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The Fuel


Karina cried to herself and I sat next to her on the sofa, trying to console her. Her mind kept flashing back to the assaults and she couldn't take herself out of the vortex of the trauma.


"I'm so happy the Regime didn't hurt me when I was pregnant," Karina said.


It dawned on me that The New Order Regime never knew about Boris and Betina.


"Did anyone find you under the bridge? Besides Rambo?" I asked.


"I found her sleeping with the newborns at the end of the block near the tunnels," Rambo said.


"That means you're the only Royal alive, Karina," my Father said. "Boris and Betina are your heirs. They can easily take the new governing power over The New Order Regime."


"That's not my goal, Mr. O'Connor," said Karina. "I just wanted to live happily ever after."


"But, if you had a choice to take the government or say something about it, you'd be the first person who should," said Rambo.


"I want to wait until Betina grows up. She's my first born and Boris is next by 4 minutes," said Karina. "I will nurture them to be leaders. I think families are sovereign, and Royals are allowed to live and be as they are, especially if they help others. We are just families, like the families of Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield. The Ting Dynasty never harmed anyone."


"That's fair, but how will we tell everyone what happened? The world accepted the Regime," said Rambo.


"If we expose Pearsons and Baptiste, we will show how corrupt they are and show the world that they are not fit to be the world's leaders," my Father said.


"What should we do about the energy shortage, and the macaroni and cheese shortage," I asked.


"Why must we all have to eat macaroni and cheese? The whole world is eating the same thing, and now there is a shortage in their production. What are we supposed to eat now?" Rambo said.


"It's the staple foods, we all eat macaroni and cheese. That's just what we eat," I said. 


"How come only certain items are available to Tier 1 only?" asked Karina.


"I eat popcorn, that's what I eat besides mac and cheese," said Rambo.


"Popcorn is available at all Tiers," my Father said.


"Why not bacon?" asked Karina.


"That's a Tier 1 item," said Rambo. "Tier 2 and 3 eat everything in pre-packaged containers, like macaroni and cheese. Meats and vegetables and fruits are mostly for Tier 1."


"Why not bacon?" I asked. "Meats and certain vegetables and fruits are for Tier 1 only. I don't see why we can't eat that instead of macaroni and cheese, or just pasta. Why can't we live as people, not as animals in the mills of Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield?"


"That's not what we are used to eating," said my Father. "It's just what we know."


"Princess Diana would let Karina have bacon," I said. "She was a Royal. She was a lovely Royal. I read about her in history."


"The Princess with the Heart of Gold," said Rambo.


"I grew up wanting to marry Princess Diana," my Father said.


"It's a matter of greed, isn't?" asked Karina. "Only certain Tiers can eat certain foods, and the fine items belong to the Regime. With Giuseppe Baptiste and whoever this Pearsons Rockfield is, distributions of foods and incomes are not equal. Even when they say they are. They claim they give equality for all, but that's not true. The vulnerable and the homeless are still vulnerable and homeless, and worse yet, we can only eat certain foods conditioned for our social class. With this fascists and communist New Order Regime, we now bow to Giuseppe Baptiste and his counselieri, Pearsons Rockfield."


"What do you eat Karina?" I asked. "And you're right about The New Order Regime. They don't believe in equality."


"I go to the vending machine and eat whatever is there," said Karina. "The Regime only want everything that benefits the Regime."


"Will you eat apples?" I asked. 


"Why apples? Because I'm a vulnerable?" said Karina. "They offer that at the vending machines and the shelters, but nothing else. At some point, it becomes an insult."


"I'd eat apples if I was offered it," I said. "It's healthy."


"Bacon!" said Karina. "What else is left now? Macaroni and cheese are gone, and I wish I can eat that, but the Regime is taking that away from us."


"Father,...," I asked my Father for help, because although I was yearning for macaroni and cheese too, I knew we had to eat other foods. 


"When the old world existed, there were programs for the people, of all income levels. We can purchase any levels of products at our convenience. Nothing was a staple, although some people do love certain types of foods, but we were not all conditioned to eat macaroni and cheese the way The Regime did to us. We had opportunity and individualism, and our accomplishments and excellence were ours to enjoy and savor. Now, it all has to be part of the benefit of The New Order Regime," my Father said. "I think it's strange how Giuseppe Baptiste could just tell everyone what he wants and people do it. To think, he acquiered the world through murders."


"Why not purchase whatever Tier 1 is left," said Rambo. "There might still be foods left behind. Tier 2 and 3 must all have emptied the isles and rows at Knox."


"Karina, will you eat some apples if we have to?" my Father asked. "We will have to buy whatever fruits and vegetables are left behind, and especially apples."


Karina looked to me and my Father, and told us, "I suppose so. But, what else would be left now?"


"We will have to go to Knox and see," said Rambo. "I still have popcorn."


"We can't live on popcorn alone," my Father said. 


"I could," I said, as Rambo and I high-fived.


"Bacon, please," said Karina.


"We will get bacon for Karina," said Father. "Princess Diana would be proud of us."


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Pearsons Rockfield, The Black Mollys, and The Choi Militias

"Dana, we're on, tell us what you found out," Father spoke to his wrist hologram.


"I got November 3rd, for Giuseppe Baptiste's performance at Capitol Hill lawn," I told Dana through my Father's wrist phone.  

"He's going to have guards, and militias and dogs," Rambo said.


Karina sat on the couch in our living room, just sitting with the babies after a full day of observations with my Father at Banner.


"Karina, you can listen in, to tell Dana what you know," Father said.


"Yes, Mr. O'Connor," said Karina. Her fingers wrapped inside Betina's hands as she held Betina in her arms. Boris was laying asleep, very much in bliss.


"I remember the tattoo. It's on the arm of a man who counsels Baptiste, since he was young. Pearsons Rockfield," said Dana. "I know because I was once his men, and took orders from him to annihilate the Laos Royals."


"From the world reknowned Rockfield family? The robber barron?" Rambo asked. "I remembered them. They were also murdered by someone and their riches were transferred to The New Order Regime."


"Pearsons killed them, because Pearsons wanted something that Rockfields had. Money, power and control." said Dana. "Pearsons was adopted by them, and he learned so much from the Godfather Rockfield, but he turned on them because he told Rockfields that he wanted a Black Europe."


"What do you mean Black Europe?" Rambo asked. "I've never been to Europe."


"Pearsons was the descendants of a slave, and Baptiste was his protege, but Baptiste was Italian and French, so after the Rockfield family was annihilated, Pearsons wanted the control and power, but knowing he was guilty, he used Baptiste as his pawn," said Dana. "Pearsons know another member of The New Order Regime, The Black Mollys and The Choi Militia. They all wanted a Black Europe, where Black meant death to the Royal families if they don't have control of their kingdom. Basically, for all peoples of Europe to become The New Order Regime or Black Europe."


"So they can't call Europe as a union anymore, and they changed it to Black Europe because they want only The New Order members to live in Europe. Who are they?" I asked, wondering why it was so important to have a Black Europe.


"It is their take on soul privilege. They felt if they annihilate big and well known families, royals, and first families, The New Order Regime members will receive favor from God, and also their souls become invincible and their lives will become rich, and thus, they have privilege in this universe," said Dana. "It's an old myth that if they rape, pillage, and murder, they become stronger. But, it actually brings blood shed and it hurts the world and Mother Nature becomes angry. I truly believe that's how The White Plague came about. The fascists communists want equality and they were hurt that certain people were born into a powerful lineage. So they hurt everyone, so The New Order can gain control. Actually, for Pearsons and Giuseppe and their friends to gain control."


"I thought The White Plague was a virus that attacks the cornea that started in France? Then became infectious," said my Father. "We did studies on it, and it truly was an infectious disease, well known now, and there is no vaccine for it. We all should be wearing face shields."


"The point is, Pearsons and Baptiste are two creatures with alike motives. They want control, and they succeeded, but the sad part is, now they're hungry for more. That's why they raped Karina," said Dana. "They want to make sure Karina won't be able to survive, and they won't let her succeed. Were they looking for her to hunt her down?"


"Yeah, some of the government men were looking for her," said Rambo.


"That's the Black Mollys and the Choi Militias," said Dana. "The Black Mollys used guerilla warfare to destroy businesses and turned them into fish stores, only to sell Black Molly Tetras. They bred them in house and released them in the fresh water to destroy the wild life and killed the algea population and the salmon breeding season. People called that group, The Black Mollys because there are a lot of them, and their leader is a female fascist communist, named Molly."


"Was she a member of The New Order?" asked Rambo. "Why does she have to destroy people's lives like that?"


"This woman, Molly, is a close friend of Pearsons, and her close confidant is Choi, a fascists communist terrorist. They both work for Pearsons and The Rockfields before the White Plague hit. They hurt people to gain control over businesses and to spy on Royal Families and First Families, to ultimately gain control over other countries and annihilate the people in those countries. I bet they will all come to the performance on November 3rd," said Dana.


"The Choi militias, who are they?" my Father asked. 


"They're the freedom fighters of the late Kim Jong Un," Dana said. "The whole world was a mess when they hurt everyone. There was chaos, and 1 in every 2 women were sexually assaulted. Children were abused, men were brutally murdered. All of the goodness of the world were gone, because the people chosen to do the good work for humanity were all killed.The Royal Families in Laos were murdered by the Choi Militia."


Karina turned around and told them, "I didn't want to do anything special. I wanted to write and become a journalist, then get married and have children."


"They found out who you are, Karina. You have to give up the journalist and writing career," said Dana, as the hologram became fuzzy.


"Dana, are you there?" said my Father, losing connection.


"I will have to go. I think The Black Mollys and The Choi Militias kept a tab on my phone," said Dana. "I'm retired, but they might still be on my systems." He shut off his hologram, and the living room was still.


"How will we expose them? The New Order Regime?" asked Karina. Boris started whimpering as he wanted his mother's cuddle. Karina put down Betina on one side of the couch, and took Boris into her arms.


"Well, we have the solar cells, but there is an energy shortage and no one has mac and cheese so the whole world is grumpy," said Rambo. "I think everyone wants an explanation."


"We can hack into the government channels at the Post building and tell the whole world, on November 3rd," said my Father. "But, we have to wear masks."


"Didn't a man do this once upon a time and got jailed for it?" I asked. 


"Breaking into the security walls of every television channel and exposed the government? Well, he would be 600 years old by now," said Rambo.


"It was Julian Assange," said my Father. "He was found guilty."


"I wished The New Order Regime would just build a website and create their manifesto, instead of raping women," said Karina.


"They're not that smart. Besides, they probably have poor writing skills compared to you, Karina," I said.


"I wished people weren't violent to me," said Karina. "I wished people were smarter than this."


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Sacred Beings

There is prescience in preserving our lives, although trauma and violence struck at a young age. The walk may never be admirable and full of thorns, but the honesty and truth it shows are valor to justice. When the rest of the unjust rebute their innocence, we, victims of violence, remain to be the trustworthy, the honorable, and the sacred. Simply, because we are the hurting, and the infliction is from the sadists's crime. 


The walk turns into running on gravel, because it can be tiresome alone and what we deserve is fuel to keep going. I think of myself as the wonder woman, no pun intended with my name, Diana, but let the truth reveals itself. The illness from the traumas and violence manifests in so many different ways, but my channel of creativity supports the innocence who can't speak for themselves, those ashamed of the past, and those who wants to hide. I take pride in my walk, because I am sacred, as all victims of violence are.


Which leaves us to wonder what to do with the criminal minds and those who never saw punishment? They are not sacred. They are foul play. They are all sadists criminals. Their actions are the same of the corrupt minds, who destroys and abuse, worthy of judgement, especially by God. I never make any rules, just an intelligent and sacred human being, worthy of trust and honor. 


It is easier to trust me and we, the victims of violence, than to trust the latter. Why? Less crimes, obviously, and less sin, and your lives leads to heaven. God makes these rules, not me, and I profess with all honesty, that I remain as loving and compassionate as I am. I love victims of violence, because we are the majority now, and the world will keep going, and we choose to love one another, and the myth of us being the wretched is superstition. We work hard on healing, and will keep going. 


Our love endureth, as mine always will. Just write.

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Decaf Please!

Pre-sexual assaults , I caffeinated thrice a day, nursing my same cup of coffee while pouring fresh dozes of it every four hours. Fast forward twenty years, as I adapted to my post-traumatic-stress and depression, I nurtured my mind with the same flavor but oh so different chemical compounds. It wasn't my choice, it somehow found me. Thanks to the deceit of my favorite baristas.  


I thought it was coffee, but it was decaf. The same effect of the jolt, with lesser emotional roller coaster. Cowardice for the caffeine enthusiasts, but I was not ashamed of it. I purposely told every Starbucks barista for it, and even with the occasional cold brew, I felt less guilty. I didn't hurt anyone, just kicking a knotch up my day. Why mess with a good thing? A little treat for a traumatic woman meant a blissful satisfaction that cured today's emotional problems.


If I forgot it, I felt it, and I'd ask for another cup. Somehow, letting them deceive me felt good. I wondered why I loved it so much, because I only like it with 2 percent milk and no sugar. There was so sweet details about it, instead it's just plain. But, it helped me cope. It didn't change my situation, but it changed my thought process, and that changed my attitude in life. 


For this my fifteen minutes of free write, I've rambled about nonsense to some, but it truly did made my day to be honest and have the same taste with less crazyness. It might not be a big deal, but it was, to me. Maybe this blog helped no one, because it gave a close and personal look of my life through my eyes, but when I created it, I hoped it helped at least one person, even a little. 


Next time, no coffee, but decaf only.


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Flashbaacks told me every day of my mistakes, labelling me with the world's hatred. The soul ties felt recent and their curses felt like skin. It pulled me below the Earth and I needed to escape. What fault did this survivor do that called those sadists into action, because the wounds felt so deep marking me for the grave.


The psalms told me to wait patiently on the Lord, and to delight in Him. What else could I do besides so? I fear God, because He allowed the suffering. I question the greater purpose and I question His love, yet I longed for His words as if an unquenchable thirst that sought wisdom all throughout my life.


I wished wrong choices was never my mistake, but cast the first stone O thy righteous ones. Let not thy mouth utter judgement against me. 


Trusting, I shall lead a peaceful life, expecting nothing, surrendering everything. Must I ask for the world's permission? To choose sovereignty for my own freedom and justice? I shall write forever, even till death because His trust on my writing has always been worth more than their crimes. 


Perhaps one day, the world trusts survivors and their stories, and let justice be upheld. The intrinsic choice has to be made real, to trust the victim, and not the perpetrator.


The cliff hanger called my life felt scary at times, because I went through the worst of times, yet still expecting the best of times. Writing was my saving grace then, and it still is now. I felt it was the only way out, because the devil lurked at every corner, kicking my heels as he watched me stumbled down like a wobbly child.


Sometimes, I wished I had a different life. Sometimes, I wished my life was easier to live. But, still, I am grateful I am alive.


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Breathing in, I let the tendrils of anxieties relax into a perspicacious gentleness from fears, noticing control over emergencies. Letting oxygen slowly escape through my teeth, courage out of the tensions settle into my chest.


Inconspicuously, courage stays through my life without my knowledge, although I expected provision and aid, yet no one came. It is standing alone breathing in cold air, although I yearn for his tall stature and long arms wrapping me inside his body. Courage leans in, holds me and moves me forward.


With the prejudice of comparisons and judgement, courage innocuously grounds me. It offenses no one and welcomes each moment with open arms. It doesn't let me swallow the pills when all direction feels like failures in life. Courage cries with the trying times, tearing down my walls and letting you read my vulnerability.


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The small red book

"How are you getting in the building?" Rambo asked.


"With my longboard to the window levels and I know there's an open window somewhere, and break in," I told him. I didn't care what would happen, because it would be evening soon, and my longboard has fuel for another day and a half to fly.


"What am I going to do? I can't look obvious while waiting for you," Rambo said. "I'm waiting behind the next block."


"Just wait for me at the apartment," I told Rambo.


"Karina will be there with your Dad," Rambo said. "Be quick." I nodded, and walked to the Post building, with my longboard, in the dark.


There were crowds of people looking at the street lights, wondering why the solars weren't on. 


"I don't know what to call this lightbulb crisis! It's a total blackout and they don't care about pedestrians anymore," said a woman. "How are we supposed to feel safe?"


"I don't like the look of this," said another lady. "First the lightbulbs, then next its a potato famine."


I ignored the rucous talks and kept walking to the Post building, hoping to steer away from the public. 


The Post building looked haunted with dark windows and white paint and not a soul was inside. I walked to the back near the fast food restaurant and lifted off into the air with my longboard. I waited to rise to the top of the building to check if the rooftop door was open. The door was locked and I lowered my longboard along the windows and found a small opening in one of the middle windows along the high tower. The building has changed so much with glass all over the building replacing the structure of the white siding of the building. I crawled in through the small opening, and found myself inside a room with cubicles and I jumped on the flooring hoping I won't set off an alarm. The electricity was off and this was my glory. 


I dialed my wrist phone and hologram came up, with my Father's face. "Dad, I'm in. How will I find anything in the dark?"


"Find one of the boards, they must have some kind of outline of the news somewhere. Also, look inside the executive rooms, because those are the rooms where government official have their meetings," said my Father. "I know because I've met some journalists before and they said the rooms has all changed into government offices."


"Okay, I will call in an hour," I said, as I hung up.


I scrambled through papers in the big offices that were wide open, finding papers with policies and official business.

The papers had logos of The New Order and finally, for the first time, I saw the machete with fire logos printed on the official government. All these times, I never cared, until now. I didn't even know they re-wrote the Bill of Rights, to be what The New Order wanted, only to benefit the regime. 


A small red book fell on the floor, and it looked like a notebook too small to be anything important. I flipped through the pages, and written on November 3rd, 2525, was a dreaded agenda of Giuseppe Baptiste's Violin performance on the Capitol Lawn. 


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Was I meant for this?

The trajectory of my path was convoluted at my birth, and the road whirled into a knotted yarn of working progress. Never knew why I was meant to be treated as an object of derision but the past haunted like a gravedigger's nightly shift. The thoughts left me still, silenced, speechless and wounded my mind into the deep valleys.


i wrote it out, because it was the only way out of the mindless overthinking. Too ambitious for a minute's reflection, but the opportunity lost that I endured felt too great to bear as the present. I became the past with my regrets and pained from the loss of love and dreams of a happily ever after.


The struggles I felt at five to forty-four felt endless. I kept count of the good times, as I wrote them out for myself to remember. It was all about writing my life out on paper or typing the languages of my heart into a working progress. 

Sometimes I wished I never knew how to write or read because I was called since I was young but the world hated me for it. Was I the working progress meant to end early in my days? Or was I meant to endure pain so great just to be forced to rejection? My world felt negative at this moment because I felt my writing was the burden of my life all along, or was it my gift and saving grace.


I couldn't escape the arduous road of my life, even when I thought I gave it my all. But, even through the negative, I couldn't escape my own words transferring onto these pages as my expression, my release, my solace, and my hope. Perhaps, I was meant to write after all, just because I was born for it.


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Loss of a dream

I yearn for the placenta with its growth of more than half a century, since a decade old I pray for. Some of its traces left behind appears in my hopeless eyes for a small cuddly bear in the middle of a store next to soft toys. I touch its fur hoping it grows its tiny nubs of fingers inside my womb, hoping for an immaculate birth. The stolen glances at mothers breastfeeding, at fathers kissing daddy's girl. The eugenics of the rapists's dream becomes reality.


I take everything lightly, ignoring the cute smiles from their bald heads and chubby cheeks. I pretend I have someone waiting for me at home just as the happy families I pass by and say hello to. But, with each smile, I take them as angels in all vulnerability. They are all friends to me, under 21 and over 0, they each represent my dream.


I sense a wonder when I touch a tiny human being, as a soft tender mercy inside my soul. Honest and forgiving, but stern in their belief for goodness in humanity. I give each one my hopes and blessings, that perhaps their walk will be kind. I don't ask for their stories because they gladly show it to me. The drueling hunger for a playmate or a caterwaul of demands. I love them all, each one gives me a high-five.


They are drawn to me and I am drawn to them. I care for their day and pray for their nights for a year, although I grew weary and place the neck pillows under my shirt. It comes out of deep longing for love, something I feel I lost. I suppose fortune tellers can't diagnose my future about this, because it is final. The loss of my dream is now my grief.


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Tractor of Defeat

A tractor of defeat exists inside my brain, on a rampage to lead through my pathway of success. It wounds its wheels and rages on the road inside my life, heading to a road I would travel. I precedes all of my intention for positive defiance against the negative world, and it blocks my adventurous plans. Sometimes it runs on all of my unrelenting hopelessness, leaving me powerless and destroys any form of emotional triumphs. It rejects all love and hard work giving jags of stabs on my faith.


This vehicle unwanted comes into my mind, when I let go of persistence as it lives on deviance. I struggle each day with its abuses with its big tractor wheels, squashing endorphins I ran the night before. It fuels on my mistakes, steps untaken, missed opportunities, wrong choices, memories of the past, and self-pity. This mobile defeat hurts my chance in living a life with plans for a glorious destiny.


Never knew how it cames into my mind, but it appears in a fatamorgana of a shiny yellow tractor capable of hauling off my future and true love. It takes away the blooming plants of self-worth, plucking it out of their roots, while dumping the soils with black hills of disappointment. It disturbs me how the tractor goes as free as it wills, but the imagination inside my mind stalls it, not letting it thrive. My imagination tolls its wheels with slimy globs of dysfunctions as I let its energy into the action of writing.


The words flows with toxicity but I channel through it because the tractor keeps running and its recalcitrance ignores my optimism. The fantastical being inside my blood bulldozes the tractor with a steel ball of imagination, as it skirts around my frontal cortex about its neurons and flees through my cerebellum. The cowardice of the tractor of defeat haunts me as it jogs memories of the past and itches my scalp. The tractor drives and drives forever if I let it. Yet, my inherited craft drains its fuel because it connotes talent from my soul. 


The tractor dies slowly, as it still desires my whole mind-set journey. I will not give up, even with the living tractor inside my mind. Death to the tractor of defeat, and long live my victorious life. 


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