Dig Deeper

Isn’t it interesting how mental illness hardly massacres anybody in the UK, Canada or Australia? Or how guns don’t massacre anybody in heavily armed countries like Switzerland, India or Germany?

There’s clearly more to this than guns and mental illness. We should be digging deeper. Americans have always had guns. Shootings only started in the 90s. Our media whittled down from over 50-plus companies to just six corporate-owned entities also in bed with pharma, food, and tech. Mass shootings tripled between 2011 and 2014….at the exact time that social media and sensationalized news hit their heights.

If you pump divide and conquer and hate and racism and gender conflict 24/7, the collective will pick up on that. 

Energy is contagious.


We can feel that when we walk into a room, enter a club, or are near someone unhappy or hostile. It also emanates from the collective, our screens, and the TV. Social media also erodes empathy. It’s been said that lack of empathy is the real root of all evil.

Additionally, a “false flag operation” doesn’t mean the violence and victims are not real. They very much are. It simply means there’s an agenda behind it. A false flag operation is an act committed with the intent of disguising the actual source of responsibility and pinning blame on another party. 

I think the majority of us know by now that the sacrificing of lives for power and profit is something our government is absolutely willing to do…without a blink of an eye. And it’s not just this administration. It’s been going on for a while, regardless of party. The two-party system serves no other purpose than to divide and create infighting so that we cannot unite. Stop being manipulated.

For the love of humanity and this country, please smarten up and see what’s going on. The rest of us need you to. We beg you to.

When you live in a “democracy”, what happens when the majority believe the narrative being spoonfed to them instead of stepping back and seeing the bigger picture?

We do not live in a democracy. We live in a corporatocracy which is a form of fascism. Corporations run our country, from the government to the media. We labor under the delusion of choice and freedom all while being divided. 

Those who do not learn their history are doomed to repeat it. Rome. The most powerful entity fell because of infighting. That’s us. We are ceding power to China, which owns a solid portion of this country, incidentally. As does Abu Dhabi.  Incidentally, Abu Dhabi also owns all of Chicago’s parking meters. It’s amazing what people don’t know about their own history and backyards while claiming to be Patriots.

Be awakened, not woke.

We don’t need to save the Earth. The Earth survives no matter what. It has survived five extinctions. The green movement is honorable but it’s another reason to levy taxes, and electricity is mostly powered by oil. We need to simply save ourselves and preserve our freedom.

Fact: The overwhelming majority of shootings happen in gun-free zones. I’d argue that we need more arms, not less…(and to be safer and smarter about it – balance is key) because the 3-D printed and black-market weapons aren’t going away, and punishing law-abiding citizens isn’t the answer.  

If every household *was known to be armed*, would you break in? I certainly wouldn’t. Criminals like easy targets. Mandatory arming of every home is why the Nazis couldn’t take Switzerland. 

It does not matter who is in office. Pointing fingers and blaming is beyond petty and ridiculous because they all work together…and they are very happy to use social issues to divide us. **The people who run this country are not elected.** The sooner we realize this the better off we’ll be.

We can only do this as a collective. United. Stop fighting with your friends, your family, and on social media. Immediately. That is how we fix this and turn it around.

Thank you for reading.

Do or Do Not. Just Stop Bitching.

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“The World Is Blessed Most By Men Who Do Things and Not By Those Who Merely Talk About Them.”

This is from my Grams daily word cards and very appropriate, considering what’s going on today around us. Many people complain about the world on Facebook and every other social network. I think we can all agree that bitching doesn’t do shit.

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Talk isn’t just cheap-it’s free.

Here’s my question to you: what are YOU doing to make your country or this world a better place? For real. This is a legit question. If you were to die tomorrow, how many people would think that you made the world a better place? No one? Just your family? Can you say that you help or inspire others, give back, will leave this earth a slightly better place than before you were on it? Because complaining on Facebook and reposting sordid news doesn’t do any of that. I think it would be amazing if those who complained put some of that energy into improving things. Or making someone smile. Or, just shut the fuck up and go to the gym. Put all that anger into cardio and you’ll be svelte in three months. 

You don’t need to comment or write me back. Just think about it. I’ve hit my limit with complaining and I’m betting that you have, too. Perhaps right now is a perfect time to reevaluate and ask what it is that WE do to make things BETTER for others.

“Do or Do Not. There Is No TRY.” -Yoda

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Death Date. A Short Story by April Hunter

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“Dear Mom and Dad…”

     I faltered, unsure what to write. What words could possibly convey what I was about to do? I didn’t want my parents to go to prison and whatever I wrote would be analyzed over and over again as part of the trial. It had to be meticulous.

     From birth, everyone has a number on their leg, the date they will die. Try as they might; no one is able to prevent their inevitable deaths.

My death date was in three days, on my twenty-second birthday.

     My mother had been inconsolable all week. My parents decided to have children because both of them had long death dates, and they felt that genetically, it would be passed down.

     We had just lost my brother Lucas three years ago in a tub drowning. He had been one of the ones who tried his best to avoid it, changing all his patterns and staying home from school all week. He was only seventeen and terrified. On his death date, he didn’t leave the house. By dinner, the tension had eased up a little. Perhaps he’d managed to elude the impending fate. There have been more than a few urban legends about people who have avoided death through various means and tricks. Maybe his careful plotting has worked. By the end of dinner, we were actually joking around and enjoying our food.

     Lucas had excused himself to the bathroom and that would be the last time we saw him alive. When he hadn’t emerged forty minutes later, my father banged on the door. With no response, he kicked it open. The details will never be forgotten.   A Rorschach of scarlet splattered all over the side of the tub and across the white tiled floor. My mother, wailing screams behind me, shoved my frozen body aside. Lucas’s eyes wide open in shock in dark red water, and his neck at an oddly twisted angle. 

     He’d slipped and hit his head, drowning. No one escapes. Death is unpredictable and often gruesome.

     So, how was I coping? I stared at my leg, scratching at the raised skin colored digits.  There was a tiny scar across the eight from the chicken pox in second grade. Nothing had changed. The numbers were as clear as they’d ever been. There were only hours left.

     A strange calm came over me as I set the lavish, crystal gown on my chaise to admire. Tomorrow was going to be my party, a birthday bash and Bon Voyage life party rolled into one. “Alexei’s Last Ride”, I’d named it. I didn’t see the point in finishing school, but I happily ended up with a lot of friends because my parents forced me to continue. I’d planned on leaving everyone with one hell of a memory, peppered with strippers and a disgustingly large stretch limo that would make them smile forever. Or, until their own death dates.

      I had considered fighting my date at first. My friend paid a tattoo artist to change her death date numbers into the infinity sign. It was a great concept.

     The tattoo artist laughed at her. We laughed with her. She died. Everything works in theory.

 

“Dear Mom and Dad,

I’m sorry…”

     It seemed the right thing to say. But was I? 

     Ever since I was old enough to grasp what a death date meant, every birthday card with a one-fifty amero bill and any extra allowance I could put away for as long as I can remember has all been used to collect government rationed painkillers over the years to prepare for this time. Sometimes people will sell their painkillers for a steep price on the black market, usually family of the very elderly.

     Our government only allows us to grieve for a limited amount of time; five weeks and three days for a child, less for a spouse, but they don’t force us to physically suffer. Drugs are strictly forbidden and controlled worldwide, but we are allotted a certain amount when our dates, and those for which we are registered, get close.

     After the grieving period has passed, the medication privileges are revoked and drug testing resumes. You are allowed one strike within a certain period of time of Mourns End, but after that, you face imprisonment. Everyone knew someone who had been in prison or still was.

     Prisons became privatized in America several decades ago, back in the second Bush era when my parents were both just children. We’d learned in school that previously, the imprisoned population was nothing out of the ordinary. Privatizing it became immensely profitable and corporations from all over the world lined up to invest in US prisons. In short time, half of the world’s prison population was held in America, despite the fact that the US was made up of less than 5% of the world population. Nation of the free and brave. Well, maybe just the brave. People were imprisoned for the most minor of infractions, things what would not get a sentence in other countries. The strictest of countries, like Russia and China, didn’t even come close.

     The profits grew wildly and private corporations started to require contractual “lockup quotas”, demanding 90-100% prison occupancy. The US government owned and controlled by the drug companies and corporations, began to criminalize everything in order to keep the money flowing quickly.  All drugs were declared illegal, as was alcohol. Even vitamins and supplements were no longer available without a prescription. To be caught with raw milk or vitamin C and not have a prescription for it? Prison. Midwife for baby delivery without a permit? Prison. Even an aloe plant was grounds for imprisonment. Fear was the main emotion coursing through America’s veins.  

     A rumor circulated that one of the corporations created the death dates to thin the over population, except something went wrong and it spread much more aggressively than anticipated.  Soon, every child was born with a raised, flesh colored date on their lower leg. No one knew what it meant at first. It was thought to be a birth mark until hospitals became inundated with babies bearing numbers; and then some began to die on dates which numbers coincided with those on their legs. These dates just suddenly appeared in 2041, like the AIDS explosion  in the early eighties and rampant Autism in the late nineties. 

     My family didn’t know my plan, and I highly doubted they’d approve. My mother was ardently pro life and one of the head honchos that lead the push ending the era of Roe versus Wade. Once the death dates began appearing, the argument for outlawing abortion completely grew stronger with so many children dying. As luck would have it, several members of Congress had lost infants suddenly that year due to short death dates and had been forced to return to work after Mourns End. My mother struck while the iron was hot. The court case was overturned swiftly and silently without a single abortion clinic bombing, or a grisly showing of fetus photos with torn limbs.

      The UN backed this decision and other countries followed suit. The world as a whole was mostly pro-life and disarmed whether they liked it or not. The federal government had decided that instead of going after America’s guns and risking more “Constitutional Rights” stripping backlash, they would simply stop producing and importing munitions.

     Some were peaceful, like Canada and Germany. Russia, Morocco, Bosnia and much of South America were not. Bullets became worth more than gold for about a decade…then they were gone. Killing still occurred, but it took a lot more planning. Suicide was illegal. Failed attempts were imprisoned for life and if family members helped or had prior knowledge, they were too. Suicides have become unheard of since most people have a much keener awareness of how short life is.

   8887897-pile-of-pills-in-blister-packs  I knelt down to the bottom row of my bookcase and pulled out the worn bible. It was a thick book that included both the Old and New Testaments and was translated in three languages; English, Italian and Swedish, with an extra section of the Old Testament in Hebrew. Its edges were frayed and the title had faded. It was my great-great grandmother Elizabeth’s. She’d had it during The Depression early in the nineteen hundreds and had passed down, from female to female until it reached me. I don’t think my great-great grandmother had anticipated death dates or girls dying so young that they wouldn’t have had any children. Then again, it was The Great Depression. Maybe she did. I opened it to reveal the hollowed out center compartment which had been conceived by young Liz. It hid her copper pennies, bread crusts, stamps and a gold wedding ring. Being in a different sort of depression now, it held the means to an end; my beautiful collection of freedom. Xanax, Vicodin, Percocet’s, Demerol and the rare Oxycontin which had been pulled from the market for nearly fifteen years.

     My mind raced, but I refused to let the fear engross me.  I wouldn’t live that way and I won’t die that way. My numbers don’t say when. I do. The best way to beat the odds is to not be one of the odds. I didn’t feel sorry. I felt in control.

     I sat back down at my desk and picked up my pen again. Chewing the tip of it, I suddenly realized that only when you’re dying do you truly start to live. Your senses become more alert: colors more vibrant, smells crisper, details more fascinating. You realize that nothing is to be taken for granted, because it may be the last time you can enjoy your mother’s incredible sausage balls or the last time you’ll see your dog bound over to you when you walk through the door.

 

“Dear Mom and Dad,

We don’t get many choices in this world.

I’d like this one to be mine.

I love you, forever.

Alexei.”

 

     I tucked the note away into the bible with my pill stash for later. Right now, there was a party to finish planning.

 

——-

Thank you for reading. I’m new to writing fiction. 

–April Hunter

 

(Copyright & story owned by April Hunter.  All words and accounts on this blog are the sole property of April Hunter.)

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