english subtitle Free Watch Patterns of Evidence: The Red Sea Miracle

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. Country: USA. Genres: Documentary. Aleluyah. Great video, blessings to all. I now have the  “PATTERNS OF EVERYTHING” FAMILY GIFT PACK and am pleased to strongly recommend this package. The collection includes a blu-ray of the documentary and a standard DVD. But that's not all. Also included is a CD of the Motion Picture Soundtrack. Then there's a DVD of best selling author and historian David Rohl's lectures that are very helpful in understanding the premise of Patterns Of Evidence. Also included for the serious student is not one but two handsome hardcover books. The first is 'EXODUS' Myth or History by David Rohl expounding on the material in the lectures DVD. Then, A Filmmaker's Journey Patterns of Evidence Exodus' by Timothy honey with Steven Law. This book is also beautifully illustrated and loaded with details supporting the evidence presented in the documentary.  If you are a Bible believer - If you are not sure what you believe - If you are sure that you don't believe - You Need To See  'PATTERNS OF EVIDENCE.

Patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle water. Patterns of evidence the red sea miracle download. Patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle house. This seemed like an amazin vid. until the mute action kicked in... Patterns of evidence the red sea miracle watch online. 1:47 lol poor duck on the bottom running. The flight from London to Beijing is ten hours. My wife and I board the plane early and look for our seats. The seat next to mine is already occupied by a fat white guy, mid-forties with a face the color of raw bacon. He must be British. He looks like an enthusiastic eater, drinker, sweater, snorer and farter. This doesn't bode well for the journey ahead. I don't make eye contact, hoping he gets the message and doesn't try to engage me in conversation. The seat next to him is empty so once I've taken my seat and got myself comfortable, I open the China Daily and flap it around loudly in the hope he'll move and give me some well deserved extra room. On page 6 there's an article about Taiwan. It claims 71. 6% of Taiwanese youth 'identify as Chinese' and that 'more and more' Taiwanese people are expressing their opposition to Taiwanese independence. It also says the Taiwanese government has 'separatist ambitions'. I wonder who carried out this poll? Probably not the Taiwanese. I don't really identify with being British but having looked at the alternatives and finding nothing better, I've concluded that British is my best option. I have a habit of becoming more British when abroad. This annoys me. I've tried to change but can't. I become hyper sensitive to the lack of (British) manners, the substandard level of queuing, being shoved, bad driving, the lack of potatoes on menus. I also miss corduroy trousers and the opportunities to wear my chestnut semi-brogues. Oh and the shit chocolate bars one has to endure. Next time your in America for instance, smell their chocolate. Smells like vomit. Savages. I'm visiting Taiwan on this trip and I make a mental note to do three things: (I) Not act British, (II) Ask the local Taiwanese what nationality they identify as, (III) Sample the local chocolate. The plane is filling up with passengers. An ordinary looking middled aged Chinese man takes the aisle seat next to my bacon faced travel companion and the chance of him moving seat now reduces to approximately zero. In the row behind me, I overhear a condescending English voice ask the person next to him if she's heard about Tiannemon Square. She says yes, sounding Chinese and then he follows up by asking if she knows how many people died there. Wow. That's his opening gambit? That's his way of introducing himself to his Chinese travel companion, on a flight to China with China Air. Not 'hello' or 'are you comfortable' he's going straight in with the Tiannemon Square opening. That is bold to say the least. His tone is haughty provincial secondary school teacher asking for homework that he knows hasnt been done. Frankly it's wildly inappropriate, rude and diplomatically as constructive as a turd in the punch bowl at the British ambassadors reception. Now he's slowly and loudly telling her the numbers - 'Two. Thousand. Four. Hundred. And. Twenty. Eight. ' Was it that many? He seems to think so and sounds pretty sure of himself. My blood pressure rising. The Chinese lady says 'well we don't know the exact number' but her response is not enough for me - I need to say something. I'm thinking of witty put downs but decide he just needs punching really hard in the face, repeatedly. Who will punch him for me? Aren't there any Chinese on board that speak English that can punch him. Captain Knobhead, as I've named him, has the audacity to reply "you don't know how many died because your government doesn't tell you the truth. " Everyone is hearing this. I'm fucking livid at this point. Later I will think I should have asked him if he knows how many Chinese died as a result of the British government flooding China with cheap opium in the nineteenth century and in this imaginary scenario I get a standing ovation from all the passengers, but for now I tell myself I don't want to start a fight before we've left UK airspace and that the Chinese lady is defending herself just fine. I think of various other excuses which I like I roll out at times like these when I should speak up but don't and do what any decent coward would do and turn to the person next to me for validation, in this case Baconface. Let's see if we can roll our eyes together at Captain Knobhead's boorishness. Baconface is just staring ahead into space oblivious, he doesn't want to get involved either. He is absolutely right, best not make a fuss. Eyes front. Keep Calm and Carry On Hanging on in Quiet Desperation. It's the English way. I'm actually starting to like Baconface. We've have a lot in common. The pilot welcomes us and doesn't sound Arabic which is always a relief. He says the flight will be generally smooth but we may experience a small amount of turbulence over Denmark. That triggers my first 'flight reflex' and I immediately think of a YouTube video I once saw showing extreme turbulence with people screaming and luggage and all sorts flying around the cabin. I think it was called "LMFAO Worst turbulence EVA!!! ", or something similar. I try and think of other things. I take out the emergency procedures guide from the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me. This doesn't help. There's a warning not to open the doors which I've never noticed before. Are they are saying someone can just go up to the doors and open them mid-flight? Shouldn't they be locked? How did I not know about this? Would we all get sucked out? I guess those not wearing seat-belts definitely would. I decide to leave my sea belt on for the duration. My wife discreetly tells me the couple in front have a baby. So now there's the possibility of a screaming baby soundtrack to accompany us on our marathon of physical discomfort which ten hours in an economy class seats never fails to deliver. Which one will be the defining memory of this flight? Which will be the biggest test of my endurance? I imagine the baby will get sucked out pretty quick in a door opening scenario. What else would fly out the cabin door at 37, 000 feet? I guess iPads, phones, headphones, caps, blankets, food trays, newspapers and neck cushions. And my slippers, which I'm not wearing. I put them back on, just in case. We are still on the Tarmac. The plane taxis along the runway for what seems like ages. I tell my wife I think we're nearly there and she looks confused and she says 'where? ' and I can't be bothered explaining the joke so I try to find a window to look out of which isn't easy when you're in the middle row. Then, the engines crescendo and I'm slowly pushed back into my seat and I spot a window which provides a small view of the ground falling away as the plane floats and drives into the sky at 45 degrees. The miracle of flight. Or the unnatural abomination, depending on your viewpoint. I sit firmly in the latter camp, on the ground, you know - where animals without wings belong. Isn't take off the most dangerous part of the flight? I think it is. I read it somewhere. Where did I read that? The plane climbs. I take my glasses off and focus on the sights, sounds and smells of the cabin. But first, where is the safest place for my glasses? I opt for the storage pocket on the seat in front. Sights... The flight attendants are all gone now. I guess they're still strapped into their jump seats. What an odd name for a seat on a plane that nobody wants to jump out of. Mind you if we have to jump out, you know to lighten the load or something, I guess it's cabin crew first. That would be the decent thing for them to do. I need to stop thinking about jumping out of planes. Small comforting signs glow yellow, green and red: Toilet, No Smoking, Seat Belt. The ominous green Exit sign is of course quickly ignored - why do I need to know where the exit is at 7, 000 feet a few minutes after take off? I won't be getting out. I'll be making my exit in ten hours on the Tarmac at Beijing International Airport thank you very much. Or will I? My twisted, high-altitude induced fuzzy flight logic takes hold again. What are the chances I won't reach Beijing? There IS a chance. A dozen video screens in my field of view remain synchronized to the 'Welcome Aboard' message. Tasteful soft lighting, recessed behind overhead luggage racks calms and reassures and I forget the game of Die-in-the-sky that I'm playing. I take off my slippers, again. Yes I'm quite calm thank you very much indeed. I could be on a luxury train. Like the Orient Express. Except this 'train' has nothing but 12, 000 feet of cold air between my toes and the North Sea. I think of the long cold fall to my death for the eighteenth time. Here we go again. When I'm sucked out of the emergency exit, what will be the biggest shock: the minus 30 degree temperature or the sudden realization of my imminent death? I study the backs of the heads in front of me. The one in front looks female and has short black hair, possibly Chinese. To her left is a white baldy-head. Maybe he's British or American. They must be together, given my wife says they have a baby - which thankfully must be asleep as I've neither heard nor seen it. It could be mute of course. Either is fine by me. The seat to the right of short black haired lady is empty. I will probably get to know the back of those two heads quite well during this flight. Sounds... I focus on the steady drone of the engines and that weird hissing sound (air con? ). The engine noise is interspersed with the occasional distant slam of an overhead luggage compartment. It's almost quiet once you've tuned out the hum of the engines. Smells... Long haul flights have no particular odor, bar the occasional fart of which we have already had one. Not by me I hasten to add. It was either baldy-head in front or Baconface next to me. They are my primary suspects. It was fresh, so probably hadn't travelled far, although it was weak so I could be wrong. I'm not a good fart detective. I've already farted once but it didn't smell. The cabin crew bring drinks. Captain Knobhead has moved to an aisle seat three rows ahead and wants wine. The stewardess explains it is only served with food so he's not getting any. Haha. Great. Fuck him. Baconface says he doesn't want a drink. He is Scottish. They are serving beer. I virtue signal to myself silently by thinking just because Baconface is Scottish, doesn't mean he is a raging 'pish heed'. That's exactly the kind of lazy, ignorant stereotype I just can't stand. Knowing Baconface's nationality, I wonder how Captain Knobhead of HMS Bellend would have introduced himself had he been in my my seat? 'Jock eh? Not wearing a kilt then? '. Maybe he would ask if Baconface identified as Scottish or British. He would definitely have commented on him not ordering a drink. My wife goes for half a glass of apple juice topped up with water. I have a jasmine tea. I used to get shitfaced on flights but what's the point? I'll feel bad enough from the jet lag when I land without adding alchohol to the mix. My new tactic is to adopt the time zone of the destination I'm flying to as soon as I board the plane. This means I'll be having a coffee after my dinner - because technically it will be breakfast time in Beijing. I pull my tray down, put my jasmin tea in the recessed cup holder and pull open the 'pocket' in the chair in front to stash my iPad but hear a ripping sound and realize I've just torn the fabric off the seat in front, exposing its metal frame. The storage pocket is of course below my tray opposite my knees, not behind the tray. Whoopsy. I quietly stick the fabric back on without the stewardesses noticing. I sneak at look at Baconface. His eyes are closed. Is he sleeping, or did he watch me vandalize the upholstery and quickly close his eyes as he saw my head turning towards him? Hmmm. I blindly reach down under the tray into the seat pocket for my glasses and to my enormous relief they are still there. I put them on. The screen at the front of our section shows a map of our progress. Ely and Dover are highlighted and we are already over the North Sea. The view on the screen pans out to show the whole earth. From this angle, the plane icon still looks like it's in the UK. I stare at the plane hoping to see it move, to see some evidence of our progress, but it doesn't budge. I need to think about how I'm going to pass the time. I take my glasses off again. I have a whole bunch of albums, TV series and movies downloaded to my iPad. I will get through those later, no need to rush. I need to pace myself. I drink some more jasmine tea. Nice and slow. Drinking it at this speed will take a good fifteen minutes. My wife tells me I can lean my chair back as the person behind me is already asleep. How did they do that? We've only been airborne 30 mins. I'm not ready to lean back. I haven't even eaten my dinner yet. I get comfortable-ish and squint at the progress map ahead. There's now a line behind the plane icon leading to a spinning yellow cog icon over London. We haven't even been airborne for an hour and Amsterdam is already on the map. That's progress! This flight will fly by! After dinner (Beef and rice) I fart. Twice. I released one earlier, shortly after taking my seat and glanced sideways to see if Baconface noticed the vibrations. He didn't. That means our chairs aren't connected so I'm free to fart as much as I like. This is good. These after dinner ones also don't smell so I'm fine. Smelly ones will be taken to the bathroom. I do have some standards. We are a few hundred miles south of Svalberg, flying at 37, 000 feet, ground speed 546 miles an hour. I'm not impressed. 546 mph isn't that fast. Satellites travel at 11 miles per second. That's fast. It's minus 59 degrees outside. That's definite scarf, hat and gloves weather. Would I freeze on the way down at 59 degrees and then shatter into a thousand pieces of Jerry upon impact? Like a giant bag of skin, bone and hair colored M&Ms. I need to stop fixating on the dangers of flying. I need to change channel. I wonder what Svalberg is like. I could probably live there and be content. It's probably like everywhere else in the world - cleaner, cheaper and less crowded than London. More things to think about as someone behind me snores. Out of nowhere I smell body odor. I think it's coming from Baconface. How does one just suddenly start smelling of body odor? Is it something to do with sleeping. Is that why we need to wash when we wake up? I'd Google it but there's no internet. Fuck. The overhead lights go off. The only meaningful light now is from the little TV screens on the backs of chairs, some of which are now switched off. Am I being told to sleep? Where is my coffee? I'm regretting the hot chocolate Milano I had just before boarding. It's worked its way through my system and urgently needs to come out. I think it's planning to take my dinner with it. Going to the toilet will be on my mind on and off for the next thirty minutes. I notice my underpants are tight. Underpants? Why the hell am I wearing underpants? Don't I always wear boxer shorts on flights for the additional breathability which aids comfort and prevents the genital area from overheating? What are the chances I get deep vein thrombosis in my gonads as a result of wearing tight underpants on a long haul flight? There IS a chance. Acute Deep Vein Testicular Thrombosis. ADVTT. I've got a newly discovered chronic medical condition on my hands, or more accurately in my balls. Is there a doctor on board? I refuse to start my vacation with ADVTT Can I take my underpants off without anyone noticing given its pitch black in the cabin? What if Baconface wakes up and I've got my trousers round my ankles with my hairy ass in his face? That could derail our fledgling relationship. It appears that no video screens are working. They are all switched off. It is 11. 33pm. We have been flying for 3 hours and 8 minutes. Only 6 hours and 52 minutes left. Yay. I need to make my own entertainment. I find my slippers, wake up my wife and go to the bathroom to poop. I'm surprised how many people are still awake as I make my way down the aisle. Some of them look at me and I make my relaxed 'I'm-only-going-for-a-pee' face for their benefit. When I arrive at the toilet it's occupied but they don't take long and they don't leave a smell. God bless you, kind stranger. Inside the toilet, it's very bright compared to the darkness of the cabin. A sign on the tap says 'component not working'. I guess I won't be washing my hands then. I'll just be taking whatever diseases are in here back to my seat. I hover over the toilet clutching the edge of the sink with my hand on the opposite wall for balance but can only muster a fart. Interesting. I push but get nothing. I don't want to force it, a prolapsed asshole at 35, 000 feet is no way to start a vacation. I've got quite enough on my plate with ADVTT thank you very much. I get lost on the way back to my seat, fumbling in the dark and disturb a lady who I think is my wife but isn't. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and I stare at her smiling, waiting for her to move. I touch her shoulder. I think I say "hey! ". Once I realize it's not my wife's face staring back at me, I apologize and carry on until I find the correct row. 11. 56pm. I think I have a headache. Aren't they supposed to come round with water now? My screen seems to be working again. Maybe I need to watch a movie. I'll just put my chair back and close my eyes. Someone switches the light on. It's 4. 41am. It wasn't proper sleep but I'll take it given its consumed a giant chunk of time. 4. 45am and the drinks trolley comes round. I have coffee. What time is it in Beijing and where are we exactly? The flick flight map shows we are over Ulan Bator. Outside air temperature is -61 degrees. It is 707miles to our destination, time to destination 1hour 40. This is a very good result. Having survived for 8 hours and 20 minutes I feel positive about my chances of landing in one piece inside the plane. Channel 14 shows the view from the front of the plane. It's daytime. I estimate it's about mid day local time. I wonder what it's like to live in Ulan Bator. Baldy and short dark hair woman in front have swapped seats. She gets up to look around and she isn't Chinese. I haven't heard their baby once. That is one very considerate baby. I think I need to poop again and this time I think it's for real. That takes the edge off my positive mood. The urge to poop subsides. An announcement tells us it's breakfast time. I hear 'chicken congee' but not much else. Captain Knobhead is speaking to one of the cabin crew and loudly says "Chicken Porridge? ". Prick. When the stewardess comes round to me I discover there's omelette too. I opt for the omelette. The sticker on the foil says 'cheese omelette'. This just gets better and better. I roll back the foil and there's some small roast potatoes and a sausage too. The first bite of the omelette is fine. It needs salt though, and I'm not really getting any cheese. The second bite is the same and I've uncovered a rasher of bacon underneath. The potatoes look better than they taste. I don't try the bacon or sausage - who knows their provenance. Could be 'country chicken' for all I know. That's rat in China by the way. Avoid it if you are offered it. Unless you like rat of course in which case I'd recommend 'well done' to avoid catching one of the seven deadly diseases they are known to carry. The last bite of omlette has some cheese in it. I eat the croissant with 'monounsaturated spread' and jam. My wife spits out a half chewed melon ball and says 'old'. I think she says 'cold' and I say 'cold? ' and she goes 'no, old' and we go back to eating. She offers me her croissant but I decline. I'm thinking about the KFC in Beijing airport and hope its open when I land but I worry that it's Kentucky Fried Country Chicken and I also worry about the fried chicken place on the high street where I live which is actually called 'Country Fried Chicken'. I will investigate if the owners are Chinese when I get back to UK. In fact, it's probably easier to just report them straight to the council and leave the investigation up to the food hygiene standards people. I'm not much of a Country Chicken detective. Distance to destination 363 miles, ground speed 574mph outside temp -81 degrees altitude 37, 000 feet. With all the lights on again, I can see Baldy in front has a well moisturized head. It's freshly shaved and I see classic male pattern baldness in the hairline. The top is pleasantly pink which extends over the crown meeting the tiny black dots of stubble around the sides and back. The skin around the stubble appears ever so slightly blue. You can get a tattoo of stubble all over your head if you're bald. It looks like you've just shaved your whole head and aren't really bald at all. Of course it does mean that when you get old, like really old, say 80, people might say might 'If I had a full head of hair at your age I wouldn't shave it all off'. Leaving you with the conundrum of admitting it's a tattoo, or lying. Do you want to be lying about your hair when your 80? I start to count the black dots of stubble then realize there's no need to waste more time as there's less than an hour before we land. I get an involuntary erection. Not on account of staring at his bald head, I should add. At least I don't think it is. What can one do with an involuntary erection on a long haul flight? Nothing. It's wasted, like so many opportunities in life. If you see an opportunity, grab it with both hands, unless it's an involuntary erection on a long haul flight, in which case keep your tray down, sit on your hands and hope the person sitting next to you doesn't want to pass by. After we land Captain Knobhead gets up and I finally see what he looks like. He's mid fifties to early sixties, tall, pale complexion with rosy cheeks, well built with a full head of messy grey-white hair and university lecturer clothes. He actually looks like he'd be quite handy in a fight. The plane descends making those odd bumping, thumping and whirring sounds as various cables and flaps and hydraulics do their landing shit. I don't know much about planes but I know they are dangerous. Isn't landing the most dangerous part of the flight? I think it is. Lower and lower we slide downwards then a gentle landing. We taxi pleasantly and I'm consumed by the joy of still being alive. Flying is fun, I should do it more often. It's the safest form of travel. I read that somewhere. Most passenger stand immediately and start getting their bags down from the overhead luggage compartments. My wife and I get up, as always far too early and as we wait standing for the doors to open Captain Knobhead turns to the woman behind him and loudly says "You're not Chinese! Where are you from? ". He just won't quit. She's polite, smiles and says 'India' and Knobhead makes a slightly better attempt at a conversation and mentions he's married. Poor Mrs Knobhead. She's really taken one for womankind by removing him from the eligibility pool. I look at my wife and she says maybe he is into 'Asian cuisine' and I say 'what do you mean? ' and she says 'you know, sex with Asian women' and I laugh and wonder why I haven't heard that phrase before and I say 'what, like me you mean? ' and she laughs and I'm glad we finally figured out Captain Knobhead's game - he's clearly a sex tourist. I notice Captain Knobhead has those little string attachments holding his glasses round his neck. Then we all begin to shuffle of the plane. I reach for my glasses but can't find them in any pockets or my bag. It's too late to check under my seat and we have a connecting flight to Taiwan in about an hour. Fuck it. They're gone. It's 6. 20am London time and 2. 20pm Beijing time. I've lost my glasses and 8 hours of my time but I'm alive and couldn't be happier. In fact I think I'm euphoric, either that or jet lagged in a good way. We head to International Transfers. I check my connecting flight ticket for information. Gate 31. Departure time 3. 45pm. The flight from Beijing to Taipei is three hours.

Moses parts the sea, but no coffee for me. Watch Patterns of Evidence: The Red Sea Online Thevideo Watch Movie Patterns of Evidence: The Online Megashare…. Goodrich Quality Theatres - Oxford 7 Showtimes for: PATTERNS OF EVIDENCE: RED SEA MIRACLE II, All Dates - PATTERNS OF EVIDENCE: RED SEA MIRACLE II Sorry, No Comp Passes Alternative Content Fathom Events Event Pricing MOVIE INFO This Bible-affirming investigation is so large that two films were required. It’s one of the greatest miracles in the Bible; Moses and the Israelites trapped at the sea by Pharaoh’s army when God miraculously parts the waters, rescuing the Israelites and destroying Pharaoh and his chariots. But is there any evidence that it really happened and if so, where? That’s what investigative filmmaker Timothy Mahoney set out to discover 18 years ago and now he is ready to share what’s been uncovered; a controversy between two dramatically different approaches in reading the biblical text. One approach is Egyptian, the other is Hebrew. Both will lead to two very different conclusions on the location of the Exodus crossing site and the cause of the miraculous parting of the sea. What do these different approaches tell us about miracles – and what do they tell us about God? Starring: TBC Directed by: TBC Your Showtimes Select your time to book tickets Tuesday, May 05 7:00 PM.

There’s nothing left for me here. Yet I keep coming back. The official investigation came to a close six years ago, it’s not terribly likely I’ll find some vital clue that the cops overlooked. But wherever Natasha is now, I want her to know I didn’t give up so easily. My family came to Russia nearly twenty years ago. Dad got a job with Soyuzmultfilm, a big animation firm headquartered just outside of Moscow. I was just a boy then, excitedly awaiting the birth of my little sister. The film Dad was hired to work on never saw the light of day, a remake of the classic “Hedgehog in the Fog”. Not such a problem under Soviet rule, pay continued regardless of performance. He liked the creative freedom it made possible, but when the Soviet Union collapsed, Soyuzmultfilm more or less collapsed with it. The studio survived as a leased enterprise, but ninety percent of the staff were laid off. My father was among the few who weren’t. The meager pay was just enough, along with what my mother made as a nurse, to keep us all in food and clothing. I remember one winter, Natasha begged for a Dendy. She was too young then to understand the concept of money, and the rhetoric she heard at school and on television about “equality” and “a classless society” only further confused her. Gorbachev had resigned a year earlier, but the curriculum at school did not yet reflect it. Nor the lingering Soviet themes in the media. A sort of widespread cultural disbelief, as we all witnessed the dream of global Socialism perishing before our eyes. “Why is it Mikhail’s family has a Dendy, but we can’t afford one? What makes them different? What about Grandfather Frost, can’t he bring me a Dendy? ” Each question like a knife in his side. I was forbidden to explain the facts of life to her, Mom insisted she didn’t need to know such grave things yet. That conditions might improve before she grew much older. They didn’t. The next few years were the hardest of our lives. Law and order rapidly decayed. Gangsters operated openly in what were once nice neighborhoods, selling all manner of imported American products. FIlling in the gap, I suppose, until domestic industry could be revived. During those years, we often ate only every other day. The heat was turned on for just an hour each night before bed, so we could fall asleep. Natasha sought refuge in her beloved cartoons. In the mornings on weekends and after school every day, she never missed a chance to watch Peter the Possum. Before the collapse, Peter was a government attempt to copy the style of early Disney animation, with a view to using cartoons as a propaganda vector. Accordingly, about half the Peter the Possum cartoons I’ve seen have plots which in some way communicate the merits of Socialism and the evils of Capitalism. Even when they first aired, they looked archaic. Peter wears the same big buttoned pants and suspenders as Mickey, and does that strange, constant dance all the cartoon characters at the time seemed to perform even while standing still. Knees and elbows bent, then straight. Then bent, then straight. Squat, stand, squat, stand. A perpetual jig which background elements like hills, buildings and cars also danced in time to. “Dumpity doo! ” he would often exclaim, usually at the end of sentences and for no obvious reason. I recall an episode in which a gang of rats conspires to chop down the tree Peter sleeps in, then fashion it into a shelter so they can charge him rent. The transition between these plots and the post-collapse ones is like night and day. Peter suddenly seems much less concerned with politics and primarily focused on teaching children English. Not much of it, mind. Simple phrases like yes, no, hello, okay and so on. As we shared a room I was helpless but to endure Natasha’s repetition of basic English phrases while trying to focus on my for granted that she’d always be part of my life. When she got that free ticket in the mail, I initially thought nothing of it. Dad studied it more closely, as it bore the Soyuzmultfilm logo across the back. Only because he thought it such an interesting curiosity did I bother asking him about it. “It’s an invitation to Cosmotopia, a theme park that was under construction by the state during better times. I remember colleagues excitedly describing the attractions back before the lease and wave of layoffs in ‘89. Last I heard the state abandoned the project out in the boonies. ” I asked why bother sending out tickets for a closed theme park. “Delayed mail, maybe. Still digging through store rooms full of packages from just before the collapse. I hear stories of babushkas receiving ten years late some letters from deceased sons who fought the Nazis, that sort of thing. They must have sent these free tickets out as a promotion in advance of the grand opening. ” It didn’t sit right with me, though I couldn’t put my finger on the reason until years later. Why invite Natasha? She was in diapers then. So much I should’ve realized, so much I should’ve done. Of course when Natasha found out, she demanded to go. No amount of patient explanation that the theme park was now defunct would satisfy her. She was never a reasonable child, prone to tantrums and difficulties separating fantasy from reality. I would blame the cartoons, except Mom says she was the same way as a girl. We just never anticipated she’d run off like that. Despite the stacks of drawings she’s accumulated, all of Peter the Possum. Despite warnings from her teachers that she only seemed to be growing less attached to reality with each passing year. Each of us blamed ourselves when she vanished. Dad still thinks it’s because he was always working and basically let the television raise her. Mom for the same reason, and myself because at the time I was going through a phase where I wanted nothing to do with my family and spent as much time as I could with the boys. Looking for trouble, or making our own. The police determined she reached the ruins of Cosmotopia by a commuter train which still travels out there, as some of the support buildings were rented out to other businesses after construction ground to a halt. Otherwise the stop would’ve long since closed down. The employees of the storage business closest to the park insist they never saw her, but that the park is a popular haven for squatters, addicts and runaways. More than once I’ve stayed past sundown and glimpsed flickering light within the windows of the fiberglass Fairyland castle. The indoor campfires of vagrants and Krokodil junkies. I carry a small knife with me but harbor no delusions about how safe I am in such a place. So apart from those few times, I’ve always made sure to leave before night falls. Even that is no guarantee. The train is often a moving flophouse for passed out drunks and dodgy looking Alexeis in track suits. Today the sky is the usual shade of grey. Wholly uniform, no blotches or gradation, just a matte grey expanse. As if it’s not the clouds, but the color of the sky itself. The sort of sky which makes you wonder if you’re really still on Earth. Of course there are sparse trees nearby, and ragged tufts of struggling grass to remind you. But their colors, muted by the dim sunlight, sort of blend together. Like the trees, the grass, the mud and the train are all made out of the same “stuff”. I briefly wonder if I am too, or if I’m separate. A light wind tosses dried leaves about the sterile concrete train platform as I step off. The station itself is a crumbling, derelict mess. Most of the overhead lighting has gone out. The remaining tubes flicker at random intervals. The concrete is cracked and worn, the signs are all rusted to shit, and there’s a thin layer of debris and garbage coating the surrounding area. Cigarette butts, discarded candy wrappers, torn newspaper and so forth. The accumulated filth of human activity. Nobody comes to clean it up because nobody is paid to. Most likely nobody complains, either. There’s a monument to Yuri Gagarin built into the entry gates. His face made from colored stones, many of them pried out of the concrete by vandals over the years. The inset sign is an advertisement for the section of the park that’s space themed. They don’t bother to chain the front gates anymore, it never kept anyone out. I brought my bolt cutters anyway, as now and again I find some locked door, overlooked until then. The handles terminate in bent wedges such that it doubles as a crowbar, making it supremely useful for these kinds of excursions. Naturally, it also makes a serviceable club. The other thing I’m never caught without is an LED head lamp. Before, I used the light on my phone in dark service tunnels until a disoriented junkie startled me into dropping it. The light’s now busted and the screen’s got a mess of cracks in one corner. Live and learn. Once past the gate, I head for the fun center. “Fun” being subjective of course, having rather a different meaning in this country now that it’s under new management. The narrow selection of arcade machines languishing along the far wall of the stout little structure give no indication that they were ever sincerely meant to be enjoyed. “Sea Battle”. “Magistral”. “Winter Hunt”. “Autorally-M”. “Radish”. “Safari”. All of them just barely sufficient imitations of some Western game. Usually Atari or Williams games provided the general design concept. Then the programmers, working for peanuts with government guns at their necks, phoned it all in. The result is something comically rudimentary even for the time, and just barely playable. Their reason to exist was only ever to prove a point; that we Russians had every luxury under Communism that any American had under Capitalism, wanting for nothing. The two soda machines in the room were similarly austere. One simply a grey steel box which dispensed carbonated water, and the other a Cil-Cola machine which was broken into and looted years ago. The first time I found it, out of morbid curiosity I cracked open the last remaining can and took a sip. Flat of course. Otherwise surprisingly inoffensive given the age. Tasted vaguely like Kvass. I used to power up the arcade machines now and again just for laughs, but there’s little point as you can’t save your high scores. That would constitute blatant competition, you see. On my way from the fun center towards Fairyland castle, I paused to take a picture of the clown train. I often wonder who designed this and why they thought it would appeal to children, rather than traumatize them. It’s a small electric train resembling a centipede, each section of the body its own wheeled car with a pair of cushioned seats, now thoroughly beaten up by years of exposure. The front is, for some reason, the rusted head of a clown. I’ve often seen kiddie rides of the same make and model show up on urban exploration forums, they make an irresistible photo op. The park is divided into Cosmoland, Fairyland, Futureland, and Cartoonland. As the names suggest, the first is space themed, all of the rides named after and meant to represent historically important orbital missions. Futureland is even heavier on the propaganda, as it is specifically the “global socialist future” being represented. The “housing of tomorrow” near the entrance always catches my eye. Disc shaped fiberglass pods, four to a cluster, stacked two clusters tall for a total of eight small apartments in each tower. Each tower’s a different color, all of them now faded to the spots where the paint hasn’t flaked off yet. Increasingly communal living in the future was simply assumed for obvious, ideologically driven reasons. That said, while they don’t look like much now, I’d take one of these pods over panelak any day. As I continued towards Fairyland castle, something new caught my eye. Same old building I’ve passed a dozen times before, but somebody must’ve been through here since the last time, as a mess of vines were cut away to reveal lettering just over a row of second story windows. “Animation Center”. Presumably someplace children could learn how cartoons are made. Parts of the old facade still survived, yet more fiberglass. At one time making the building resemble something from a cartoon. The majority of it must’ve been torn down since then, revealing the ugly, rectilinear concrete truth hiding behind it. It reminds me of a story I once heard in which a visiting American diplomat was taken to the Kremlin aboard a train which passed by fields filled with false wooden tanks and airplanes. The intent, presumably, was to fool the diplomat into returning to the US with a grossly inflated impression of Soviet military might. That the train “just happened” to pass all of that hardware was something I suppose they hoped would not seem suspicious. So much of how this country was run back then relied on carefully cultivated illusions. To fool the outside world, but also its own citizens. Not so different from this park. To the eyes of a child, Fairyland, Cartoonland and the rest would have an airtight appearance of reality to them. Small but fully functional civilizations, populated by spacemen or costumed elves who, so far as the child knows, actually live there. All of it an elaborate farce, no deeper than the thickness of the facades masking the buildings. All to preserve the happiness of children who are none the wiser. Natasha must’ve come here sincerely believing that she’d meet Peter the Possum. That his fantasy world she saw on television was a real place she could run away to. How it pains me now, that I was ever the sort of person she’d want to escape from. What I wouldn’t give now to hear her repeating after Peter, word for word, sprawled out before the little black and white television set in our room. How vivid it still seems. Like something still happening now, a place I might physically return to if I focus hard enough. That feeling is also an illusion. Perhaps the cruelest of all. That the past still exists, that the immediacy of these visions connotes reality. As if we should be able to travel as freely through time as we do through space. What it must be like for a bird with broken wings. So often I find myself lost in thought. Reliving memories of Natasha so completely that it startles me to resurface from them. But during those precious periods of somber reflection, the vast gulf in time between where I am and where I want to be shrinks to almost nothing. It’s as if I’m right there with her. So near, yet so far. No matter how convincing, I cannot reach out and caress her face. I cannot braid her hair. I can visit, but never stay. Observe, but never change anything. The natural order of things, surely? But then, why does this restriction feel so wrong? So artificial. That was me, wasn’t it? And here I am. I was there once. Why, then, can I not return? The only direction I cannot move in is the one I most desperately wish to. Seconds ticking mercilessly by, each one carrying me further away from her. There’s nothing like losing a loved one to make you contemplate the nature of time. It becomes a nemesis. A tormentor. The only barrier preventing your escape from Hell, back to the paradise you were swept from by the relentless passage of minutes, hours, days and years. What do any of those words really mean? Does the universe know what a minute is? If there’s a smallest indivisible unit of matter, and a smallest measurable distance, could there also be an objectively smallest unit of time? If so, time does not pass fluidly, but as a sequence of still frames. One after the next, after the next, quickly enough to create the illusion of movement. And if it’s true that events could have unfolded no other way than they have, the predictable chain reaction of so many atoms interacting with one another, then all of this was predetermined. Something like a movie. So many still images strung together like film, all of us simply actors playing the only parts we’re able to. No small number of people find that perspective unsettling. Personally, I find it comforting. It would mean that there was nothing I could’ve done differently. That it wasn’t my fault. The alternative is that time doesn’t exist. That what looks to us like the passage of time is just the accumulation of changes, more and more atoms out of place compared to how we remember it. If so, then time is truly irreversible. You’d have to manually move every atom in the universe back to where it used to be. The past is destroyed by the future. Impossible to visit, impractical to recreate. Our memories, then, are ghosts. Lingering echoes of a world which no longer exists. I don’t know which view is stranger. That time isn’t real, or that we all amount to moving pictures with the appearance of life. Upon prying the door open, I discovered one of the windows was busted. I cursed myself for not noticing sooner, else I might’ve just crawled in through it. A frigid gust stung my skin as I edged around the mess of broken glass on the floor, countless little shards sparkling in what little sunlight came in through the opening. A light rain began to fall outside. Just as well. A whole new building to explore, exactly what I came looking for. And all things considered, not such a bad place to wait out the weather. A reception desk in the corner sat strewn with reminders of the past. Rolls of unsold tickets. A hand stamp, a coffee mug. Not even moldy inside, just a solid lump of dried black crud. The lid of an electrical box mounted to the wall behind the desk hung open, revealing row after row of bulky, archaic fuses. It subtly hummed. Evidently this building also still receives power. As I proceeded further in, I found the floor littered with what I first mistook for overhead projector transparencies. When I picked one up to study it more closely, I found it was instead an animation picting a very familiar monochromatic possum. More and more of them as I continued, until I couldn’t avoid walking on them. Along either wall hung light tables of the sort used to display X-rays in a doctor’s office. Many with animation cels pinned to them, though the bulbs were long since burnt out. I swept my light across the far end of the room and, to my surprise, there was some sort of indoor ride. Nothing fast or exciting like a rollercoaster. Rather, individual moving booths like the ones in haunted house attractions, or the educational rides that carry you slowly through a variety of life sized historical dioramas. I searched for some way to reactivate them, but the only obvious control panel was rusted out. Wouldn’t have done me much good anyway. After edging past the halted people carriers for a ways, the track abruptly ended. Dismantled by someone, only a sheet metal floor beyond that point. The ceiling, curiously, was also sheet metal. Both scratched up as if somebody’d been over them with steel wool. Bit by bit I worked my way down the darkened, serpentine tunnel. Soon I reached a section with working lights. One of the walls in this section of the tunnel was lined with pull down projector screens. Tied to a motion sensor I guessed, as once I drew near enough, projectors mounted in alcoves along the opposite wall sputtered to life. I doubled back, worried the sensor might’ve set off an alarm somewhere. Or that at the very least, the commotion might attract unwanted attention. That’s when I saw it. Laying on the seat of the nearest moving cart, perched on the end of the dismantled track. Now, it could’ve been anyone’s stuffed Peter the not for the initials drawn on the tag in black permanent marker. It knocked the wind out of me. All these years without finding the slightest trace, now I held Natasha’s own stuffed animal in my hands! The police. The damnably corrupt, lazy police. They might’ve found this six years ago if they just searched more thoroughly. But they only ever do as much as procedure requires, if that. Anything more depends on how generously you bribe them. I should never have taken their word for it. Should’ve gone searching myself the very day she disappeared, rather than wait for government stooges to half-heartedly bumble through this park before declaring it hopeless. “NATASHA!! ” I cried out. “NATASHA!! ” My voice echoed down the remaining length of tunnel, meeting with no a scratchy voice answered back. Not from the end of the tunnel, but from just beside me. “Use your indoor voice, little comrades! Respect the other visitors! Haha, dumpity doo! ” I spun around looking for the source. The projectors, having warmed up during my panic, now cast moving images of a familiar figure on the pull down screens opposite me. Black and white. Surrounded with momentary black flecks, dust caught in the film or defects from wear and tear. A certain possum in suspenders performing that familiar, perpetual dance. His beady little black eyes, unseeing, simply dark spots on film, nevertheless seemed to follow me as I headed further down the corridor. Another straight passage with projectors to one side and screens to the other. Another motion sensor brought them to life in a synchronized clickety clack of spinning film reels. “Hey! Yeah! My name is Peter the Possum, but you already knew that! ” Still bobbing rhythmically as he walked, Peter seamlessly moved from one projection screen to the next. What probably passed for an astonishing trick back in the day, really just accomplished by synchronizing the four projectors. “Today you’re going to learn about the magic of animation! Haha, wow! Dumpity doo! ” He’d not said but three sentences, and was already aggravating. His voice not high pitched, really, but somehow shrill nevertheless. Distorting mildly here and there due to fluctuations in the current powering the projectors. Peter walked slowly across the screen, leaving behind a trail of after images to reveal all the frames in his walk cycle. He whistled. “Lookit all those drawings, just so I can walk around! Yeah, dumpity doo! That’s a lotta work! ” I continued around the corner, leaving the rest of the film to play out behind me. “I’m talking to you. ” I paused, then peered over my shoulder. Couldn’t be, surely. “Hey! Dumpity doo! That’s twelve frames for every second! Think of all the time put into bringing me to life, even for a minute! ” I again turned and pressed on, wondering what exactly I hoped to find. Realistically? Her remains. Some bones, perhaps a few scraps of her clothing. Enough to bury, I hope. Around the next bend, yet another row of screens and projectors. They hummed to life as I drew close, flickering cones of light given the appearance of mass by the plentiful dust drifting through. Each little mote visible only while illuminated, as if springing into existence the moment it enters the light’s path. “Ah, there you are. Cartoons sure are great, little comrades! Dumpity doo! But they always end too quickly, because of so much work for every second. What if there is better way? Bright minds at Soyuzmultfilm always are thinking about the future! There’s a secret project in the works. You can keep a secret, can’t you little comrades? Sure you can. Imagine, if you will... a cartoon that never has to end. Wouldn’t that be something? Hey, wow! Dumpity doo. ” Gimmicks, I figured. The carts would accelerate as if hurrying past, synchronized with the film so that Peter appears to scold them for it. Smoke and mirrors. Eventually I came to a section of the tunnel that was even less put together. No wall panels here. Just bare concrete, a skeletal steel framework for supporting the ceiling, and electrical wiring snaking up and down the walls. Exposed conduits passed overhead, supported by the rusted metal beams. For lighting presumably, though some sort of transparent plastic tubing ran along with the cables. No projectors, though. Just screens for a ways, then stretches of corridor with dusty white sheets instead. To cover up the exposed electrics I assumed, until a strange contraption rounded the far corner. I backed away, no idea what the rolling pile of parts could be. Having never seen anything like it before or since. Something like the mobile base of a power wheelchair, with an up-facing monochrome CRT monitor mounted to it, a mirror positioned above the monitor at a 45 degree angle, then a fresnel lens to magnify the reflected image. “Haha, wow! Dumpity doo! What is a cartoon character, anyway? Am I just a collection of lines? Am I the light coming from the bulb, or television screen? You’re mostly water, but are you that water? Or are you the rest? ” A moving projector. Not literally, I could see no spools of film. Rather, the mirror redirected light from the monitor through the fresnel lens, casting the contents of the screen onto the white sheets lining the walls. Sparks flew from beneath the wheels, and fell from overhead as the contraption trundled towards me. I could see a brushed electrical contactor at the top of the pole, sliding along the metal ceiling. And another beneath the wheels, touching the floor. The same way bumper cars are powered. “I’m not the light, am I? That’s just the medium. I’m the painstakingly drawn black marks which block light, defining the shape of my body. The absence of light. A living shadow! All to realize the age old dream of bringing life to the lifeless. Duuumpity dooooo. ” No longer jolly, the tone of his voice had begun to change. Particularly the dumpity doos. They now had a tense, vaguely threatening quality on top of the unsettling distortion. I jogged ahead until I came upon the first of several rooms. Inside I found something like an automated printing press. Rolls and rolls of printed tickets. Every few seconds the roll would rotate, dispensing another row of tickets to be cut by the next machine. Then one of the separated tickets would be deposited in an envelope, sealed, and funneled into a cylindrical capsule of some sort. The capsule was then loaded into an opening in the side of a transparent plastic tube. I realized it must connect to the tubing I saw running along the ceiling of the corridor on the way here. A moment later, with a pneumatic hiss and a loud “thoonk”, the capsule was sent on its way. To be mailed out. Had to be. Some kid would get it in the mail, tantalized by the promise of a new life someplace fantastical and comforting. Then he’d go to the address on the back and wind up here. For what purpose? How could the machine know their names, or what addresses to send the tickets to? It couldn’t. Must be controlled from somewhere else. For that matter, why is any of this still running? I never thought to question why the park’s power hasn’t been shut off. The next room I passed through looked something like a dentist’s office. A row of swiveling, full body chairs lined one wall. Instead of headrests, each had a sort of metal harness shaped like the contours of the human head, for holding one as still as possible. These head braces all had dried blood on them. More dried blood coated the floor around each of the seats. I began to feel queasy and once again considered turning back. Only the stuffed animal in my jacket pocket deterred me. Why would any of this be in an animation studio? One that’s part of a theme park, no less. What happened here? I rummaged through boxes in a corner. Full of odd little gadgets, metal cubes the size of dice but with a screw-like protuberance on one end and a tiny red bulb on the other. I heard an electrical whirr and the sound of sparks. When I turned around, there was the mobile projector. Following me? Looked that way. It cast Peter onto one of the walls as it moved, walking along. The background scenery was now simply blackness, so only Peter was actually being projected. Gave the rudimentary appearance that he was occupying the room with me, if two-dimensionally. As he plodded along, as before, his eyes seemed to follow my movements. Could it really be watching me somehow? I studied the wheeled contraption anew, this time noticing something like a closed circuit television camera nestled in there among the wiring, vacuum tubes and so on. The next two rooms were behind doorways inset in the right hand wall. The first bore a sign reading “high speed xerography”. I pried it open with my multi tool. The only light inside came from a bulb beneath a fast moving spool of transparent plastic. I recognized the markings on it as frames of animation for Peter. Must have something to do with the roving projector in the corridor. Made that same incessant clickety clack, ratatat sound as the reel to reel projectors earlier. The dust was so thick that I had trouble breathing. Waving it away from my face didn’t help, only made the dust swirl madly about. I searched for a light switch and found one, but flipping it accomplished nothing. Another dead bulb. The next door bore a sign which read “Prototype dimensionalizer”. What? I pried the door, deadbolt tearing away a chunk of the wall with it. The inside of this room was as dark as the last, but this time the bulb worked. When I flipped the switch, after a long hum and some flickering, the room was at last bathed in warm tungsten light. I couldn’t understand what I was looking at. Something like a power transformer occupied half the room. The machine which occupied the remainder looked like a convoluted maze of small mirrors and lenses. For channeling laserlight, as I discovered when I turned it on. The first component to activate was a pump. For circulating coolant, according to the label. Next I heard various clicks, an electrical hum faded in, then something began to appear on the central pedestal. Faintly at first. Like a ghost. Then it grew increasingly sharp, clear and solid until it appeared to me as if the apple sitting on the pedestal before me was actually there. On a whim I reached out to pass my hand through it. Only it was solid. I couldn’t believe it even as I wrapped my fingers around its contours and picked it up. The damn thing had real weight to it! Without thinking I took a bite, then immediately spit it out on account of the bitter flavor. When I withdrew it the fruit bled a syrupy black liquid that, from the stains on my teeth and sleeve, I figured for ink. Only around the bite mark though. Somehow the core of the apple consisted only of static. Like what you see on a television not properly tuned to any channel. No seeds, no juice, nothing sweet to sink my teeth into. Just erratic black and white fuzz that I dare not touch. I set it down and did my best to wipe the residual ink from my hands and face, succeeding only in spreading it around. I continued examining the machine, this time searching for clues as to what the apple was made from. Instead I found someplace to load film or slides. The slide already in the machine was, unsurprisingly, a photographic image of an apple. No wonder it came out so realistic! On the outside, anyway. From a shelf by the transformer, I withdrew a spool of film still in its protective canister. Upon opening the canister and holding a length of the film up to the light, it turned out to depict a crudely drawn egg. I turned the machine off, then noticed a moment later that the apple was gone. Abruptly vanished into thin if it were never real? I puzzled over that for a few seconds, trying to work out whether the machine actually created a solid object or only a convincing illusion. Some sort of tactile hologram? Or actual conversion of light into matter? But then why did it vanish? Useless to guess, I decided. The only answers would come from experiment. With that, I carefully attached the spool and fed the film into the indicated slot. Curiosity was now firmly in the driver’s seat, urging me forward. Clickety clack, clickety clack. The projector lurched into motion, reels spinning, light slowly intensifying as something new appeared on the pedestal. Grainy, monochrome, yet with the appearance of solidity. As I looked on, cracks appeared in the egg. I expected a trickle of ink. Instead, a cartoon chick emerged. The creature appeared stylized in that old timey way, like Peter Possum. But with an undeniable physical presence. It finished climbing out of the shell and took its first steps. Is it alive? It moves, certainly. It cannot react to me, as those reactions would need to have been drawn in advance. But it occupies space, walks about, and presumably has an appropriate amount of weight like the apple. Who built this? How could such a marvel be kept secret for any length of time? If it really converts energy directly into mass, it’s a technological miracle. Did the state suppress it? Did they even know about this? Of all the possible applications, why cartoons? I continued to watch the chick, now rapidly aging into a hen. It strutted about, pecked at the floor, then laid an egg. The hen expired, decomposed into bones, then the bones wore away into dust before vanishing completely. The animation then looped, with the new egg just beginning to hatch as I shut the projector off. The partially hatched egg disappeared as abruptly as the apple before it. I ran my fingers through my hair, eyes wide, exhaling sharply in disbelief. Yet I could hardly deny what I saw. Was Can the machine create something that’s alive? I wouldn’t have said that about the apple, but I just watched the chick move around. If not life, then something close. However it couldn’t react to anything, simply carry out a series of motions drawn in advance. More of an automaton than a living creature. But then, aren’t we...? Is our behavior any less predetermined? What exactly did they mean to accomplish here? Why build any of this? If this is the prototype, what was the finished product meant for? A product of its time and place, I decided. That window of time when such bizarre, blue sky projects received unconditional government support. Guaranteed funding, little or no oversight provided they met whatever sort of quotas a theme park is expected to. The product of unrestrained creative vision and engineering brilliance, given temporary freedom to flourish. Only to then be forgotten. Derelict, abandoned beneath crumbling concrete ruins. What other projects like this might be out there, buried in some obscure, decaying facility? Nearly completed until the collapse halted further development. Stillborn, perhaps for the best. Seeing no feasible way to remove the machine, or to power it even if I did, I reluctantly left it behind and broke into the next room. I suppose I hoped whatever I found in here would explain the contents of the room before it. If anything, it only further confused me. Inside was an entire wall taken up with tape players, networked for some reason. Cables strung between them in a tangled mess behind the rack of archaic machines, red lights on the face of each one blinking seemingly at random. I swept my light around, found a switch and flipped it. Now able to see more of the room, I identified a tape storage bin by the door and picked one out to look at it. Each tape was labeled with what I recognized as the symbols denoting a particular phonetic sound. I stood there in silence, soaking up the ambiance around me. The clicks and whirrs of the tape players, the gentle hum of the electrical systems. A subtle buzz each time one of the little red bulbs illuminated. I couldn’t make sense of it. Why build all this? Technologically well beyond the scope of an amusement park ride, how did they keep it a secret post-collapse? Countless engineers must’ve been involved. The secret police couldn’t have ‘disappeared’ them all. Hoping for some answers I pressed on, head lamp illuminating only about twenty feet of tunnel before me. As I trudged along, splashing through occasional puddle, I began to hear someone talking in the distance. Reverberation as it passed down the corridor distorted the voice, such that I couldn’t understand a word of it until I was nearly on top of the source. I can’t really say what I was expecting. I didn’t come here for this. I came for closure. To find my sister’s bones and lay them to rest. Not to find rocity. This monument to perversion. I stood there, jaw hanging open at the spectacle laid out before me. Able to perceive, but unable to accept the reality of it. The corridor emptied out into something like a subterranean warehouse. Short lengths of chain dangled from various beams crisscrossing the ceiling, dripping sporadically. An immense projector screen hung from the far a certain possum doing his perpetual jig on it. Nearly all of the floorspace was taken up with row after row of workstations. Desks, each built around a light table, with a camera pointing down at it supported from an articulated boom. At each desk sat some poor slob, looking run ragged. As I circled cautiously around, from this vantage point I could now see that they were all restrained to their seats with the same harnesses used by some of the rides. The seats were nothing more than cushioned toilets. All of them worked furiously to draw frames. I got just close enough to recognize Peter Possum as the subject. Then it clicked for me. They were animating the figure on the projection real time. “Welcome to where the magic happens! ” Peter bellowed, the speakers in here much more powerful than those in the corridor. “Do you see now? The glory of a dream brought to life? ” At this volume I could for the first time detect a strange stilted quality to his speech. It brought to mind the room full of tape decks. Stitching together voice samples into whatever line he was meant to say, on the fly. The more I understood, the less I wanted to. The sickness of it overwhelmed my mind. Then it dawned on me. If these people were all lured here with tickets, Natasha could still be among them. My heartbeat quickened. A desperate shred of hope, but that’s all it took! I began to frantically work my way down row after row, carefully checking their faces one at a time. They fought me off when I tried to stop them from drawing. Panicked, fearful. What would happen if one of them missed too many frames? Do they even know? The prospect sufficiently frightened them that every time I tilted one of their heads back to get a look at his or her face, the miserable creature wailed, shoved me off and resumed work. I studied the nearest one and noticed a feeding tube passing right into his side. Conveying some sort of beige nutritional sludge into his stomach, maybe contingent upon meeting some quota of frames per hour. How old was he when he first arrived? Scanning the mass of huddled, weary slaves, I couldn’t detect any pattern to their ages. Men, women, girls and boys mixed indiscriminately. Some as young as ten, some as old as fifty. They all had a little red blinking light at the base of their neck. I leaned as close as I could without disrupting his work to study the gizmo more closely. A metallic cube with a miniature red bulb poking out, exactly like the ones I found in that room with all the dentistry chairs. Read the rest here.

Interesting theory. I've seen various versions of it that differ in the details but all start off with eruption of Santorini. Patterns of evidence the red sea miracle near me. Awesome, love it, amazing stuff. Please post videos more often, we are hungry for knowledge of the Lord. And we love all your stories we want to hear them all.

Patterns of evidence the red sea miracle dvd. Patterns of evidence the red sea miracle part 1. Patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle video. They knew how to make biblical movies back then. Patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle plant. Patterns of Evidence: The Red Sea miracles. Thank you Lord for preserving your sites and revealing them to your people! Thanks to Ron Wyatt for his humble obedient work to present the discoveries to us! Thank you Mary for this video and the truth behind it all. I am very blessed and fascinated by it. God harden pharaohs heart, unbelieving humans will always deny no matter how much evidence is presented. Only God can change your heart, but satan wants to take as many souls that he can before Jesus returns.

Thanks for all these series you are coming out with very much appreciated.
Amazing.
Patterns of evidence: the red sea miracle free.
“What if aliens don’t like tacos? ” Chelsea suddenly spoke, stirring me from my momentary malaise of the heavens and drawing my attention back to the terrestrial. My eyes shot to her, but she continued staring up at the night sky, head resting tenderly on her clasped hands behind her head. The grass of the meadow rolled serenely in the light breeze. “What? ” “Aliens. ” She again clarified. “What if they don’t like tacos? ” I pondered the philosophic conundrum for a moment, unable to stifle the chuckle. “Why would they not like tacos? ” “Well I mean… they probably never tried them y’know? Plus, their physiology could be altogether incompatible. If they’re not carbon-based organisms for instance, then tacos could be equivalent to cyanide for them. ” Her verdant eyes locked upon mine, and the two of us broke into a mutual laugh. It always amazed me how someone as well-read and passionate as Chelsea could seamlessly blend two radically different topics into a single conversation that actually made sense. I’d always tell her she was like riding a pogo stick; inspiring and goofy all at once. “I guess they’ll just have to eat chicken nuggets instead. ” I winked at her, alluding to an inside joke between us that had lasted several years. She just rolled her eyes and looked back out into the vast Milky Way galaxy, gleaming with all it’s splendor in the night sky. “Can I ask you something honestly? ” I though for and responded the only way that seemed appropriate. “No. ” I turned to meet her gaze, only to find her sneering back. “Where are they? I mean, why do you think they haven’t come here? ” I didn’t have a good answer for her then, and had no way of knowing how close we were to finding it out. Nor did I have any idea that it would be the last personal moment we would share. I should’ve made more of the moment, and memories do not fill the void. The next day came, and the two of us woke early to get into the lab before the others. We wanted to be the first to be there in case Bob had finally gone critical. ‘Bob’ in this case was Chelsea’s nickname for a star we had been observing for many years. It’s true name: Hydra 3267-b didn’t exactly roll off the tongue, and so Bob had become the shorthand. For over 13 years we had been glued to our monitors checking for every infinitesimal change in behavior. Bob was classified as a white hypergiant star; approximately 93 times as large as our own sun and calculated at over 167, 000 lightyears from earth. As you might have guessed, Bob was incredibly unique. Initial observation noted a large debris cloud that fogged the imagery equipment. It also seemed to pulse every once in a while, emitting sudden flares and gamma ray bursts. The star was highly unstable, and found to be expelling enormous bouts of matter at a torrid rate. Chelsea was the one who first discovered it, and from the get-go she seemed oddly entranced by it. Maybe she had a gut feeling, or maybe she really was the prodigy that so many believed her to be. She first spoke the theory that we had all began to subconsciously suspect; Bob the star was on the verge of going supernova. The claim was met with immediate skepticism from the others. Once they analyzed the data for themselves though, they were unable to come to a concise conclusion, as no one knows for sure what the progenitor signs actually are. Some chose to corroborate her conclusion, but most abstained from decision. Chelsea didn’t seem to care one way or another. She held firm in her belief that Bob was a ticking time bomb, and rapidly running out of fuse. Out of all the advancements in the field of astronomy over the last couple decades, we have yet to witness a live supernova. The last person to do so was Johannes Kepler himself back in 1604, and that was before telescopes had even been invented. There are remnants in the form of nebulas and black holes, yet the event itself has yet to be recorded with modern equipment. Finding a supernova in time to witness it’s explosion is like finding a single grain of sugar in a beach composed of all the sand on earth. There are mountains of hypothetical scenarios, but we still don’t know exactly how they work, and that was what made Bob/Hydra 3267-b so valuable. The two of us marched into the lab, lattes spiked with espresso shots to give us the energy needed to face another Monday. We had only just set cast off our coats and dried from the rain when Levi burst into the room. “Finally, you guys got here, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. ” I greeted him with a yawn, and glanced down to my phone revealing several missed calls and texts. “Levi… it’s still too early for phone calls; you know this by now. ” I replied. Levi chuckled and shook his head, adjusting the glasses on his face. “Well you picked a bad day to default to your laziness. ” The grin then grew wide upon his face, and I could see the excitement sparkle in his eyes. “It happened. ” Chelsea suddenly jolted to attention; her green eyes quivering inquisitively. “You mean…” She couldn’t’ even finish the thought. Levi just nodded, and quickly beckoned us toward the array station. “It was last night at like 2 am. ” Levi spoke looking over his shoulder as we hurried to the terminal. I chuckled to myself – because of course it had finally happened when we weren’t there to see it live. Levi punched in some commands and the computer began to load. I watched the display screen rotate around the familiar map of the cosmos and pinpoint our specified coordinates. The lens slowly began to zoom onto a point of light which grew more luminous and further pronounced with each passing frame. It soon reached the point in which the entire screen was engulfed by the effervescent blast, and that was when I knew it was real. “Is this it? ” Chelsea asked. Levi nodded and pointed towards the screen. “This is the location in which Hydra 3267-b was previously located. ” He then paused and shot a proud glance to both Chelsea and I. “Bob is gone. ” His words were met with only a stunned silence from the two of us. All the late nights running simulation programs and checking the data over ad nauseam. All the years we had spent waiting and hoping for the opportunity of a lifetime. It was all worth it; Bob had gone supernova. We had a telescope that was oriented to monitor that particular splotch of sky 24/7 in hopes of seeing it. Lucky we did that too, as otherwise it would’ve passed without us being able to watch. Levi quickly rewound the feed, and as the frames went by, the light shrunk inward and coalesced back into the star. He then hit forward slide, and we waited in eager anticipation. The star was seen shimmering, twisting and contorting the light it emitted as the nuclear fuel within it’s core had finally run dry. Gravity then took hold, forcing the star to collapse inward upon itself. The event finally reached the point of climax, and Hydra 3267-b burst into a magnificent stellar paroxysm. The light burst outward, expanding to envelope the entire feed of the telescope in seconds. I looked over to Chelsea, who stared with wide eyes and a hanging jaw. Tears had begun to stream down her alabaster cheeks. I remained silent, not wanting to risk ruining the moment with anything I might say. After all the work she had done, and her accurate prediction, it felt only right to give her the first words. “It’s beautiful…” Her words were accompanied by a small giggle of glee. I looked to Levi. “Is that it? ” I asked half-sarcastically. Levi chuckled, and nodded back. “For now, at least. I’m afraid we won’t be able to see much of the aftermath until the initial outburst dissipates. Should take a couple weeks at most. ” I turned back to Chelsea, still watching her stare in amazement at the whiteout on the monitor. I slowly put a hand onto her back, and she turned with tears glistening in her green eyes. “You did it. ” I said, offering a pensive smile. Chelsea wiped the tears from her eyes and grabbed my hands with a giggle. “ We did it. ” She argued, but I wasn’t about to let her off the hook. “I pushed buttons and drank coffee. It was you who found it. You who said this would happen… and now it has. The world’s very first glimpse of a live supernova, and it’s all thanks to you. ” Chelsea was always too modest in my eyes, and would seldom take credit for the accolades of her work. It was always ‘us’ and not ‘me’ for her, and although that mindset is to be commended on most occasions, I refused to let her live it down that day. The only reason we had achieved everything was because of her. Bob was her baby. Chelsea just smiled and melted into my arms, gripping tighter than her usual embrace. It almost felt as though her body was light as a feather in that moment; like all the stress of the years of waiting and wondering had all been jettisoned from within her and back into the universe. She radiated a glow of passion, and her touch brought serenity to my heart. If I were a poet, I’d like to think I would’ve written something comparing her with the cosmic burst we had just recorded, but alas, such skills have forever eluded my grasp. “Well, technically it wasn’t live because it happened 167, 000 years ago, but it’s still a nice sentiment. ” Chelsea looked up to me with her familiar smug grin; one she brandished heartily whenever correcting me on technicalities. “Just shut up and be the hero for once, would ya? ” She smiled back and I stared longingly into her eyes. It was like I was seeing her for the very first time, and falling in love once more. I know it sounds corny, but after all the heartache she had been through, it felt right in that moment. “Madelyn would be so proud. ” She nearly broke at the mention, and part of me recoiled a bit. I didn’t want to risk sullying the moment, but I wanted her to know it was true, and that every fiber of my being believed it. Chelsea leaned in, and her lips locked against mine. I like to think it was the best kiss of our lives. It stirred memories of our very first some thirty years ago, on a bridge overlooking a lake in New York. I was so nervous I almost flaked on picking her up, but showing up that night proved to be the best decision of my life. Love is easy at first. You go on dates and flirt like schoolchildren every chance you get. The years are the true trial, and your relationship is tested in ways you never imagined. The bills, the struggle to find work and purpose; but more than anything it is tragedy that tests how strong your bond truly is. Chelsea and I rose to every challenge, coming out stronger than before, but then there was Madelyn. She was our daughter, a cheery green-eyed girl who loved to paint. She always used to say she wanted to be an astronaut one day so she could wave at us while orbiting the earth in her spaceship. I’d give anything to hear her voice again. Chelsea and Madelyn were driving out to see some friends one day. The roads were slick, and covered with black ice despite the rapidly rising temperature. Chelsea lost control, and the car flipped into an embankment. Chelsea survived, but Madelyn did not. It was a freak accident, and something which was in no way the fault of Chelsea. I told her that too many times to count, but I don’t think she ever truly believed it. We tried for more children, and tried to move on as best we could, but it never seemed right. That day when Hydra 3267-b exploded into cosmic dust and gas was the first time I’d seen Chelsea wear a genuine smile since it happened. “What the heck? ” Levi’s voice suddenly ripped me from my waltz through memories, and back into the moment. “What is it? ” Chelsea asked. Levi continued scrolling through the frames of the feed, and pointed hand up to the screen. “You see that? ” He glanced back at the two of us, and we moved in for a closer look. The feed was almost entirely blotted out by the white flash produced from the supernova, yet on the lower quadrant there appeared to be a black line. It flashed for maybe three frames before suddenly vanishing. Two frames later and a black dot then appeared in it’s place. The subsequent frames then went on to show random dots and lines that would appear for a few frames and then vanish. There appeared to be no pattern nor immediate explanation for what was happening. “Gotta be a bug in one of the relays. ” I said, offering my half-assed explanation. “Yeah… maybe. ” Levi replied, pushing his hands to his chin as he watched the frames roll on once more. At a certain point it just stopped, and there were no further sightings of the dots or lines. That was weird that a photometry issue seemed to have resolved itself, but at the time I didn’t really put much concern into it. After all, we had a celebration to prepare for and the real work was about to begin. For the next few days the three of us obsessed over the data. We must’ve reviewed those frames at least a couple hundred times, trying to pick out every minuscule detail from the footage we possibly could. It took about a week for the initial flash to fade from our scopes, and then the real wonder emerged. Our various tests and analysis software seemed to confirm it was a type-2 supernova as we had predicted. The shards of cosmic debris had been flung for dozens of lightyears in all directions. One system, located approximately 50 lightyears from Hydra showed signs of devastating results. Several planets in the system had received a celestial bombardment of solar radiation. If by some miracle there was life on any of them, it was surely eradicated. Gamma ray bursts were projected to travel outward for hundreds of lightyears, but it would be awhile until we were able to observe the full extent. Around the previous epicenter had burst forth a colossal cloud of gas and superheated plasma that stretched for millions of kilometers. It was beautiful, painted with all variations of color and reminiscent of a flower blooming in the spring. At the center of it, the core of the star lingered in wild uncertainty; naked and in a radically different form than previous. Due to Hydra 3267-b’s colossal size, it was projected to coalesce inward and compact into an incredibly dense version of it’s former self. This process would give birth to what is known as a neutron star; one of the strangest and most fascinating objects in the universe. It took us awhile to find it, and the resolution of the equipment had to be adjusted several orders of magnitude, but there it was. It was only a fraction of a fraction of it’s former daunting size. The star that had once dwarfed the skies at over 3 million kilometers in diameter, had been condensed down to only 60 kilometers, or about twice the distance between Long Beach and LAX. This confirmed the presence of the aforementioned neutron star; an impossibly dense object with some truly bizarre qualities. The substance that composes it – known as neutronium, is unfathomably dense. One single cubic centimeter would weight nearly 50 million tons on earth, enough to break right through the crust and do some serious damage to the planet’s core. Fun fact: if you weigh about 150 lbs. here on earth, you would weigh roughly 75 million tons on a neutron star due to it’s immense gravity. Needless to say, you would also be dead as shit if you tried that. That find was significant in it’s own right, but we had also somewhat expected it. What we didn’t expect however, was when we realized it was rotating phenomenally fast. Neutron stars are known to do this, but our star took it to another level. The incredible force of the gravity exhibited by these stars exerts phenomenal pressure on the neutron star’s crust. Because of this they are wildly unstable, and matter tends to leak from their poles when cracks form in the surface. This matter is observed by anyone looking as flashes of light, which give it a sort of pulsing effect. Just imagine gluing two flashlights onto a basketball and then spinning it around and that’s basically what was happening. We monitored the pulsing for several full cycles of analysis, and eventually calculated it’s rotation at about 1. 36 per second giving it about 80 RPMs. Almost identical to the rhythm of the human heart beat. Chelsea was essentially glued to the monitor by that point, and we ended up staying late into the night, still without having announced our findings in an official capacity. It’s good we did that too, because not long after we discovered an anomaly. The star wasn’t always maintaining it’s same momentum. Sometimes it would slow to only about a quarter of a rotation every second, and others it would speed up to nearly 3 per second. It didn’t make any sense, although much of what we know about neutron stars is remedial at best. Every time one is discovered, something has to be amended. We didn’t notice the pattern in it at first, but we really should have. Chelsea then gasped and suddenly leaned away from the monitor, eyes trembling behind her steamed-up glasses. “Chels… you alright? ” Levi asked. I just smiled, somehow, I knew what she was about to say. “Magnetar. ” I couldn’t help but laugh as my prediction proved accurate. “Autobots, roll out! ” I shouted with a laugh, but neither of them seemed to appreciate my joke. “It’s a little early to be making that call isn’t it? ” Chelsea shot me a furrowed brow. “Joseph it has to be! It’s movement… it doesn’t make sense. ” “Yeah a lot of stuff about them don’t yet make sense. ” Chelsea seemed vaguely annoyed by my response. “Yeah, I’m gonna have to side with her on this one Joe. She’s been right about everything so far after all. ” I scoffed, furthering my wife’s irritation. That was just how our relationship always was; both of us always challenging the other’s assertions. “Everyone’s luck runs out eventually. ” I argued. The smug grin then returned to Chelsea’s face. “Not this time. ” For those wondering; a magnetar is not in fact the villain from Transformers, but instead a special variation of the neutron star. The biggest difference being it’s magnetic field which is so much more powerful than our own sun’s that numbers really start to become asinine. These magnetar’s are rare - maybe accounting for only 10% of all neutron stars, and incredibly vicious. Their powerful magnetic field acts as a buffer which slows the rotation speed, basically making them giant floating magnets of death in space. A flare from one of these bad boys is powerful enough to erase your cellphone from one-hundred thousand lightyears away. It was known that a magnetar would have a slower rotation speed, but what was unknown – and what we lacked the ability to explain was how it was able to speed up and slow down at random. I didn’t know what to make of that, and seeing as how it was almost 2 am by that point I decided to go home and sleep on it. Chelsea finally agreed to accompany me, and together the two of us left. Levi said he was going to hang around a bit longer, so we wished him a good night and headed home. The whole way back Chelsea talked in wild enthusiasm about all the possibilities our discovery represented. The passion that exuded from her every word and the aura radiating from her was truly beautiful to see. I guess more than anything I was glad that all her hard work and dedication had finally begun to pay off. Chelsea was out almost the instant her head touched the pillow, and soon after I fell fast asleep beside her as well. Our slumber did not last though, as a sudden shriek woke me in a cold sweat several hours later. I shot up in bed, frantic and with my heart thundering in my chest. In the darkness I heard Chelsea quietly sobbing. “Chels… Chels are you okay? ” I asked, managing to finally flick on the light. My eyes stung as the light accosted them, but after a moment of adjusting I saw Chelsea sitting on her side of the bed. Her knees were tucked into her chest, and she was shaking. “Chelsea what happened? Are you okay? ” I tenderly embraced her in my arms, but she didn’t react much. I felt her shiver, and tried wrapping her in the blanket when she spoke. “Madelyn. ” The words struck like knives into my chest. “It was just a dream hun. ” I tried reassuring her, but she didn’t seem to react. I’d always suspected that Chelsea suffered from PTSD with what happened to Madelyn, but she had never been diagnosed. She vehemently refused therapy, and every time I brought the subject up, she would wave it off. It wasn’t the first time she had nightmares. I stayed up with her after that, trying my best to comfort her and silently assure her that things were alright. She didn’t say much, just leaned into my chest and held me tight. I would’ve done anything to take away the anguish she was forced to bare. The sun finally cracked through the blinds of our room about an hour later, and I rose to put on some coffee. My focus was on my phone as I sifted through the meaningless drivel of the day’s news, when suddenly a call came through from Levi. “Levi, what did I tell you about calling this ear…” Before I could finish the question, a harsh grinding noise rang through from the other end. The sudden digital screech felt like an arrow through my headphones and into my ear canal. I ripped it out and shouted a couple expletives, spilling my coffee in the process. “Joseph? Joe you there? Can you hear me? ” The voice of Levi echoed through the phone as I grabbed a paper towel for the spilled coffee. “Yeah… yeah I’m here, what’s going on? ” “Are you on your way in? ” “Uh… we just woke up. Jesus Levi what time… are you already at the lab? ” “I found something. ” Levi spoke nearly cutting me off. “You need to get in here asap. ” I was taken aback for a moment. Levi refused to elaborate on what he was talking about, and just kept urging me to get into the lab. He hung up soon after, and I went to check on Chelsea. She seemed a little more relaxed than earlier, but perked up as I mentioned Levi’s call. I said he wanted us in as soon as possible, and she seemed to deflate. “Did he see it too? ” I didn’t know what she meant by that, and she didn’t bother explaining. We got ourselves ready as quick as we could, and soon after rolled into the parking lot of the lab. Chelsea was out of the car and inside in record time. Inside we found Levi leaning half-asleep on his arm at the monitor. He stirred as Chelsea scanned her card to unlock the door. There were bags under his eyes, and his shirt was stained with sweat. His cheeks were pale, and his hands trembled. “Oh thank god you guys are here. Check this out…” Levi eccentrically waved us over. He brought up several diagrams and the photometry analyzer program pointing excitedly at the screen. “These are the images from the initial blast; and also, the ones when we saw those weird blips remember? ” He looked to both of us and I nodded. The look on his face threw me off, as it wasn’t one of excitement for a new discovery, but more akin to one of utter dread. “Okay so, I spent a lot of time analyzing the images, and it corresponds to no known celestial phenomenon. When displaying these images the way they were received, I noticed the pattern. ” He then brought out a sheet of paper with a series of dots and lines upon it, but counter to what he claimed I saw no pattern within them. “Morse code. ” Both Chelsea and I eyed him with outright disbelief, and he pulled another sheet of paper that had two words written upon it. Stop watching. “That’s not all though. ” He then pulled a second piece of paper with even more segments of Morse code etched upon it. There were more words too. We know you are watching, turn back. “This was the code translated from the magnetar’s fluctuating pulses. ” I couldn’t help but laugh after that, as there was just no way that what he claimed was actually possible. “Levi… I think you need to get some sleep. ” Levi scoffed and grunted in annoyance. “Oh come on Joseph, measure it for yourself. It’s a message. ” “You think a dead star is trying to communicate with us using Morse code? You know how crazy that sounds right? ” Levi didn’t have an answer for that, instead he deferred to Chelsea. She seemed less skeptical than I initially imagined she might, and said nothing as she approached the terminal. I argued with Levi a bit more about the whole thing, but he refused to admit it was a prank on his part. He swore up and down that what he had found was authentic, and the sheen in his eyes told me he believed it. Finally, I managed to convince him to go and take a nap, as he clearly seemed like he needed it. Chelsea then gasped from behind me as I ushered Levi out. “What is it? ” I asked walking towards her. She said nothing, only continued rapidly adjusting coordinates. I posed the question once more, and again I was ignored. I was about to ask a third time, when the screen zoomed in and I found the answer for myself. Chelsea looked to me then, her lips trembling. “It’s gone. ” She spoke as if solemnly proclaiming the death of a loved one. “That’s not possible. ” I stepped in and made a few of my own adjustments, but nothing I did could locate the neutron star. She was right; it had just vanished along with all our recorded footage and evidence relating to it. “How the hell? ” I couldn’t even finish my own question, and found myself reeling for a logical explanation. “It knows we’re watching. ” Chelsea announced, only adding to my confusion. “Chels… it’s a damn star. A ball of gas and plasma, it can’t know anything. Don’t tell me you believe Levi. ” Chelsea took a deep breath, and spoke words that only confused and worried me more. “It hides in the stars. ” “What? ” “In my dreams Joseph, I saw it. It found us, it showed me…” Tears suddenly flooded her eyes, and she appeared on the verge of a mental breakdown. “It showed me everything, it showed me Madelyn. ” She started to cry, and I didn’t know what to do. The email alert then echoed from the computer. I glanced back as it popped onto the lower right corner of the screen. Chelsea then darted by me, and clicked on the email. The page displayed out onto the screen, and Chelsea held her hands over her mouth. I moved in and read the message. “You see me, I see you. ” The sender was listed only as a single familiar name: Bob. I laughed out loud again, unwilling to engage the charade any further. “Okay very funny Levi, you got us. Come on out and have your laugh. ” I walked away towards Levi’s office. He was out cold at his desk, or at least he appeared to be. Now somewhat annoyed I began to shake him. “Levi, wake up! ” “Mmm what… what are you doing? Let me sleep. ” “Levi you’re not fooling anyone, I know this was you. ” He groaned and lifted his head as he rubbed his face. “What was me? ” I scoffed. “The email… the messages… all of this. It was all your doing now just own your prank, and I’ll admit you had me going. ” Levi’s eyes then shot wide open, and he looked to me with an unrivalled confusion. “Emails? ” “Yes Levi, the fucking email you sent under the name Bob, it got me okay? Can we just move on? ” Levi seemed utterly bewildered at the accusation, and just shook his head. “Joe I… I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about. ” I had enough of his denial, and dragged him to his feet so that I could confront him with the evidence on hand. He and I stepped out of his office, and into a place I didn’t recognize. The lab was no longer a lab, but had inexplicably transformed into a jungle. Tall trees jutted from the ground straight into the skies, and foliage dripped with the morning dew around us. The terrestrial ambience of buzzing cicadas and croaking frogs echoed in the air around us. “Is this part of my prank too? ” Levi asked, but I no longer had an answer. The two of us walked slowly into a clearing up ahead, marveling at the scenery around us. Something then caught my eye; there was a child in the grove up ahead. He was dressed in a white robe and faced away from us, but standing motionless as if awaiting our arrival. Levi and I slowly walked towards him, as we didn’t know what else to do. When we got within a dozen feet I called out. “Hello? ” The kid didn’t budge. We stepped closer, and twigs snapped underneath our feet. The kid then twitched, and slowly turned around to face us. I felt my knees grow weak beneath me as I beheld it’s uncanny visage. It – for no longer did I suspect the boy was in any way human had a face unlike anything I’d ever seen or imagined. No more than jagged, black slits for eyes and a mouth, like some drunk person who carved a pumpkin. It was blurry, like my mind couldn’t even properly understand what I was seeing. “Found you. ” It’s voice was simultaneously high and low, and caustic to my ears. Before either of us could respond, the thing began to glow. In mere milliseconds I’d swear it’s luminosity surpassed even that of the supernova. I turned away, unable to bare the blinding light. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back in the lab. The forest was gone, and Levi and I were back. We both checked ourselves over, with neither of us able to reckon with what had just happened. “You saw that too, right? ” Levi asked, but I couldn’t even muster up a nod. My mind was reeling, and I felt panic encroaching from every angle like the black seas upon a sinking boat. Out of the corner of my eye, I then spotted Chelsea, sitting motionless at the terminal. I called out for her, and we rushed to her side. She didn’t respond, her gaze was transfixed upon the monitor. I tried getting her to respond, but she appeared hypnotized with the static upon the screen. I shook her, but she just kept staring. I was about to call 911 when suddenly she spoke. “It’s here. ” As soon as the words left her lips, the gates of Tartarus themselves unleashed. The static on the screens then faded to black, and a single eye then ruptured forth to breach the darkness. Eyes more numerous and inhuman than I could ever reconcile flooded the various screens, and I stepped back. The world then twisted and elongated around me in a sudden vertigo that robbed me of a clairvoyant mind. The room rippled and cracked, as pillars of obsidian burst from the ground into red skies above. The lab was discombobulated beyond all sense of rhyme and reason, yielding visions of places no human mind has ever conjured, nor eyes ever beheld. Nightmarish bubbles poured forth from the chasm, offering eldritch glimpses into an endless pantheon of worlds more innumerable than the grains of sand upon all the beaches of the earth. Beasts as large as skyscrapers stampeding along fields of glowing grass. Civilizations of countless sentient beings stretched from all iterations of time and space. Entities as large as stars gibbering and writhing in the dark tapestries of the endless cosmos. It was all too much. I could live a thousand lifetimes and not properly describe the sights unveiled in that moment. The unparalleled terror inflicted upon me in that moment was entirely beyond description. The visions given attested to a truth of the sheer insignificance of myself and every human being to ever exist. Somewhere deep within something stirred; a dread from the very depths of my subconscious that had suddenly been awoken. I felt the blasphemous presence of eternal quivering madness nibble upon the cortex of my mind. A primal horror that left me yearning to scurry into the darkest crevice imaginable and be entirely swallowed into nonexistence. Laughter than broke my stupor, and I looked to my side to see Levi, embracing something of abominable proportions. A large fleshy aberration with multiple heads, appendages and reproductive organs. Levi had locked lips with one of it’s heads, and thrusted vigorously into it’s dripping orifice as he laughed with the resonance of an eternally fragmented mind. I had to turn away, I knew there was no saving him. There was no saving any of us. For what hope can an infinitesimal humanity ever wager against something so vast and incomprehensible as the wretched mind around me? The menagerie around me faded into black, and I was left in the abyss alone. I looked to my hands and feet, and found I was still alive; suspended or standing on a void. Before me, two silhouettes suddenly blurred and became clear. Chelsea… and Madelyn. I rubbed my eyes, feeling tears surge from them and drizzle down my cheeks. I knew it wasn’t possible, and yet she stood before us. Chelsea began walking towards her. “Chelsea no! ” I called out, hearing my words lose all meaning as I spoke them. Chelsea turned back -her expression stone cold but with tears dripping from her eyes. “I have to go Joseph. ” I shook my head and wiped the tears. “Chelsea no it’s a lie, all of this is a lie! ” I shouted the words as loud and powerful as I could, but they faded into irrelevance, and even I myself did not believe them. “No Joseph, it’s the truth. The unity of all minds into one eternal place. We are broken, we need to be whole again. ” I could do nothing but shake my head and cry. “Come with us. ” She beckoned. “Please daddy. ” That voice; the sweet voice of my beloved Madelyn. A voice I had been robbed of by an apathetic world. I wanted nothing more than to embrace them both and be sealed forever in the abyss; away from the terror of life. But I couldn’t do it, for in that moment I understood what it was in the most feeble way I was capable. The endless eternal consciousness who cradles in a comforting dark, and the sweet caress of nonexistence. A state free from pain, anger, heartache, anxiety, depression and all other forms of human suffering. Together forever in endless shadow. The whisperer in the dark. The key to -and the guardian of the passage. Past, present and future all unified into one. I have no reason as to why I refused, or how I was even capable of it. Surely the entity as vast and eternal as that thing could snuff me out without even a thought. There can be no defying it, and yet I remained kneeling. Perhaps it wished to torment me, and allowed me to walk free and share the things I have seen. All I can say for certain, is I watched my wife and daughter fade into oblivion together, and I returned to my mortal plane. They never found Chelsea or Levi, and they never will. I was told by the time the other employees of the lab found me, I was huddled under a desk crying and laughing hysterically. Broken beyond repair from the sights I had been subjected to. I couldn’t even begin to relate the things I had seen to them, and I was taken into custody soon after. Authorities wanted to charge me with double homicide, but that proved difficult when there were no victims to be found. The charges were eventually dropped entirely, and I was released from both my incarceration and my former employment. A man with nothing, and no one. That thing haunts me every night with the same nightmare. I find myself upon a barren desert, with a glowing green ring lingering in a black, starless sky. I always walk towards it, and the thing hidden within starts to reveal itself. It has to be hundreds of meters tall, but beyond that, it’s features elude me entirely. Perhaps I am not even capable of understanding it’s full manifestation. There is a scale in astronomy known as the Kardashev scale. It’s a rubric developed by a Russian astronomer named Nikolai Kardashev, and has pretty much become the standard for identifying the advancement of hypothetical civilization. According to this scale, type 1 civilizations are those capable of harvesting the entire energy reserves available to it’s host planet. This includes petroleum, natural gas, wind, solar, hydro and any other potential form of power that is available on a given planet’s troposphere. Type 2 civilizations are those capable of harnessing the energy output of an entire solar system. This includes the other planets as well as the host star or stars. Type 3 can harness the energy of an entire galaxy. Usually this also includes more exotic forms of potential power like pulsars and black holes. There is no official type 4, but many astronomers and physicists have begun to list it alongside the others as the next step beyond type 3. This 4th type would comprise a civilization capable of harnessing extra-galactic energy sources such as dark energy and tachyon molecules. It gets a bit complicated at this level, as most of this is purely theoretical and not yet proven science. A type 4 civilization would essentially be equivalent to a god in our universe, as it would be capable of harnessing the energy output of the entire universe - or at the very least, countless other galaxies. As it stands now, our planet and all the feats we have achieved have amounted to us being classified as a type zero civilization. We do not even meet the requirements to reach the first rung of the Kardashev scale. In the grand scheme of things, we are little more than infants who have only just begun to take our first steps away from the cradle. There is much hope that we may reach Type 1 by the end of this century, but there are many roadblocks in our way, especially now. In seems the scale may need readjustment, as it didn’t account for one thing. Perhaps there are civilizations or entities that are entirely beyond classification altogether. Things that simply can never be categorized into any meaningful group, as the mere act of perceiving them is enough to drive the most astute of men into the gibbering depths of true madness. Whatever we found, exceeds the scale in exponential proportions. There is simply no way to wrap your head around it, and I know better than most, as for the last twenty years that has been what I have tried to do. The truth is, we are children screaming into a hurricane. Helpless at the whim of unimaginable forces that will forever be out of our reach. There is no relating, there is no fighting, and there is not even understanding in any significant capacity. This is Kardashev Type 5, the top of the pyramid on a level we cannot ever possibly hope to ascertain or truly understand. And now, after I have told my tale, I fear there is nothing more I have left to give. I have seen things beyond the scope of any mortal, and it has done nothing but leave me broken and yearning for the blissful ignorance I can never again possess. If that thing wishes to keep me alive and tormented, then I will defy it by the only means available to me. Now I go into the howling dark, to join my wife and daughter where I am meant to be. Together forever.
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2. Coauthor - Simply Biblical
3. Biography: Pastor Andy Thomas - Preacher, Teacher, Equipper of God's Holy Word, the Bible (church plant attempt: )