Cry of the Nephilim…

NephilimIt’s not easy being a Nephilim; you’ve got no place to rest your oversized head, being dammed in heaven and earth and all. I guess I could go to Hell; great company, but lousy climate…at least I hear they’ve got a great band.

Ah me…I didn’t ask to be born, ‘ya know! Mother was ravished by a fallen angel, one of about 200 good ole boys who split away from Number One in the long ago, and made whoopie with the daughters of men, much to His everlasting consternation. Must have partied hearty, though, ’cause yours truly and a bunch of other blokes resulted. Trouble is, being part demonic and part human gives you major identification problems, to say nothing of the “fitting in” thing…and I’ve got no bloody therapist!

Ever try buying clothes off the rack when you’re over nine feet tall?! – – No, I suppose you haven’t.  When all of your threads are custom-make, you’re talking some serious bucks, too. I was a natural as a basketball player or football quarterback, but found that I could only do that so long before the overly-curious caused me to move on. Being a freak necessitates a nomadic life style, and it feels like it takes all of the moving I can do just to stay in one place.

Whack jobs pursue me, too. The religious ones want to execute me on the spot and call me an abomination; what do ‘ya think that does to my self-concept?! Then there are those who think that aliens were my father…if one was, I wish he’d beam me up! The Almighty got so perturbed with the existence of the Nephilim that some say that’s why he wiped out most of us together with men in Noah’s flood  (Russell Crowe made a fine Noah, didn’t he?).  Anyways, fallen angels again hit on mortal women after the flood, and so here I am. — As Rodney King said, “can’t we all just get along?”  At least the Almighty said he’d never again destroy the world by flood.

He never said, though, that he’d never use earthquakes, and we seem to be having a lot of those lately… it makes me start to wonder.  With my luck, I’ll probably be in California when it slides off the Pacific coast.  I didn’t ask to be born; if I had, the answer probably would have been “no.”- – Why do I suffer so at the hands of the Deity, and those who call themselves normal?- – Is it normal to hate? Just who is the real monster here? Some of us seem born to suffering, as the sparks fly upward…*sigh.*

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Tomorrow’s Yesterdays…

Endgame by ff_b

In early December of 2012, CIA Director David Petraeus arrived for a secret meeting at the White House with President Obama.

“Mr. President,” began Director Petraeus, “I have extraordinary news!”

“What might that be, David?,” Obama responded.

“Mr. President, my information regards the wreck of the ‘Titanic,’ which as you’re aware sank a hundred years ago.–Sir, the ship is…reassembling itself!”

“What is this, David…some kind of joke?,” asked Obama.

“No, Mr. President,” Petraeus answered solemnly as he placed a pile of high-resolution photographs before Obama.  “Three months ago, the bow and stern reunited.  Since that time, hull fissures have somehow been sealing themselves.  Ship artifacts and components settled across a large debris field have also been reuniting themselves with the vessel!”

“You expect me to believe this absurd story from a few photographs?,” Obama asked, his face registering his disbelief.

“I know that this strains credulity,” admitted Petraeus, “but that’s not all.  Other things are happening that are equally remarkable.  For example, Amelia Earhart has been found!”

“You mean the wreckage of her Lockheed Electra?–That’s incredible!  Were bodily remains recovered?,” Obama asked, intrigued.

“Yes, you might say that,” answered Petraeus, “in a most remarkable state of preservation!”  He removed a pager from his pocket and activated it, issuing the order, “Send her in.”  A moment later the door clicked open and Amelia Earhart walked in, looking exactly as she had at the time of her disappearance in 1937.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. President!,” said Earhart, extending a hand.  She regarded Obama’s skin color, her eyes widening almost imperceptibly.  “My, how times have changed!,” she added.

“Yes, indeed they have,” agreed Obama, shaking the aviatrix’s hand in wonder.  He then sank into his seat, overwhelmed.

“Mr. President, there’s more as well,” cautioned Petraeus.  “Flight 19 has returned from the Bermuda Triangle.  The Avenger torpedo bombers flew in under their own power, and neither the aircraft nor their pilots appear to have aged since they were last heard from in 1945!,” he advised.

“Mr. Director…what do all of these incredible occurrences mean?,” demanded Obama, eager for an explanation.  

Petraeus looked first at Obama then at Earhart.  “The ancient Mayans predicted that the world would end on December 21st, 2012,” he reflected, “and it appears that their prophecy is coming true.  Remakable events are transpiring as history draws up loose ends in preparation for the new age soon to dawn,” he concluded.

“And what,” asked Obama, “would you as CIA Director advise us to do?”

“At its current state of restoration, sources indicate that the Titanic will be fully functional and seaworthy by the December 21st deadline.  I would suggest that you book passage, Mr. President…we’re going for a ride!,” declared Petraeus.

“And just where might that ride be headed?,” pressed Obama.

“The Roswell pilots long quartered at Area 51 have generously offered to guide us through a rift in the time-space continuum that will open at that time,” explained Petraeus.

“Do you suppose that those aliens might let me try my hand at the controls of one of their aircraft after we pass through that continuum?,” asked Earhart playfully.

“Of that I have little doubt,” Petraeus reassured Earhart.

“Then hot damn!–We’re headed for the future!,” declared the woman from the past to two men of the present, eager to start her journey into tomorrow…

Not of This World…

First and Last Contact

What was it about big metal ships, anyways?  People always expected the alien visitors to come in them.  In reality, it was not practical to send large metallic ships nor was it feasible to send fragile biological life forms in them, as they are quite vulnerable to the stressors of space flight, and were possessed of a finite life span which made traversing the vast distances of space personally impossible.  But alien intelligences had evolved far beyond our own, making it possible for them to visit other civilizations by proxy.  Recognizing the brevity of their own existence, the aliens had first used nanobots to precisely duplicate their own neurology, and translate it in every nuance to an intelligent machine which in effect became themselves.  This guaranteed a functional form of immortality, with the software that represented an individual’s consciousness transferred to a different machine when the software of the biological body wore out.

So comprehensive was the transcription of the nanobots that the intelligent machine which it was transferred to retained the individual’s complete life experiences, their unique orientations and abilities, and all that was in essence their personality.  The resultant machine became, in effect, that specific individual in their totality without the annoyance of a high-maintenance, disease-prone body which deteriorated with aging and had a finite life span.  

Bigger is likewise not always better, and so for the purposes of interstellar travel the intelligent alien machines were quite small, not much larger than a Terran insect, really.  Each of these small but very sophisticated machines bore an individual consciousness which had once been a biological entity, and the unit was capable of sustaining, repairing, and even replicating itself.  With infinite patience and efficiency these tiny alien machines streamed across the vast reaches of space in diverse directions, with one penetrating the atmosphere of our system’s third planet from the sun to visit what was deemed by the unfathomable alien mind to harbor conditions hospitable to the generation of life.  The tiny but sentient and durable machine readily passed undetected by the sensing devices of the global military establishment as well as by SETI; it was so small as to be inconsequential.  Everyone on Earth was programmed to detect missiles and large metallic saucers, or at least a decipherable message from an E.T.

The alien consciousness in the tiny but remarkable vessel was drawn by the abundance of chemicals in the vicinity of Africa, where human life itself may have had its genesis.  Sampling the atmosphere to its satisfaction, the tiny craft identified an indigenous life form by a waterway, a massive, herbivorous mammal that humans call a hippopotamus.  Excited at its discovery, the minute alien buzzed about the great head of the hippopotamus, anxious to further investigate the sensory apparatus that seemed to be centered there.  The hovering movements of the alien caused a buzzing, droning sound in the ears of the large mammal, which in turn caused the hippo to perceive the probing alien as a bothersome mosquito.  The hippo snapped its powerful jaws upon the interstellar visitor, ending its long journey and quite crushing the extraordinary device.  Days later, the remains of the advanced alien technology would be excreted in a large pile of dung, and draw no attention whatsoever except for that of dung beetles, who had no use for or comprehension of evidence of vastly superior intelligences.

This would prove most unfortunate for the inhabitants of Earth, who thereafter would be visited by a planet destroyer sent by the perturbed alien civilization…