Well I don’t know about you but…

…I’m freaking exhausted.

I’ve written and re-written this entry about five times now.  The whole post was going to be discussing the current state of the right and the left, the hypocrisy on both sides by the accused and those who support them as well as delving deep into this whole insane sexual predator/assaulter tornado of shit we find ourselves in.

However, things are moving so freaking fast and crazy it’s frankly nearly impossible to keep up.

And then you check facebook…that’s a terrible idea.  Because everyone is mad about everything ever in the world, about things they should be angry about, things they shouldn’t be angry about and quite frankly just looking for new things to be angry about.

I am slowly putting a long series together and will wait until this whole thing calms down a bit to post it.  I’m doing this for a number of reasons, A) because there’s so much going on I want to wait for the fallout to see where we all stand.  For example, the whole Roy Moore shit show and to see how many more women come out from the shadows to talk about Al Franken.

B) Maybe this can be a place for people to come and just chill as we get into the holidays.  There are so many voices shouting to the sky and into the abyss of the internet that it’s just way too much sometimes and I think we could all use a little break.

So until after the new year, this will be a place where there are no politics, social commentary or anything like that. Though podcast and YouTube will not be included in that ban.

In other words…

…Fuck it, here’s a story about a Tree.

Conversations with nature: The Pink Tree

As I strolled down the lane, sunlight dappling through the clouds I was struck by the beauty of the tree.  I stopped short, breathed deep and just stared in awe at nature’s exquisite palette.

The tree stood silent, noble and proud.  I closed my eyes, reaching out with my mind for contact, my thoughts forming words.

To my surprise, the tree responded.

Hey Pink Tree. Watcha thinkin’ about? I asked.

20171102_095826

Nothin’ just Pink Tree stuff. It whispered in my mind.

Cool bruh.

What’d you just say to me?!

Um…cool…bruh?

I ain’t your bruh!

Whoa Pink Tree chill!

Don’t tell me to chill you little shit!

Damn Pink Tree what’s your problem?

I don’t have to explain myself to you! Fuck off human!

Whatever Pink Tree…just…whatever.

And thus ends our first installment in the conversations with nature series. More next week.

As for the podcast, nothing new up this week though Angie and I will be recording a number of them this weekend. However you can still listen to the Illuminati podcast and of course watch the video on YouTube.

Though there is a new video up on youtube today about the RFK assassination and MK Ultra. We recorded it this past summer and it has been available on podbean and iTunes for months but never got around to posting it on youtube until now.

Okay, back next week.

Hang in there everybody.

Instagram http://bit.ly/1XgDJfc Stupid pictures I post of me doing stupid life stuff.

Goodreads http://bit.ly/1XpMF4k Read my reviews before you buy my novel.

Amazon http://amzn.to/1MwzPG6 Buy my novel already!  Jeez!

20150926_151118

Hey look at me not giving a fuck.

Twitter http://bit.ly/1YIWqZA I say stupid stuff in small snippets.

Perilous Podcast http://bit.ly/2och5LE  Current episode is about the Illuminati

Facebook http://bit.ly/fnbrjwp Probably pictures of me getting beaten up.

Perilous Vlogcast  http://bit.ly/perilpod It’s the video version of the Podcast. This week RFK and MKULTRA.

 

 

 

 

7 in 1 blow

SOLACE

The wooden gate creaked only slightly when he opened it.

The smell of the blossoms was both intoxicating and relaxing.

For the first time in a long time he felt safe.

With every step toward the door, the shadows of his past fell further behind him.

The singular lamppost, glowing a soft yellow in the moonlight welcomed him home.

RESURRECTION

His old bones, stiff at first, felt younger with every breath.

His pack, though full, was light upon his shoulder.

The road, cracked and worn, lay before him out to the horizon.

The weapon, his weapon, rested upon his hip.

The dark, toned, chrome guard of the hilt caught the sunlight.

He was young again, adventure before him.

Smiling, he strode forward into the unknown.

DOUBT

The trail was old. At least three days.

It might even be false, it was hard to tell.

He thought of his home, the garden and the lamp post.

Had he made the right decision?

Was adventure not a young mans duty?

He thought of his soft bed, but pushed that aside.

He could find her, he would find her.

He’d made a promise and would keep it until death.

She would be returned, her captors brought to justice.

Rising, knees cracking, he shifted his weapon lower onto his hip.

He pushed on, rightly or wrongly, fate would decide his victory or defeat.

CONFIDENCE

His blade was thick with blood, crimson and beautiful.

His enemies lay around him. Their cries turning to ragged gasps.

The breath of the last man before him was steady and calm.

They had not expected such a fight from an old man. But they did not know him.

They did not understand who he had been. They had no idea what he’d become.

The girl, unconscious, staked down in the dirt was alive. Her clothes, muddied and torn.

The last man, the leader, howled and rushed at him. Screaming oaths of vengeance.

The old man laughed, his wounds did not bother him, the rush of combat was his world.

He raised his weapon high, the blade dripping, gleaming.

Motionless he waited with the patience of stone.

The leader got closer, the old man did not move.

The leader was screaming in rage, the old man did not respond.

The leader lifted his weapon over his head, preparing to strike.

The old man smiled.

BASTION

Three days on the road, barely a word exchanged between them.

She was in shock still, yet perhaps she would recover one day.

She was young. Younger than he’d ever been.

She would never be innocent again, but perhaps she might find peace.

She’d awoken at the killing blow. Her scream had been unexpected.

At first, she’d thought she was being saved from one demon, to be taken by another.

Her father’s sigil in the old man’s hand turned her scream into sobs of relief.

Under the caked blood, the soft smile of her savior made her feel safe.

His face, sunburned and wrinkled, was wise and weary.

He cut her loose, lifting her in his arms as if she was a feather.

He carried her for miles that first day. She’d been walking on her own since.

In the safety of the darkness beyond the fire he smiled.

She was eating, that was good, her wounds were healing, that too was good.

But the scars, the real scars would take decades to heal, if at all.

He hoped she would not be held prisoner by her trauma.

She could build a fortress within herself, allowing those she trusted inside.

He nodded to no one in particular, making a pact with himself.

He would watch over her, even after he returned her. She would never know of it.

He’d be the shadows again, but not like before.

He was something new now, and because of this he felt young.

DETERMINATION

She’d slipped her hand into his at some point, though he did not know when.

It was small and soft, he held it, not too tightly. Their arms swinging forward and back.

They would be home soon. She would be back with her people. Saved, if not safe.

He would stay too, the silent shadow. Watcher, protector, foreboding statue.

They’d given him the home, a seemingly generous and selfless boon.

His reputation had frightened them, perhaps that’s why they’d offered it to him.

Once the request had come from her father’s house, all had been made apparent.

He heard the bird, that was not a bird. The call from her father’s sentinel.

They passed between the ancient steel skeletons that once housed people.

The ghosts within the rusted bones, hundreds of years old, paid them no mind.

The message was being sent. She was returning and him with her.

The old man, the young girl, walking hand in hand smiled at each other.

The pocket of civility in this rabid world growing closer with every step.

Their pace quickened, hands clasped, their arms swinging back and forth.

MONUMENT

She stood before the wooden gate. The night was quiet and peaceful.

The house and gate, both freshly painted, stood empty.

The singular lamp post glowed softly in the moonlight.

Had it been fifty years? Fifty years since he’d saved her?

She was the leader now. The scandal of her father’s house all but forgotten.

But not him. Not the old man. He would be remembered into eternity.

The house had been his. It would never be another’s. She would not allow it.

She still remembered the day of her return, her father’s look and her mother’s tears.

The old man had remained. She had not known until much later what the true tale was.

But he had kept his silent vow, he’d protected her and her people.

It had been ten years since his passing. Ancient then, feeble of body but not mind.

No one knew how old he was when he finally passed on, but older than counting.

This house, his house, would remain his as long as she ruled, as long as she breathed.

A silent reminder to her people. There was goodness in the world, you just had to look.

The weapon rested low on her hip. His weapon, now her weapon. His final gift.

She turned and strode into the darkness. She was not afraid.

So there you have it.  I do hope the individual stories worked for you and that seeing them all together told a larger tale.  But, with experiments in writing one can never tell what’s going to work and what’s going to suck balls*

Instagram http://bit.ly/1XgDJfc

Youtube http://bit.ly/1Sf9MXN

Goodreads http://bit.ly/1XpMF4k

Amazon http://amzn.to/1MwzPG6

Twitter http://bit.ly/1YIWqZA

Podcast http://bit.ly/1KOLDsH

Facebook http://bit.ly/fnbrjwp

Have a great rest of the week and stay cool this weekend, unless it’s winter where you are in which case stay warm this weekend.  I’ll see everybody next Wednesday for something else cuz I have no idea what I’ll be doing next Wednesday so check back and be as surprised as I’ll probably be.

Sincerely,

Jonathan Latt

*That’s a technical term.  I’m pretty sure it’s a technical term.  Hell let’s make it one, yes now it is officially a technical term.

 

Number 7

MONUMENT

She stood before the wooden gate. The night was quiet and peaceful.

The house and gate, both freshly painted, stood empty.

The singular lamp post glowed softly in the moonlight.

Had it been fifty years? Fifty years since he’d saved her?

She was the leader now. The scandal of her father’s house all but forgotten.

But not him. Not the old man. He would be remembered into eternity.

The house had been his. It would never be another’s. She would not allow it.

She still remembered the day of her return, her father’s look and her mother’s tears.

The old man had remained. She had not known until much later what the true tale was.

But he had kept his silent vow, he’d protected her and her people.

It had been ten years since his passing. Ancient then, feeble of body but not mind.

No one knew how old he was when he finally passed on, but older than counting.

This house, his house, would remain his as long as she ruled, as long as she breathed.

A silent reminder to her people. There was goodness in the world, you just had to look.

The weapon rested low on her hip. His weapon, now her weapon. His last gift to her.

She turned and strode into the darkness. She was not afraid.

Instagram http://bit.ly/1XgDJfc

Youtube http://bit.ly/1Sf9MXN

Goodreads http://bit.ly/1XpMF4k

Amazon http://amzn.to/1MwzPG6

Twitter http://bit.ly/1YIWqZA

Podcast http://bit.ly/1KOLDsH

Facebook http://bit.ly/fnbrjwp

Well I really do hope you’ve enjoyed all seven stories.  Next week I’m going to post them all in order so you can read them at the same time and hopefully enjoy the singular tales under one long arc.

Have a great rest of the week and I hope everyone in America enjoyed their Fourth of July holiday.  See y’all next Wednesday.

Sincerely,

Jonathan

 

Number 6

DETERMINATION

She’d slipped her hand into his at some point, though he did not know when.

It was small and soft, he held it, not too tightly. Their arms swinging forward and back.

They would be home soon. She would be back with her people. Saved, if not safe.

He would stay too, the silent shadow. Watcher, protector, foreboding statue.

They’d given him the home, a seemingly generous and selfless boon.

His reputation had frightened them, perhaps that’s why they’d offered it to him.

Once the request had come from her father’s house, all had been made apparent.

He heard the bird, that was not a bird. The call from her father’s sentinel.

They passed between the ancient steel skeletons that once housed people.

The ghosts within the rusted bones, hundreds of years old, paid them no mind.

The message was being sent. She was returning and him with her.

The old man, the young girl, walking hand in hand smiled at each other.

The pocket of civility in this rabid world growing closer with every step.

Their pace quickened, hands clasped, their arms swinging back and forth.

Instagram http://bit.ly/1XgDJfc

Youtube http://bit.ly/1Sf9MXN

Goodreads http://bit.ly/1XpMF4k

Amazon http://amzn.to/1MwzPG6

Twitter http://bit.ly/1YIWqZA

Podcast http://bit.ly/1KOLDsH

Facebook http://bit.ly/fnbrjwp

Thanks for stopping by.  Have a great rest of the week and super fun weekend.  As always I’ll see you back here next Wednesday.

Best,

Jonathan

 

Number 5

BASTION

Three days on the road, barely a word exchanged between them.

She was in shock still, yet perhaps she would recover one day.

She was young. Younger than he’d ever been.

She would never be innocent again, but perhaps she might find peace.

She’d awoken at the killing blow. Her scream had been unexpected.

At first, she’d thought she was being saved from one demon, to be taken by another.

Her father’s sigil in the old man’s hand turned her scream into sobs of relief.

Under the caked blood, the soft smile of her savior made her feel safe.

His face, sunburned and wrinkled, was wise and weary.

He cut her loose, lifting her in his arms as if she was a feather.

He carried her for miles that first day. She’d been walking on her own since.

In the safety of the darkness beyond the fire he smiled.

She was eating, that was good, her wounds were healing, that too was good.

But the scars, the real scars would take decades to heal, if at all.

He hoped she would not be held prisoner by her trauma.

She could build a fortress within herself, allowing those she trusted inside.

He nodded to no one in particular, making a pact with himself.

He would watch over her, even after he returned her. She would never know of it.

He’d be the shadows again, but not like before.

He was something new now, and because of this he felt young.

Instagram http://bit.ly/1XgDJfc

Youtube http://bit.ly/1Sf9MXN

Goodreads http://bit.ly/1XpMF4k

Amazon http://amzn.to/1MwzPG6

Twitter http://bit.ly/1YIWqZA

Podcast http://bit.ly/1KOLDsH

Facebook http://bit.ly/fnbrjwp

Thanks for stopping by.  Have a great rest of the week and a super weekend.  See y’all next Wednesday.

Best,

Jonathan

 

Number 4

CONFIDENCE

His blade was thick with blood, crimson and beautiful.

His enemies lay around him. Their cries turning to ragged gasps.

The breath of the last man before him was steady and calm.

They had not expected such a fight from an old man. But they did not know him.

They did not understand who he had been. They had no idea what he’d become.

The girl, unconscious, staked down in the dirt was alive. Her clothes, muddied and torn.

The last man, the leader, howled and rushed at him. Screaming oaths of vengeance.

The old man laughed, his wounds did not bother him, the rush of combat was his world.

He raised his weapon high, the blade dripping, gleaming.

Motionless he waited with the patience of stone.

The leader got closer, the old man did not move.

The leader was screaming in rage, the old man did not respond.

The leader lifted his weapon over his head, preparing to strike.

The old man smiled.

Instagram http://bit.ly/1XgDJfc

Youtube http://bit.ly/1Sf9MXN

Goodreads http://bit.ly/1XpMF4k

Amazon http://amzn.to/1MwzPG6

Twitter http://bit.ly/1YIWqZA

Podcast http://bit.ly/1KOLDsH

Facebook http://bit.ly/fnbrjwp

 

 

Micro-Story 3

DOUBT

The trail was old. At least three days.

It might even be false, it was hard to tell.

He thought of his home, the garden and the lamp post.

Had he made the right decision?

Was adventure not a young mans duty?

He thought of his soft bed, but pushed that aside.

He could find her, he would find her.

He’d made a promise and would keep it until death.

She would be returned, her captors brought to justice.

Rising, knees cracking, he shifted his weapon lower onto his hip.

He pushed on, rightly or wrongly, fate would decide his victory or defeat.

Instagram http://bit.ly/1XgDJfc

Youtube http://bit.ly/1Sf9MXN

Goodreads http://bit.ly/1XpMF4k

Amazon http://amzn.to/1MwzPG6

Twitter http://bit.ly/1YIWqZA

Podcast http://bit.ly/1KOLDsH

Facebook http://bit.ly/fnbrjwp

Thanks for stopping by, have a great rest of the week.  Have a wonderful weekend and I’ll see you next Wednesday.

Best,

Jonathan