.

  “You already know everything about me, you’ve written a hundred stories about my family.”

  She smiled disarmingly and tugged at the hem of her dress. The publisher blushed and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for the notes he had scribbled earlier. It was the only way to focus properly around this woman.

  “Yes, yes—but you must admit you are the most newsworthy woman in our state. Not only have you accompanied an expedition to Mars, but you returned to warn of an upheaval on the very eve of our earthquake last year!”

  “I was delirious with fever. Earthquake and fire were the farthest things from my mind. My entire journey to Mars was . . . “Her thought would not come.

  De Young wasn’t listening anyway. He squinted down at his notes and moved his lips as he read. “Would you care to comment on rumors Jack Clayton spreads about being reared in the jungles of Africa as the son of a so-called Ape Man?”

  Louise Boyd laughed heartily. “I can’t believe you haven’t offered me tea or biscuits yet. I’ve traveled here at my own expense for this ridiculous interview only to be treated off-handedly.”

  De Young leaned in closer and their knees touched briefly.

  “You’d refuse to drink what I have. Say—are you dodging my question?”

  Boyd reached into her beaded clutch purse and withdrew a silver flask with ivory side-paneling. She poured a shot into the silver cap and tossed it back like a sailor then screwed the lid back in place, and sat back with a feline smile.

  “French Cognac. “ Boyd flashed her perfect white teeth defiantly.

  De Young’s eyes widened. “Louise Boyd; you’ve deflected my question again.”

  “If Jack Clayton told me he carried the moon in his back pocket I’d get crackers for the green cheese. “Her eyes glinted afire.

  “I think the two of you are the same breed: publicity seeking show-offs.” De Young inched forward again, but the young woman spied his purpose and shifted away, signaling her annoyance with his nonsense.

  “You can’t goad me into blurting out a cheap headline.”

  De Young leaned in conspiratorially, and grew serious.

  “A scandal must be in the works—that’s what newspapers are for. If you don’t tell me I have to speculate out loud. Since you will have been seen entering and exiting my office before my article runs—it will naturally be assumed by the public you are the source of the story. I suspect the problem on Mars has much to do with a lover’s triangle between a certain Miss Boyd and two jealous men!”

  Louise Boyd scowled in his face with poisonous regard. She reached into her clutch bag and withdrew three objects, placing them on her lap in front of the curious newspaper editor: a silver nail file, a piece of fruit and a gold coin.

  “This gold coin is me. This tangerine is you and your newspaper. This silver nail file is my team of expensive lawyers.”

  Straightaway, she plunged the nail file into the skin of the tangerine and removed it. Picking up the fruit which remained, she proceeded to bite, chew and swallow it piece by piece. She pocketed the coin and the file and tossed De Young the peel.

  Then, she stood smiling in the manner of a crocodile and strolled out of the office leaving a frightened little man with a waxed mustache holding a tangerine skin in his trembling hand.

  
• 
  12

  Chapter a Day (I will post) from my Sci-Fi novel

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  chapter one.

  the monorails of mars (1905) ____.

  like watchful eyes—the twin moons of mars voyeured above the chaos.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  Thank you, Xanthippe.
  It was incredible fun to do.
  ++++++++
  
  

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  _________________

  
  

  "Most of the characters in this book were real people. Their fascinating lives are worthy of personal research on the part of the reader to gain a fuller appreciation of their exploits and contribution to history.

  In this manuscript I have hidden many sly references or “Easter eggs” for those who care to search for them. Where the author has departed from actual history should be readily apparent to all but the brain dead.

  
  

  The subject of mind-control is a serious topic, especially as pertains to religious malfeasance. I chose the genre of Science Fiction to achieve a means of getting those who might otherwise avoid the topic to consider it by making the context so outrageous it becomes entertaining.

  In the days of the real Charles Taze Russell, the idea of the Great Pyramid of Egypt containing messages from god has been extrapolated in this novel to a different sort of “stone” and a different kind of message. Sit back and fasten your seat belt. It’s going to be a bumpy ride."

  
  
• 
  12

  Chapter a Day (I will post) from my Sci-Fi novel

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  chapter one.

  the monorails of mars (1905) ____.

  like watchful eyes—the twin moons of mars voyeured above the chaos.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  

  ____________

  LOUISE BOYD

  She had been born restless, as though the very stars were pulling at her hair. For her the world was magic. Life would never be what she looked at—it would be about what she could see with her eyes turned inward toward her dreams. Louise Boyd found adventure within books and strange worlds no one had ever seen.

  One September midnight when she was five, her mother caught her staring out of the window long after bedtime, humming a haunting little tune to herself.

  "What's wrong, Sweetheart—can’t you sleep?"

  The little blonde girl bathed in moonlight carried sparks of Orion in her eyes as she pointed upward to the heavens.

  "I hear them calling me from out there somewhere—and I can't wait to answer."

  Louise adored her brothers, parents and the ferry in Marin County. Marin was known for natural beauty and its sailing and festive soirées.

  The ferry crossing between the Hyde Street pier in San Francisco and Sausalito took her on the ride of her life for twenty minutes and it cost only one dollar.

  San Francisco was the largest city without a bridge relying as it did on ferry service alone. The water was three hundred seventy feet deep with strong currents, ferocious winds, and blinding fog. Louise craved those ferry rides. Like chocolate.

  As a child she thrilled to the adventure of crossing the bay in bad weather for it stirred her blood and kindled within her a strange lust for danger. As she grew older her fearlessness was legend.

  In 1852, San Quentin prison had been built in Marin County and its reputation as warehouse for dangerous criminals fueled endless rumors of escaped felons wandering the neighborhood. Of course, it was all nonsense made up by young men to frighten and taunt timid little girls at parties. But, Louise challenged the neighbor’s boys to hike with her to the prison to meet the warden for an interview.

  “Maybe, “she suggested, “he will kindly take us on a tour of the facility and show us the gas chamber—or better still, allow us to witness an actual execution.”

  The boys had declined her suggestion and the kidding ended. Her legend grew. Louise Boyd was tutored by governesses and attended Miss Murison's School in San Francisco. She did not go to college. Her two brothers suffered from rheumatic fever and died at ages sixteen and seventeen respectively. Although in young adulthood Louise appeared at all the right social events always impeccably dressed, once all her family was gone she made travel the center of her life.

  In 1877, land owned by Louise Boyd’s grandfather turned out to be the site of the largest gold strike since the Gold Rush of 1849. The town founded on that site was named after a fellow named Body who died in a blizzard well before a nugget of gold was seen in those parts. The town sported sixty-five saloons serving a population of up to seven thousand bonanza-seeking soldiers of fortune.

  Barroom brawls, shootouts, stagecoach holdups, and general mayhem lasted three rip-roaring years before the last gleaming metal nugget was dug out and stamped into coin. The dream ended and the town went bust. Thirty-four million dollars’ worth of gold was enough to assure the Boyds a carefree existence.

  Louise and her two brothers, John and Seth, scampered, trotted, and climbed all over their ranch in Oakland Hills. Climbing Mt. Diablo during summer vacation never failed to excite family camaraderie and sibling competition.

  Seth and John died only months apart and it was the saddest day of her life. She vowed to live three lives: two plus her own.

  Louise traveled the world seeking medical treatment for her parents, exploring and learning about strange societies and peculiar folklore. When her mother and father could no longer travel, she nursed them in their old age.

  “What will you do with your life, child—you will be on your own with a fortune in gold and no one who loves you to watch out for your well-being?”

  “I’ll go where no woman has ever set foot and build something wonderful and dedicate it to John and Seth.”

  Louise snuggled on the edge of the bed showing her parents the little sketch book she always carried with her. Her father and mother gazed curiously at the drawing.

  “How did you decide on that—it is very nice—but, I mean—what is it? “

  Louise giggled and laid her hand on her father’s cheek.

  “It is a monorail and I’ll build it on an exotic planet out there in the stars. It will have a plaque made of gold, dedicated to John and Seth.”

  ***

  Two funerals passed. Then on a winter’s day, standing on the deck of the ferry; bidding good-bye to her childhood home forever; Louise glanced back one last time. At once a zephyr came up out of nowhere and swept back the fog just long enough for a fond glimpse of girlhood and summer dreams, the laughter of boys and innocent times no more.

  “Memory is for the past, but hope is for the future.” She whispered aloud.

  Louise squared her shoulders and headed off toward a season for dreams—only dreams made real. She held adventures in her heart as her pulse now quickened and her life passed into her hands; twenty-three, rich and unstoppable.

  She reached into her rucksack and pulled out her father’s favorite book of poems and read aloud the last line of Invictus—a poem he loved so much:

  It matters not how strait the gate,
  How charged with punishments the scroll.
  I am the master of my fate:
  I am the captain of my soul.

  
  

  __________________

  End Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  https://docs.google.com/document/d/1rkMcA8yNbB63cSqx7wrBkkRL0Ia9QZmTTfT3lklCoyA/edit?usp=sharing
• 
  12

  Chapter a Day (I will post) from my Sci-Fi novel

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  chapter one.

  the monorails of mars (1905) ____.

  like watchful eyes—the twin moons of mars voyeured above the chaos.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  Thank you!
  __________________________
  CHAPTERS TWO / THREE
  THE MONORAILS of MARS
  __________________________
  

  
  
  _____________________
  DEATH IS THE VEIL

  
  

  He wasn’t nervous and he wasn’t worried . . .

  In the Cavern of Tih-sll-ub beneath the polar ice cap of Mars, Captain Umberto Nobile sat up feeling comfortable. No memory of his recent battle lingered. Captain Nobile sat wondering why there wasn’t a single thing occupying his mind in need of attention. Although his head ached terribly and he felt restive and somewhat guilty—he was determined to locate a reason for his non-concern.

  “I seem to be stuck in . . . now.”

  The Cavern’s shimmering walls thrummed with palpable energy—inducing a constant state of well-being, and yet—

  “Captain Nobile, I presume . . .”

  The pleasant voice belonged to a terrestrial woman. She was smiling disarmingly. Her lithe, boyish figure hugged the inside of a diaphanous garment with luminous tomboy femininity. Nobile shrugged in bafflement.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Death is the veil which those who live call life; they sleep, and it is lifted.” Her smile blazed as warm as summer in Italy.

  “Okay, um—call me Umberto. And you are---?”

  “My name is Earhart but everyone calls me Amelia.”

  

  ________________________

  DO YOU BREAK EASILY?

  Amelia spoke and Umberto listened . . .

  “Do you break easily, have sharp edges or have to be carefully kept?”

  Nobile was beginning to suspect he had been drugged. He stared at the woman in comic curiosity. Parts of his memory were unreliable and unfocused.

  “Once you become real you can’t be ugly, except to those who don’t understand.”

  Earhart possessed a remarkable face devoid of sophistication or subtext. She spoke without guile as one might speak with another through years of intimate friendship. She calmed him with her demeanor and tone.

  Nobile’s face depicted a mixture of awe and confusion. “Um—how’s that?”

  “My body lies on a tiny Island in the Pacific. I am dying. I was injured in an emergency landing—I am thirty-two years in your future. The reason you see my image at this moment is this: parasites in your brain are creating a meniscus of your senses. Memory flattens but perceptions heighten.”

  

  
  
  

  Nobile stood immediately. His eyes went wide and wild. He gasped and kept running his fingers through his hair and smoothing it as he spoke. Pacing nervously he mumbled to himself as if in an argument with his own mind.

  “Mother always told me I was the weird one in the family. I’m going to try to understand everything you say—keep talking.”

  “There are no boundaries at death, Umberto. There is no time or space or distance and no limits to conscious being. Yesterday, tomorrow and today happen at the same instant. Very few can see or understand this simple fact.”

  

  
  

  I’ve been told time is god’s way of keeping everything from happening at once.”

  “How do you know it doesn’t?” Her face shimmered like ripples upon water.

  “Is there such a thing as heaven or hell? I want to win an argument with a priest I knew back in my old neighborhood.”

  “Heaven is a soap bubble. Listen carefully while you’re able to see and hear me. Your life has been spared for a purpose. Beware those who spared you—their motives are monstrous . . .”

  “Listen—I’m a product of Catholic school—is this like the Annunciation? Am I going be impregnated? If so, I need to freshen up a bit—”

  “Monsters have spared you . . . “

  The image blinked out and flickered on again like a broken neon sign.

  Nobile went numb. His head felt as if his skull were about to burst open destroying everything he knew or ever would know.

  “My mother-in-law is behind all this?”

  Earhart appeared to unmoor like a dirigible in a powerful wind.

  
  
  
  
  

  Her body collapsed into a horizontal image thin as paper.

  “There are three who rule . . . false anointed . . . monorail . . .”

  The discorporate image flipped and sputtered.

  “We called the Lady of the ice and the Lord of the Apes . . .”

  
  
  

  

  
  

  Nobile lurched forward, as though to grab hold of the unworldly personage, but it was too late. She had vanished like a magician’s velveteen rabbit. Nothing at all remained but the man, his sanity and a handful of air.