Translating a World on the Edge

And if it is not your world, not the world you want for your children and grandchildren, are you going to just sit back and ACCEPT THE SUBVERSION OF AMERICA? Because that is what it is happening.

What does subversion mean?

1. to overthrow (something established or existing)
2. to cause the downfall, ruin, or destruction of.
3. to undermine the principles of; corrupt.

Make no mistake. America is being SUBVERTED by the senseless with a specific plan — not to make a unified America as they would have us believe, but to literally tear us apart.

Today, when I see all that has changed in such a short time in my beautiful America, I want to scream, “This is not my world!”

When I see her borders non-existent, and thousands and thousands of illegals entering, bringing murderous drugs and the deplorable human sex slave business with them, I am appalled. When I see my country’s thought processes and laws being destroyed, when I see the politicians in charge talking out of two sides of their mouths, when I hear no praise for those who love our country, but only a seeming disgust for America, I am, myself, disgusted. More than that, I am saddened to the point of tears when I see our ‘former’ freedom of speech trampled, our right to bear arms at risk, the lack of respect for life, the awful attempt to destroy the history of an intelligent America with the stupidity of ‘cancel-culture.’

I am sickened at this kind of ‘thinking.’ It’s as if the brains of our present leaders have disappeared. The very idea of critical race theory replacing genuine critical thinking in schools is more than brainless, it is unjust, and just one more attempt to ‘kill’ those American standards that have made us the greatest country in the world. Instead, children are taught to hate each rather than to get along with those who are different from them. I am sickened at the devilish plan of some leaders to make us believe we are all victims, and to ‘keep us in such fear’ that we seem to have lost our gumption completely, until American citizens are looking less like strong men and women, and more like wet noodles who couldn’t stand if they wanted to. Oh, don’t worry about your children’s individual educations, they seem to say, because WE, not you, know what’s best for them. Of course, if you want to worry whether your child–a child!–harbors a desire to be a girl when he was born a boy, or a boy, when he was born a girl–that’s an okay worry. Insanity!

I know that there are presently people who are working hard to stand up for America, her citizens, and her families. BUT so far, it seems that no matter what they do, they are over-powered by those concerned only with their own greed. Do the greedy not realize the miserable future they will be leaving to our American children and grandchildren?

America is at great risk. We are at great risk. Our children and grandchildren are at great risk. In fact, we are betraying those children!

If this is not your world. If this is not the world you want to live in, then We MUST take back our country before America, and every God-fearing American of today and tomorrow, is totally destroyed, and we can only WISH WE HAD DONE SO.

ADDITIONAL AWARDS

2019 INDEPENDENT PRESS AWARD WINNER

2019 AMERICAN FICTION AWARD, RUNNER-UP

Izzy Collier runs the Food Bank in a town called Faithful, on the banks of the Suwannee River. She is the least amicable of two daughters in a frustrating family; all, keeping secrets of betrayal. Her parents are at odds with both daughters, and with each other. Her sister, always  Izzy’s competition, is an unstable former beauty queen, the wife of a philanderer, and the mother of four. Now, their ninety-four year-old grandmother sees her dead husband’s ghost, accompanied by a strange little girl. At the same time, Izzy’s husband, a defense lawyer, is being forced by his boss to effect the acquittal of a teenager accused of the rape and murder of a child. When Izzy starts to see her deceased grandfather and the little girl, too, she questions her sanity. What if the little girl ghost is the murdered child? But then, why would she be with Izzy’s grandfather?  Are the ghosts after revenge, justice, or something greater?

Prologue

The River and Carroll O’Murphy

When I was dying, my wife kissed my forehead as the moonlight dwindled. There were tears in her eyes, and I knew the tears were for both of us when she said to me, “Carroll O’Murphy, I will never forgive you.” And I said to her, “Well, I will never rest in peace until you do.”

And so regrets flash before my eyes, just as I’d heard they would.  Through a window, the days of my life wash over me like the river coursing beyond the pane. The minutes, the days, the years, whisper to me in a breeze that rises and falls, rippling like the wings of an angel, or the soiled pages of a baby’s book, turned by its mother’s trembling hand.

As a young man, the river and I, its faithful rider, traveled as one. Always, it was a persona greater than I, a much older, yet stern friend who called me to task, for our way south was a hard one, a way of mystery, and sometimes heartlessness.

From the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia, across the Florida panhandle with its auburn knees of prehistoric cypress, the river and I fingered like mist through the wild woods until we grew darker and darker. Below multi-colored canopies, we skirted the trunks of Live Oaks, their blackened roots rising like fences to stop us. We did not stop. We pushed forward until an escaping ray of  light  fell upon us and swirled in lemon-colored shapes like the billowing dress of a little girl dancing; a promise that we would find our destination.

The river and I knew what we wanted. Other fickle rivers and riders surged into us, troubled us, and attempted to shift us from our course. We swallowed them. We reached the steadfastness of the Gulf. There, the river rushed ahead, changing itself from drab to crystal green, cobalt, and purple. And I remained behind to live my own destiny.

This was during the Great Depression of the 1930’s, when the few who settled here weren’t able to find a dime. Except the river had given me confidence, taught me courage, and enough cunning to conquer any dam that blocked my way.

So, I created a town and called it, Faithful, for the river’s loyalty. I discovered more riches than I could spend in a lifetime. And yet, I lost a lifetime of love.

The death of one’s child by his own hand will pulverize a man who has no angels to hold him.