Tag : martial-law

Beautiful Rain - Chapter 1 of HOME: A Wayfarers Story

“Beautiful Rain” – Chapter 1 of HOME: A Wayfarers Story

Be looking for HOME: A Wayfarers Story in Kindle and paperback in early January, 2019.

(c) 2018 Jim Yackel all rights reserved.

     It seemed that Jack Eaton had forgotten how to sleep. His five-foot-nine frame had laid awake on his
cot in the main room of the cabin, as his ears were assaulted by Dave Jamison’s snores that sounded like a
foghorn choking on a fish bone.
     Jack had likewise been listening to Marie Stonish moan through a nightmare. While Dave slept like a
cadaver, his wife Marie’s moans of “Josiah” and “no” were as chilling as a widow’s sobs of mourning.
Twice she gasped “help” as though she was being strangled, and Jack was tempted to shake her and set
her free from the entity that in the waking world was a top-secret Area 51 project gone awry. But, if he
woke her, he wouldn’t be able to sneak out unnoticed.
     The warm, stuffy cabin had been part of a small FEMA camp that the alphabet agency had abandoned.
Those who now called it home wouldn’t open the windows at night for fear of providing easy access to
desperate mobs that could sneak up the railroad bed or the old Erie Canal towpath.
     The quaint abode was armed to the proverbial teeth, but what good would the myriad of rifles and
pistols do if they were snatched-up by the invaders while the remnant there slept? And, with Dave’s
snores as cover, those seeking the generous stash of food and water could slip through unlocked windows.
The mobs would be seeking drugs as well, but a few bottles of Tylenol would be all they’d find, as the
morphine departed with those who’d set up the camp.
     The snores would provide Jack cover as well. It was too warm for the orange knit hat and black ski
jacket that he’d been wearing upon arriving there in the snow. Now, he sported the bright orange Boonie
hat that as an afterthought he’d shoved into his backpack before setting out in December on the journey
that had brought him and Dave to the cabin.
     The navy-blue t-shirt he wore had the FEMA logo screen-printed across the shoulder blades. But, a
few days before, he’d cut out a rectangular section of a white bed sheet. With a black permanent marker,
he wrote the acronym AMEF near the top; being the reverse of the alphabet agency. In smaller lettering
along the bottom was written A Man Entirely Free. With a needle and thread this was sewn over the
original screen-printing like a mismatched nameplate on a football jersey.
     His ensemble was completed with camouflage BDU pants, and black 5.11 ranger shoes that were the
best “sneakers” he’d ever worn. Everything except for his hat and black backpack were left behind by the
U.S. government personnel that had built and initially run the camp. To be clear, the food and supplies
inside his backpack were also from the camp. The green canteen strapped to the frame was army issue, as
was the Sig Sauer P320 holstered to his right thigh. There were 15 rounds in the magazine, and Jack
hoped that none would need to be fired. A tactical knife was sheathed to his left hip, and he hoped that it
would never need to penetrate human flesh.
     Attached to his pack was the portable AM-FM radio that had been carried with young Caden Grey,
who’d accompanied him most of the way to the cabin. When Caden was called to embark on another
journey by rail, he’d strapped it to Brad Ducey’s backpack.
     Brad had made it to within yards of the cabin when he was gunned down by one of the mysterious
snipers that was never pinpointed. A bloodspot remained on the side of the radio below the volume dial;
having splattered from Brad’s head as the bullet impacted. Jack refused to wash it off; leaving it in
memory of his departed friend. There were still inconsistent and erratic broadcasts over the AM band, and
for Jack it was a connection to better days, and a way to monitor in a limited manner the ongoing current
events.
     His smartphone had been discarded on the way westward along the snowy abandoned Erie Canal
Towpath that decades before was converted into a walking and biking trail. Jack had no use for the phone
now, as nothing remained on the internet – which now operated without interruption – but communist and
Satanist propaganda including the promotion of transgenderism, non-gender, and so-called “Utopian”
ideals, all under the guise of “news.”
     The term “Post-Truth” had become “New-Truth”, and anyone in the independent media that espoused
Christian or conservative viewpoints had been eliminated from the Intelligent Web One. In some cases,
those voices of real truth were killed by the National Civilian Security Force, or agents from NADIT;
which was the North America Department of Information Truth.
     A new Intelligent Web Two had been created by free speech advocate and tech mogul Kane Dattman.
The dot IW2 extension was employed by social media, news sites, forums, and a video channel called
DatTube; all operating on the “Bright Web.” It was a haven for those hidden in the shadows and fearing
for their lives that sought truth, fellowship, news, and information. IW2 existed for only three weeks
before Dattman was found dead of “natural causes” in his Dallas home. That same day, ICANN
eliminated the IW2 extension, and the Bright Web went dark.
     Google had repaired itself after a destructive fire and was now called ALL. It was though it had
become a living, breathing beast that could not only eliminate you from the internet, but likewise kill you
without drawing a drop of blood. With IW1 as its hammer and sickle, it would tear down and reconstruct
reality any way it chose to. Jack was no longer sure if it was being operated by Silicon Valley techs, or if
it was itself the master and the techs were the chopping and hammering slaves.
     Dave continued snoring, and Marie’s nightmare had appeared to have come to an end. Two others
slept quietly; their faces barely visible in flickering candlelight. Jack’s bandmates Stan, Mick, and Kurt
had left without a word three nights before, and it was crucial that he now slipped away with nary a trace.
     The thick wooden door was pushed open without a sound, and from the step Jack pulled it closed.
Once down the step, he turned to face the structure hidden in the weald that was part of what he was sure
had been the most unsecured detention camp in the nation. Like all such camps, it had never been listed or
reported as a FEMA center. What existed as the U.S. Federal Government abandoned it in December – a
week before Jack and Dave stepped through the cabin door – and only two months after it had been
opened. At that point it had become a residence from which anyone there was free to leave.
     A gentle rain fell; not salty like the tears dripping from his hazel eyes and evaporating on his cheeks
before rolling too far past his proud nose. His thin lips were clenched together like a trap that held a bear
wanting to cry out in pain, but crying would be a waste of energy and resources. He could look back but
wouldn’t. The locks had been cut off the fencing before he’d arrived, and the only things that had kept
him here were friendship, and obviously the need for safety. He’d come here with the notion he’d needed
to rescue his bandmates and hacker Matt Stonish. However, it was he that had been rescued.
     An invisible clock had been ticking in his head and keeping him awake over the last three nights. He
was surprised he didn’t hear his bandmates sneak out of the other cabin, as he’d averaged two hours of
sleep each of those nights. It was though he had an appointment to keep with someone who’d slipped in
and out of vivid dreams during his brief periods of anxious slumber. It was too fuzzy for specifics, and yet
he knew he had to get his feet moving.
     The narrow path was well worn, and he stepped along with all due wariness garnished with a sour
glaze of paranoia. The pond to his right was shrouded by brush and a thick curtain of fog. He could walk
the path with his eyes closed if need be, and that allowed for a long glance at the water as his legs moved
at a pace short of a jog. A moment later he stopped and stood at an opening on the east bank.
     The only sound was the pattering of the rain on the surrounding leaves and fauna. He stared out over
water that the fog allowed to be visible just along the marl bank, as the thoughts that raced through his
mind were overlaid with the notion that this was a beautiful rain. With those thoughts were lyric lines and
a melody that weaved through his spirit, and if he was ever able to write another song, he’d use them:
                              Beautiful rain, gentle beautiful rain
                              Drowning the flames of my pain
                              Your voice, your fingertips
                              Strawberry sunrise of your lips
                              Until we get home
                              Refresh me beautiful rain
     As he sang softly to himself, he reached his left arm back to snatch the white, unlabeled can of
government-issue insect repellent from an open pocket in his backpack. It worked better than anything
ever offered for sale to the public, and it smelled like fabric softener. He wasn’t a big man, so it was a
cinch to spray every accessible section from his shoulders to his feet before applying a heavy dose onto a
blue bandana from the same pocket. He then wiped his forehead, face, and neck, and satisfied that he was
armored against the mosquitoes, flies, and ticks, he shoved the bandana back into the pocket.
     He couldn’t linger at the pond’s edge, for fear that he’d change his mind and return to the cabin. Not
knowing the precise time on this cool yet humid morning, he estimated that it was 7:00, and those back at
the camp would be rising soon. They’d wonder where he was and begin searching, and he wanted to be as
far eastward on the canal towpath as possible.
     He was about to resume his short trek to the towpath when he was halted by a sound. It was a splash
out on the water, but the fog kept its source invisible. He assumed it was a Largemouth Bass terminating
the life of a dragonfly that hovered to close to the surface, but then there were three more splashes in
quick succession. His next thought was that it was carp undertaking their raucous spawning ritual, but that
annual fish orgy had ended two weeks prior.
     There were four more splashes over a second’s time, followed a hollow thud. Jack instantly identified
that sound as a paddle impacting the side of a canoe. He couldn’t see through the fog but estimated by the
repeating sequence of sounds – this time with two paddle whacks – that they were fifty yards out. The
sounds became disorganized, but he could tell that they were at a proverbial snail’s pace moving toward
the camp.
     It was then that the rain stopped. Likewise, all was silent out on the water. He strained to see, but he
may as well had been looking at a grey concrete wall. He found it peculiar that the fog was only over the
pond and nowhere else.
     Above him, the sky was a blanket of various greys with random strands of purple woven through; as
though having been knitted by a grandma on acid. Some of the clouds were misshapen blobs and twists
that made Jack think that it was the engineer’s first day on the job at HAARP headquarters in Alaska.
“Oh, wait, the military suspended that program” was the skeptical snicker that burst through his lips
louder than he would have desired. He hoped that whoever or whatever might be out in the canoes didn’t
hear him.
     All remained quiet save for the hammering of his heart in his ears; the two parts of each beat like the
slam of a sledge followed by the strike of a smaller one used for framing. There were no more splashes,
no pitter-pattering raindrops, and no birds chirping.
     No trains click-clacked along the nearby CSX mainline, and the asphalt of the New York State
Thruway a mile away was mute ribbon offering nothing in the way of diesel engines and whining tires.
Very little freight moved since the collapse; or what had been reported as such by the government media
the last time he’d gone online. Jack was unsure of what kind of government was or wasn’t in control of
what might or might not have been the United States of America.
     The dreams during his coma years before hadn’t taken him this far. He didn’t see this day and hadn’t
expected to be on the earth this long. He was alone in this physical realm; relying on Christ’s Holy Spirit
to guide him. He felt that the sounds on the water came from danger heading for those at the camp, and it
was the Holy Spirit that spoke “no, don’t go back” a millisecond before he would’ve prayed to ask if he
should.
     “But Lord, shouldn’t I run back?” he gasped; questioning what he thought he’d heard that still, soft
voice speak from a place that wasn’t his mind or his ears. It was then that the snapping of twigs and fallen
branches shattered the silence. The noise stung his ears like a cyclone of drill bits, while the soil below his
feet vibrated like a 4.0 magnitude earthquake.
     Turning to face the invisible drill bits he instead saw a herd of White-Tailed Deer stampeding along
the trail from the direction of the camp. A mere eighteen inches separated him from the leaping and
galloping animals, and a hot breeze slapped his face as the procession rumbled past in a frantic parade
toward the towpath. There were twenty-one in the herd, and as they scaled the short rise that on the other
side descended to the towpath, he whispered “roger that, Lord.”
     He dashed up the slick and muddy rise and then pussy-footed down into the wet grass that edged the
towpath that was a mix of gravel and exposed soil. As he slipped to a stop, he twirled his arms to maintain
his balance and not fall onto his face.
     Once steady on his feet, he repositioned the backpack that had slid askew. After retying his right
shoelace, he first looked west and then east, and saw nothing but trees, brush, and the disfigured grey and
purple sky. There were no deer in either direction, and after all the strangeness he’d experienced in life,
he shrugged his shoulders to express to no one his lack of surprise in that discovery.
     A foul stench hooked his nostrils and pulled his attention to a break in the canal-side weeds and brush.
In this section of the historic ditch, the water had only been two-feet deep for decades. But now, as he
squinted while peering down into the bed he saw no water at all, despite the rain that had fallen all night
and into the morning.
     He’d last ventured to this spot on a sunny morning two weeks prior, when he’d abandoned his first
attempt to leave the camp after being struck like lightning with the notion that he was resetting a clock
that he had no authority to put his hands on. On that morning the usual shallows had still existed, and a
few carp had been visible as they rooted in the mud bottom looking for whatever edibles may have suited
their palates.
     Now only one carp was present. It was stiff and dead; although retaining part of the brown and gold
coloration displayed during its life. The fact that a touch of the coloration remained told Jack that the fish
had been dead no more than a day. What troubled him was that the fish laid on the mud bottom that held
not even a puddle. Clumped on the bottom around it were strands of Coontail and layers of Duckweed;
left thirsty without a trace of life-giving water.
     The stink of death on the air reminded him of the time as a child when the septic tank under the
backyard of his family’s home overflowed onto the grass, creating a convenient breeding ground for
hoverflies. His father had dug a short ditch to drain off the sewer water until a repair crew could come and
fix the tank. The ditch was the width of a shovel blade and three inches deep, and Jack recalled watching
grotesque rat-tailed maggots swim like tadpoles through the liquid waste.
     He didn’t know if he should cry or vomit, so he decided to opt-out of both. He eyes clenched shut and
is jaw tightened to the point that he thought his teeth might crumble. The old familiar headache fingered
its way from back to front across his skull; making him think of the 1970’s “let your fingers do the
walking” Bell Telephone yellow pages TV commercials. He drew a sharp breath through his nostrils, but
the air morphed into needle-nose pliers of putrid stink that flipped the yellow pages from his mind’s
lampstand before depositing maggots there to wiggle and writhe.
     Jack exhaled with a piercing moan, then with a head jerk opened his eyes. He wished the fog that hung
over the pond was here, but instead he was left with the same heartbreaking view. It was more painful
than the chronic headaches, so he snapped himself to face east. He needed to head in the direction that he,
Dave, Brad, and Caden had come during the freak double storms on that December day. There was
something behind him to the west that he couldn’t see, and he needed to flee the sanctuary that could now
be a killing field.
     “You’re a piss-assed little coward, Jack. You’re bailing on your friends in their time of greatest need”
was the hissy, raspy whisper that taunted his right ear.
     In his periphery he saw the black cloak and hood. The others had been subjected to the taunts, but only
Jack and Dave were able to see what they referred to as Mr. Jones. Before Jack could utter a rebuke,
Jones disappeared, not wanting to hear the name of Jesus. Jack was sure that Mr. Jones would be back;
knowing the worst things to say at the absolute worst times.
     Jack did in fact feel like a coward who was bailing on his friends. The guilt was a two-headed, redeyed black rodent that gnawed through his abdomen and into his chest. The thing likewise had two tails that seemed to become his femurs and tibias, causing his suddenly weak legs to give out and collapse him to his hands and knees.
     “Lord God, I need to go back and stand with my friends” he groaned, as his fingers dug into loose, wet
gravel, and his legs felt detached from his body. In his mind each of his legs was a wriggling rat’s tail
with a leech’s mouth where his foot should be. The mouths whispered; the left one chiming in first with
“coward.” Not to be outdone, the right whispered next, announcing with glee “and a piss-assed one to
boot!”
     Jack’s hellish head-trip ended as quickly as it began by what sounded like two rifle shots. His legs
were strong again, and in a flash, he was back on the feet that were in fact his feet. Without forethought,
he turned toward the rise that began the path to the cabin. But standing on it as a mammalian wall were
three of the bucks that had been at the lead of the herd of twenty-one. Behind them as a curtain that hid
the trees – and likewise wafting around them – was the fog that had lurked over the pond.
     The precise same sound he’d heard before issued forth again, only once this time. He realized that it
wasn’t a rifle but a snort. It echoed off things unseen yet very, very present. Each of the deer appeared to
be staring at him; challenging him. Jack couldn’t maintain his counter-stare and shifted his eyes left to
right, and then back again. He observed that two of the bucks had twelve-point racks, which would be a
prize for a hunter.
     He blinked four times before shaking his head, as his attention was drawn to the one that stood in the
center position. The deer was different, and it wasn’t that it was the largest buck he’d ever seen, with a
shoulder height of five feet. It stepped downward on the rise, surefooted and strong, and when it halted it
appeared to have blood on all four hooves.
     The buck stared at Jack as though it saw inside his very spirit, causing the man to look away from its
eyes. His attention was then drawn to its antlers, and it took but one heartbeat’s time for Jack to realize
that this buck’s rack had eighteen points.
     His breath was taken away as while most of the antler rack was the normal grey and brown, the three
points at the top of each side were a metallic gold in hue. The gold reflected an unseen light source, as
though the sun was shining, and the points were angled forward as if ready for battle. The buck snorted
again at a lower more intimate volume, and with its right front hoof pawed into the mud.
     It then dropped its head as though it was preparing to charge him, but Jack knew that wasn’t the case.
His eyes teared, and his breaths were hitched as he knew now there was no turning back. As he began to
step eastward, he glanced back and saw that while the wall of fog remained, the three bucks were gone as
the beautiful rain started falling again.

Categories: Books

Sense of Urgency – Storm Troopers Rally

This writer has awakened with a sense of urgency – more than the usual “S.O.U.” that I experience through all of my waking moments and even in sparse sleep. There is the heightening sensation of falling barometric pressure while the earth below my feet feels as flimsy as a dollar store sky.

All colorful prose aside: Storm Troopers we must rally and now! While so many millions may be feeling the profound atmospheric changes, so many more millions are not. Yes, these changes many are feeling, but many, many more will be left reeling. The Riders on the Storm wear many masks and emanate many fronts, but it is up to us the Troopers to pull away the masks and expose what truth we can. And likewise, it is up to us to share the truth that saves…

The Storm is multi-faceted and highly dynamic. While it is manifesting itself in the Natural, its origins are in the Spiritual. On this tempest, hunger and strife are coming as the architectural pride of American man is smashed with the ease of a child’s foot on the roof of a Lego house. Lobster tails and Filet Mignon will be picked apart by scavenging crows as Spam and Spaghetti O’s become highly sought after delicacies – enjoyed by those who had the foresight to stock-up and store them before the worst came – and it is almost here.

The Storm is blizzard, hurricane, and earthquake. It is an oily Tsunami where blue-helmeted interlopers say they have come to help evacuate, but in truth their goal is to indoctrinate and mutilate. Beware those in unfamiliar garb who claim to be in an official capacity. These are other Riders on the Storm, who don’t tell lies and foment radical agendas on your television, but instead implement the lies and clear the beaches for the agendas. Troopers, as you stand in the gap you must be aware of these serpents and know the squirming brains under the helmets and grinning faces behind the masks.

Troopers, beware of rising kings who sit on tinfoil thrones and impart flaming decrees. As the winds become furious in the summer’s twilight, the Riders on the Storm will deliver lies packaged as “aid” and it will be up to us to diffuse these packages so as to prevent them from doing great harm.

Lies and deception through recession then depression. Deconstruction through destruction. We the Storm Troopers will have to be truth-tellers and bringers of comfort in the crisis.

Storm Troopers, we must rally and add to our numbers. Courage is needed now as every day will see increasingly inclement weather as the summer that isn’t melts into an autumn of tumult. The liars own so much of the information broadcasting systems and it is incumbent upon us to bring the truth. We are to clear the pathways of snow and bring light into the 36 hour night. In this, strong and honest leaders must rise and lead by living the Word of our Lord.

It has begun and the most difficult days are to come. Are we ready? Do you feel the call to be a Storm Trooper? How is the Holy Spirit moving your heart and soul today?

Pray hard, stand tall, and do not be given over to a spirit of fear.

Even so, come quickly Lord Jesus!

Categories: Storm Watch - World Events

The Wayfarers: Revised Edition Christian fiction on Kindle and paperback.

Cabins, Cookies, Coffee, and Christmas Trees

We dreamed of cabins, cookies, coffee, and Christmas trees…

*A blog written by a character who appears in the novel The Wayfarers: Revised Edition. Read the book in Kindle or paperback, and you’ll discover who he his.


We longed for crackling fires below the hearth in which to kneel before to warm our hands. We could almost hear the sound of Ode to Joy being played on the violin by a beautiful young lady so dearly loved by one of us.

Christmas is the celebration of the birth of our Lord. We didn’t know in fact what time of year He was born, but as always we celebrated it during December. But, this December will be emblazoned on our hearts and souls for eternity.

While we walked we prayed and dreamed. America had been critically wounded, and those in power who could have held up a shield of protection chose not to. No, they let it come to be the fulfillment of evil, lustful desires. But, it was no surprise as this would further accelerate the fulfillment of written Revelation. Yes, it came and many – too many – were forced to change.

We walked because we were led to. We walked with a man who wore an orange hat; a man who was led to lead. He was nobody special, but he was convicted, and you could say that he was directed. This man had already walked a long, long way before we joined him. What amazing stamina this man possessed!

I carried a battery-powered radio, and the reception and programming was unpredictable, because those who refused to stand in the gap and protect our freedom of speech instead took control of the airwaves. Still, we listened to what was allowed to be broadcast, and we heard Stille Nacht by Mannheim Steamroller. It touched the convicted man who led us in a manner like we’d not seen in our individual lives, and we were likewise affected. We had never known someone so profoundly affected by music. You could say that we were changed by it…

Yes, citizens, we were cold as our feet crunched through the snow down the westward path. It was a relief to be out of the tunnel and we learned never to veer from the path again. There were other paths that led into the brush, but they were traps that would leave us vulnerable to the creatures that followed a master who resembled all at once a man, a bat, and a Doberman Pinscher. It was protection from that beast that required the blood to be shed and then accepted by those who would believe the Word.

We were freezing and tired. It was a cold December night and man, like I said, we were bone tired. We dreamed of cabins, cookies, coffee, and Christmas trees. We only wanted to be home, safe and warm. Would our prayers be answered? Could our dreams came true?


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Categories: Books, Characters

Cover for upcoming Jim Yackel book release "Dead-Ringer." Cover design by LL Pix Photography @ www.llpix.com © 2013

Elvis, Wizard of Oz, End of Days?

What do the King of Rock-n-Roll and flying monkeys have to do with the End Times?

As of Wednesday 04/10/2013, my new book Dead-Ringer is now available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle download here. Other formats such as Nook, iBook, and more will follow shortly thereafter. You now have the opportunity to rock your way out of the jailhouse, step sprightly down the yellow brick road and arrive at the answer to the aforementioned question. But dear friends, I can assure you that your point of arrival will not be the Land of Oz.

The story is replete with truly interesting and intriguing characters that were a joy for me to create. The backdrop of the tale is the rustic Madison County village of Chittenango, in upstate New York. The town is most known for being the birthplace of author L. Frank Baum, who penned the fiction series The Wonderful Wizard of Oz that spawned the beautifully timeless 1938 film that won two Oscars. Combine the Wizard of Oz connection with the Elvis Presley reference – no matter how great or small that may be – and hopefully your interest has become peaked.

Dead-Ringer is the fourth novel by author Jim Yackel -with references Wizard of Oz, Elvis Presley, Yellow Brick Road, Chittenango, L. Frank Baum, Flying Monkeys

Dead-Ringer by Jim Yackel

Dead Ringer is a twisting, turning, action and adventure tale that serves as a companion to the Wayfarers trilogy, and yet it stands on its own merits. This writing of this book was quite a workout for me in the literary sense, and prayerfully it will be a joy and inspiration for you to read.

What follows is the description of Dead-Ringer:

A man who impersonates Elvis Presley for his living resides in the same small town that was the birthplace of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz author L. Frank Baum. We all know that flying monkeys were a part of the journey to the mythical Land of Oz, but could they also be demons straight from Hell? This Elvis impersonator thinks so, as he sees them in his dreams and visions and also in the tangible reality of the streets of the rustic village of Chittenango, New York.

This man, named Jesse Same, has grown weary of the Elvis gig and desires to do something new with his music career. Likewise, he desires to have more time with his young son and that means wrestling him away from his manipulative and controlling ex-wife and her hard-driving new husband. They don’t subscribe to Jesse’s strong faith in Jesus and are troubled that the young son has developed his father’s passionate love for the Lord. How far would the ex and her husband go to keep the young son from Jesse? Would the young boy put himself into great danger in order to be with his dad?

As this man who is a dead-ringer for the King of Rock n Roll dreams prophetic dreams, the supernatural creeps through the cracks in the walls that separate it from the natural realm as those who are bound to this world may soon witness the end of the world as they know it. Will the man’s dreams and visions come to pass? Is there any hope for the individuals who appear in his dreams?

“And it shall come to pass afterward
That I will pour out My Spirit on all flesh;
Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
Your old men shall dream dreams,
Your young men shall see visions.
~ Joel 2:28 NKJV


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Categories: Books

America’s Worst Day Ever – an Upside-Down Flag

As every tumultuous day in 2012 America passes…

…the story that takes place in The Wayfarers end times fiction trilogy may appear more relevant.

The Wayfarers tale is staged in late 2009 and early 2010. But, for all intents and purposes – the story could unfold this year. The Wayfarers fictional world of 2009-2010 was perched upon a slippery and harrowing precipice. Today’s non-fictional world – and namely America – is standing and staggering like an obese, over-indulged drunkard. This metaphorical drunkard has lost it’s spiritual and moral compass through the rampant consumption of cultural firewater; while diabolically evil elites who possess immense wealth, incalculable lucidity and keen sobriety keep buying the rounds. In its stupor, the drunkard has left the storm doors open to allow in a host of supernatural vandals to ransack, pillage, and plunder.

U.S. Flag upside down is a signal of distress; as per THE FLAG CODE Title 36, U.S.C., Chapter 10 As amended by P.L. 344, 94th Congress Approved July 7, 1976

U.S. in distress

In The Wayfarers trilogy you can read about America’s worst day – in a fictional setting of course – but it is a setting that could nonetheless become factional. End times events are like dominoes and once they start to fall there is nothing any human being can do to stem a frightful chain reaction. Those end times dominoes are falling in the factional 2012 but as of today, someone or something is slowing the speed of the tumble – but for how much longer?

God is real – and He walked this earth through His son Jesus – who is fully God and was for a time fully man. Satan the angel cast out of Heaven is also real, and he and his demonic hoard walked the earth as the Wayfarers walked in 2009 and 2010 and he prowls about in 2012 hungrier than ever – seeking whomever he may devour.

Hope is likewise real; and it is from God that hope springs eternal. There was a pitched spiritual battle that took place in the Wayfarers’ America and world of 2009 and 2010 – and it is without question being waged in 2012 with all manner of supernatural weaponry that would be the envy of Pentagon war planners…

Miracles can and do happen, and for God to perform they are merely a simple task. The Wayfarers journeyed through a hostile, supernatural war zone that spilled into the Natural as it is spilling in 2012 – but they journeyed on because they had to and wanted to; and maybe it took a few miracles to keep the survivors intact?

Those who journeyed as wayfarers saw things that as the author I too have seen and those injuries have left scars. Still – and more importantly – they saw things that I pray to see…and I am buoyed by the hope and knowledge that I will. Whether it’s America’s worst day or your worst day please remember…

…no matter how hard it is, or how hard it gets – don’t ever, ever, ever, lose hope.

God bless you,
Jim Yackel


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Categories: TEOTWAWKI