So I have a question. How does one make money with this blogging stuff? I’m serious here. Any advice, answers, guidance is appreciated. Since no one sees this I probably won’t get any response but I thought I’d try. Thanks in advance for any responses.
Let’s see if anyone see this. No one will so it really doesn’t matter what I write, does it? The day, a gray dreary day like most days around here, is cold (also like most days) and unpleasant. It is the day after Christmas and thankfully there is no work today. A small reprieve from the unending drudgery that is work. Yet tomorrow it begins again. The mind-numbing chore that work is. No future, no satisfaction, no purpose, no end. Who is the fool? I am. I have lost any interest I might have had in life. What I can see is a years long series of chores you do for others, rarely doing anything you personally desire to do. As time progresses and you have more “responsibilities” any interests one may have had are quickly extinguished from lack of time, lack of money, lack of desire. All drive one might have had to “do” gets beaten down by the work and the management/ownership of businesses. Any plans made are dashed. Plans cannot be followed because the money is NEVER there to do anything. Wages are kept as low as possible to ensure lifelong misery and entrapment into the system. Un-payable debt is encouraged continuously to further ensnare the common worker into a lifelong cycle of drudgery and broken dreams. Keeping the rabble/peasantry (the majority of humanity) down and depressed is the only way the elites can continue to live opulently in their distant realms, away from the real, day-to-day life of the vast majority. Face it, most work is meaningless tasks that only serve to enrich the very few. The future is dim, not bright for most. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, only the dark, cold of endless toil with no reward. Try to make a change and you’ll find obstacles at every turn, including your own self-doubt which is nurtured by employers (and all of society) all the time. You are ALWAYS looked at with suspicion, that somehow you are taking advantage of the employer even if it is as simple as getting paid for the labor you give them. They despise having to pay wages and always resent it. There is the daily reminder that they can get rid of you any minute always putting pressure on you, always causing worry that soon you’ll be out of a job and penniless, lose your home, starve. So, what to do. Nothing. I have run out of options. Only endless drudgery and disappointment. So what is the forecast? Continued darkness and mind-numbing chores until you physically can no longer function as far as I can see. Gloomy and depressing isn’t it? No future, no hope, except for a select few. Thoughts? There will, of course, be none because none will see or read this rant, so who cares. I’ve done this mostly to get rid of some of the negative vibes I have (and there is plenty more, I assure you) and to run a test to see if anyone reads this waste of time “blog.” Hopefully I will get a reaction but I know I will not. Enjoy and have a dark day!
Here is the beginning of a new tale, let me know what you think…
File 7, Copyright 2016, James R. Colbert, Jr. House of Darkness Publishing
There is a building, near the center of the complex, building forty-two. It sits a little apart from the others around it. Most of the other buildings are within twenty feet or so of each other, but not building forty-two. When it was built, the surveyors made certain that the distance was no less than fifty feet from any other structure. None of the buildings stand out for their architectural style, least of all building forty-two. All of them appear to follow a certain drab style, utilitarian, grayish white in color, ranging from three floors to as many as eight floors in height, all approximately with the same floor plan, each level containing the same number of square feet. At first glance, building forty-two seems much like the others, except for the extra distance from the other structures. It’s painted with the same plain, grayish white color scheme. Its height within the typical range, the dimensions of it’s outer walls also appear to give the impression of sameness with the rest of the complex, just another building, nothing seems very different about it.
Except that if you could get close enough, if you spent some time in building forty-two, you would see a few differences. They are subtle; easy to miss in the first few hours and days you spend there. The initial thing you’d likely take note of is the fact that the main entrance has a supremely heavy-duty door. More like something you might find in a bomb shelter. Of course, since everyone that works in building forty-two has to hold a level four or higher security clearance, you’d probably figure that a building filled with such high level personnel would be likely to have such a door. It would make sense. So would some of the other things you’d notice. The thick, tempered glass windows that don’t open, the separate elevators that only service a single floor, the fact that the outer walls are thirty percent thicker than the rest of the buildings in the complex, all these could be justified, it is, after all, a high security building. No, what would truly make you realize the building was a very special and very dangerous place, the one thing that would pique your senses that something was different about building forty-two was stored on the fifth floor. Room 502. Where records were stored. Where file number seven was kept.
I know what the media has told you, that file number seven doesn’t exist, that such talk is pure conspiracy; what else would they say? To admit such a thing would ruin everything their masters have long been working toward. The puppet-masters can’t allow that! I would expect nothing less. There was a time, only a couple of years back, that I would have been just as skeptical as you are. Look, I understand this is hard for you to accept, but that doesn’t make it any less real. I was there dammit and I know what I saw, what I learned. The facts are the facts. Believe me, I’m the first person who’d want this to be different, for the truth of what I’ve seen to be untrue. I wish I’d never set foot in building forty-two. I wish I’d never been assigned to the Department of Records. I wish I’d never mistakenly unlocked Room 502. And most of all, I wish I’d never opened file number seven. Once I explain what was in that file, what I read, what I saw–God forbid that anyone should learn that such evil exists–once you know what I know, then you’ll understand why I did what I did. It had to be done, I had no choice, none. I know you’ll see then.
Dark thoughts for a dark day.
Cycle of “Life”
What is life but a short interruption of the long dark?
Filled with mostly unhappy, unwanted events and actions, “life” (and “work”) mainly consists of years of discontent and discomfort, doing things you don’t want to do for people you don’t want to do them for, mixed in with small, fleeting moments of pleasurable experiences.
Life is grossly overrated for the vast bulk of humanity.
Yet, people keep going, hoping things will be different the next day, but they are not. The best hope is for the next day to be a bit less awful than the day before.
Seriously, do you actually “like” your job? Really? Is it something you actually look forward to doing (everyday) and deeply desire to do it? Or, like most people (including me) do you despise your daily tasks. Do you dread going to work almost everyday? Do you get sick opening the mailbox to see a fresh round of unending bills that you can never hope to pay off? Have you ever taken notice that sometimes a job is “important” and other times that same function it is not? Like when one of the high and mighty are speechifying about how important every “team” member is and how important each job is to the success of the business. (You certainly wouldn’t know that going by the rate of pay for these “important” jobs.) Yet, when they are not on stage performing, the same people will hold their nose as one of the more “lowly” laborers comes near. It’s obvious that this is just theater meant to pacify the working class “rabble.” If you want to see, it’s there to behold. Be honest with yourself, whenever you hear from management/ownership types about an open door policy, you know that’s just so much smoke being blown up you know where. While there may not be any official caste system in place, it is alive and well. The “haves” do everything they can to make sure their club remains firmly in their control and rarely allow any of the common folk any access to their world. They work hand in hand with government acolytes to erect obstacles (regulatory, taxation, licensure, etc.) to any outsider’s efforts to get ahead. Anything that will keep the unwashed away from their carefully maintained ivory towers.
The crocodile tears flow when the elite drone on about how much labor costs are, how there’d be no possible way they could afford to pay a couple of more dollars more an hour, how they’ll have to replace low wage workers with robots because that’s the only way they’ll scrape by. This is coming from people who’s companies profit millions, hundreds of millions of dollars (even billions of dollars) per year, year after year. This coming from the small percentage of the people (less than 5% of the population) who control over 90% of ALL wealth on the planet, leaving the rest of us to attempt to live on the remaining 10% (or less). Government panderers who proclaim to have the answer are liars. THEY are a huge part of the problem to begin with. They are all misleaders, deceivers. They work hand in glove with the ruling elite, they are part and parcel of the same.
We have all been conditioned for generations that work for low pay is good (for us, the unwashed rabble), that hard work for low pay is even better (more lies). That delaying our desires and wants is a good thing, all the while the elite class lives a full life of instant gratification by using our labors to their advantage. These types will sit in front of their opulent mansions and tell you (and me) that we must make sacrifices they do not and will not. As they sit in their $100,000+ luxury vehicle they will tell you (and me) that we should downsize, even carpool to “save” money. They will tell you (and me) that we should eat less food, do less, spend less. They blame us for our lack of spending discipline when we (the common folk) run low on money. A majority of regular, normal working people have less than $1,000 in a bank, not because we spend unwisely but because we are NOT paid enough to live in the modern world. Most people in America make less than $30,000 per year, and that’s before the ruling elites confiscate a percentage for taxes, so you can figure most of us bring home under $25,000. And that, my friends, is simply not very much money today. So the next time you hear about how important you are at work you know they (the ownership/management class) are simply parroting a PR line they’ve been told you want to hear. Believe me, if you (or I) died on the way to the job tomorrow we would NOT be missed, not one bit, other than upsetting the master plan, the management would have to reassign others to cover our part of the work process until they found a replacement cog (oops! I mean worker). And maybe if the work got done anyway (which is normally what would happen) you wouldn’t be replaced at all. The other commoners would be expected to simply work harder, after all, that’s good for you, right?
Working for a (minimal wage) living sucks. Period. Working for anyone other than yourself is little better than indentured servitude. Regardless of what you do for a job. No matter where you work. All of it is the same everywhere. Working accomplishes nothing. Not personally, nor on a larger scale. You will not make any gains financially. You will not get any real satisfaction from working because typically you are not doing something you enjoy. Working for minimal compensation creates undue stress, false hopes, family strife, and lifetime debt, as you pursue the false promise of a better life through work. Banks and businesses work together to promote the false narrative of working (for others) for a minimal wage living. Big changes are coming and we may well see (hopefully) the mighty elite class destroy themselves. Unfortunately, many of us will perish along with them. But there is the slightest of hope that a new way will keep the psychotic elites out of control once the current system collapses. Let us hope that a non-government, non-interference, pro-freedom and liberty system rises soon. Only then can we break the enslavement of the government/business cabal and actually live as we were meant to. Free.
And here it is, Chapter 12 of Ageless! This is the last part of, Book One, Lazarus. We hope you have enjoyed the story so far! Please let us know your thoughts about Ageless. look for much more coming soon!
By James R. Colbert, Jr. and David R. Smith
Book One: Lazarus
The first thought Lucy had when he saw Darin West was: I’m getting too old for this shit. She didn’t say it aloud, but instead pushed a soft smile to her lips, slid off the wagon, and came resolutely around to the man she’d been looking for and courteously extended her right hand beaming with forced amiability.
“Darin West?” Lucy asked. She managed to make her query sound pleasant.
“That’s right,” the old man replied. “But most people just call me D.W.” He then winked flirtatiously. “You can too, if you share my dislike for needless formality.”
The look on his scruffy, overly-confident face showed that he considered the matter settled, and from the tone of his voice Lucy could tell that in West’s opinion everything would be agreeably cooperative right from the start.
“What can I do for you, little lady?” West asked, ignoring the too-friendly overture he unassumingly projected.
Fear touched at Lucy’s chest as she began to sweat. The manner in which West moved about, acting almost as if he owned the station, seemed he were measuring her up for size.
“My name is Lucy Haverling.” She answered blithely, her hands in her pockets. Eagerly, she examined the voluminous crowd lining the nearby wall waiting to trade with the station’s patrol as she spoke. “I’m an electrician working my way south – towards the southern tier. I was told you might be able to offer me some assistance.”
“Is that right?” West scrutinized the girl for a moment, and then turned his attention to the station’s patrol. “Good with electronics, I suppose.”
“Yes. In fact, quite good.” Lucy regarded him steadily. For all she knew West’s preoccupation with the crowd was simply a rouse.
“Is that your private opinion?” West met her gaze guilelessly.
“Private and public.” She retorted. “The gov’s pleased with my work.” She then quickly added, “As pleased as the slavers could be.” Lucy winced, but outwardly remained impassive. It cost her an effort, though. She wondered what West really thought. What was actually going on inside that skull of his? The old man seemed disturbingly clever. West was definitely nobody’s fool.
“That’s pretty much my understanding, too,” West replied. “I mean, about the government and all.”
West looked Lucy over. “I’m under no compulsion to hire. Mostly, I travel alone.” He spit on the ground. “Mostly.” Lucy nodded, her expression still guileless.
“Of course.” West continued, and with an effort Lucy cooled down a trifle. “I am headed out that way and could possibly use your services.”
A grin burst across Lucy’s face, real this time and completely unforced. “Hey, you’re the boss. What you say goes.”
“You would be working for your fare, let’s just get that straight.” As they talked they began to walk along the busy, yellow-lit tiers of the station’s offices. “I presume you have already taken that much for granted.”
“Yes, sir,” Lucy replied.
They had come to the edge of the station and were now looking out across the lake. To the left of them rose impressive banks of equipment – machinery of every shape and size, metal bands, and bundles of wiring. West studied it as though it was the precisely reason he came there. For the first time, West’s face lost its breezy confidence. A sick, dismayed expression crept into his eyes, a mixture of shame and moral shock. “That’s not — pleasant,” he murmured under his breathe. “I didn’t realize they were so-” He groped in his mind for the right word, gesticulating. “-prepared.”
“What’s the matter?” Lucy asked curiously.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing at all.”
Darin West tossed the solemn expression aside and turned rigidly to face Lucy. “We leave first thing in the morning.”
*Copyright 2016, House of Darkness Publishing, All Rights Reserved
The story continues! This week, Chapter 11 of Ageless!
Book One, Lazarus
Kyle Moss, Records Clerk 2nd Class (RC2C), wasn’t very happy. He was supposed to compile everything in the old, moldering files from the dank, crumbling, nearly forgotten restricted section. Virtually all of the files he was assigned to retrieve were either handwritten or typed out on paper. The damn things probably haven’t been looked at since who-knows-when and probably contain nothing of any use to anyone today. They stunk with the unmistakable odor of mold and decay. Much of the paper was stuck together and all but impossible to separate without ruining them. And guess who got assigned to go through it, him!
“This is bullshit!” Kyle said aloud to himself. “This is what a level 3 clearance gets you? I should be doing something more important, not stuck down here in this stinkin’ dungeon!”
He had been told this was a priority assignment but when he found out what he was supposed to do, he thought there had to be a mistake. What possible information could be a priority down here? The rumor was that Colonel Janus himself wanted these files put together and brought to him asap but Kyle found that hard to believe. What would the head of SOG6 want these old files for? Then again, Johnny Scanlon, his friend over in the com division, had told him last week, before he even got assigned to this crap, that his brother told him about a special operator that was supposed to be infiltrating some outland settlement. They were trying to take out some rebel leader, or something like that. Scan’s brother was a Lieutenant First Class in the Internal Security Branch for Region 23, so Kyle figured there had to be some truth to the rumor but he still couldn’t imagine what Colonel Janus would want with these moldy, nasty, old files. Although Kyle wasn’t supposed to actually read any of the material, just sort by file number and ensure any seals were intact and re-seal as needed, he did glance over a couple of the broken seal files…just to make sure there was no damage he’d be blamed for.
The little he did read mentioned some doctor named L. Stewart who lived before the war for chrissakes, and something about the plague. He also noticed that every file was stamped Level 5, one of the really old security codes used before the war. He knew this was only used for files meant to be seen by only a handful of the most senior people. Kyle sure didn’t understand what the top brass would want with such old crap but he did know enough to realize his ass was toast if anyone suspected him of actually reading any of them.
Kyle closed up the file as though it contained a nest of vipers and after carefully ensuring everything was in order, resealed the file. It looked as good as new.
There, no one will ever know. Kyle thought to himself. I sure don’t want Colonel Janus coming down on me.
Kyle didn’t even want to know what would happen to him if that bastard found out he’d looked at these. Kyle now just wanted to finish up as quickly as possible and quickened his pace. Within the hour, everything was complete and properly packed for transport to SOG6 headquarters. Two hours after that Kyle was at his usual table at Saints and Sinners Entertainment Club trying his best to forget all about his day. The beat of the music, the cold vodka tonic and the dancer in front of his table were all helping out immensely.
Copyright 2016, House of Darkness Publishing, All Rights Reserved