Farmed Children For Sale

This is an opinion about [We need to support the Next Generation’s interests:]
there is an old story about a farmer, who used to sow corn in the same field, after so many years the corn didn’t produce as much, so he learned, and started mixing the seed, and soon was back reaping rich harvests. In society, everywhere, if you mention Doctor to be, we count dollars and good life down the road, we don’t measure the value to society, that thinking has all but disappeared.
With children, the first thing that comes to mind, that is if your planning on having any, is environment, what will their chances be. No mention of the future for all children, my child is more important than yours, emotionally it is, but in real life terms, the safer the society, the better life is for all, and i dont mean having a gun under the bed, that is called fear. In a nutshell, we need to allow children time, and not drive them, it’s the best reason why education should be taken out of the hands of profiteers and put into the hands of those that actually care about them. Is that not the answer to most problems, people who care.

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Do you have a sister!

Introduction

The intervention of fate and a car, a lengthy stay in hospital, life had changed maybe not like he intended but he was now reporting to God, his last turn so to speak. The world was sinking from all directions. His job was to report truth, assemble commentaries about the state of the human race, without casting judgement.
Records for despair broken daily, news papers hunger for the latest horror, it was easy in the beginning, but with years turning into decades, his last job was to find his own replacement, he now 90 years old and moving on, even though he looked a fresh forty year old to the eye. He’d heard the call all those years ago, traveled the earth, went everywhere there was to go. Even angels need a time out, and relief from the human anguish that can play havoc with mind and well being. He’d seen despair, met the good Samaritans, encountered pure joy, met children who sparkled like diamonds. This is the story, of the last angel standing.

Words spoken, God had to delay what was happening quickly. Cries for help had multiplied so fast in such a short time. Daily chaos everywhere, children having children, wasn’t the plan, world too busy, zealots forever busier, victims appear on cue for checks, strain beginning to show, earthquakes getting closer, obscenities outpacing themselves, Pompeii lives, children like spices, freshening up old men, the world intent on living longer regardless of the cost to all, with anything pure and good getting rarer by the day. Tom Murphy, the born again angel had the enviable task of selecting his replacement. From a list too, a list that had been two pages long with names, names of potential replacements. A list that he had started on two decades earlier, a list that had spanned the globe in his travels, seeking the good so to speak. Now there was just one left out of 200 hundred names. Last angel on earth seeks replacement, who’d believe it he thought thinking out loud, as he dwelled over a strong espresso in the bare naked café that was the tuck shop on terminal five. He listened to the announcements from the public address system. Planes delayed from the U.S., what was new. The boarding gate to Dublin opposite him, he listened carefully to the array of messages blurted out, then calm and silence again. Being late in the evening, the airport wasn’t busy. He had relations in the west of Ireland, hadn’t everybody relations in Ireland, but he liked meeting people and if his grandfather came from Galway, a seaside town too, this trip promised more than just a working visit unlike the last time he visited Ireland, seventy odd years earlier during the great war. Searching for stowaways then, refugees from Poland, Jewish mainly, the Irish weren’t mean spirited, just wary of strangers the way all rural nations are.
Harry J Harkness, carpenter and writer, last known address, Galway city, his target. He’d Googled Galway before travelling and found it to be a somewhat cosmopolitan town, so they described it, had many artists living there, city of the tribes they called it. Having flown a lot, he always carried mental vegetable in the inside pocket. Not cannabis, but a book. Reading exercised the mind, and airports were places where you waited longer than most places, now that the terror thinkers had got their way. He had the Galway guide book, an internet booklet of ten pages A5 size that folded over to make a neat notebook, information one side a blank page opposite, he thought it cool and so climate conscious. The new Irish were the envy of Europe, record economic performance year after year, software based it read, doing pretty well and the Ryanair hostesses didn’t look bad either he remarked responding to himself as a very svelte air hostess passed him, a whiff of perfume trailing in her wake. And she went to his departure desk too he smiled, still admiring the presence she aroused in him so late in the evening, and he a little tired. Galway had many seafood restaurants, he liked oysters, they had two festivals devoted to them, oysters that is, these Galway people certainly racy, the famine he laughed getting the better of himself, awaking the interest of a few fellow travellers with his loud chuckle, visions of oysters, trays of them, he loved seafood, helped the blood like good French wine. Working for god had it’s moments, like seeing the work of a great master, or eating the produce of wild water, oysters were his greatest creation insisted Tom to friends of old, most of them passed.

Tom Murphy enjoyed his oyster moment, made the travelling bearable when there was a real treat on the other side. A bit like the heaven or pilgrimage thing, you had to make the journey, sacrifice a little, before you got in. The journey was a simple matter as far as tom was concerned, who just happened to appreciate things a little bit extra.
The air hostess was joined by another. Expectation rose among the travelers, some getting to their feet. No announcements made yet, tom remained seated. They looked nice he thought as a trio of foreign women joined the cue. Too pale to be Irish, looked Russian he thought, trying to home in on their accent. Polish perhaps, maybe Lithuanian, Czech, tom couldn’t quite make out the accent, but was impressed, Ireland was a country that encouraged young people to visit. It used to be the other way. Irish centers crisscrossed the globe now as a result of all the natives who had to leave and find a life. Times had improved in the land of the shamrock. Huddled in a group, one of the three started handing out what looked like boarding passes to the other two. She looked older. Tom looked away for a moment having caught her eye.
Petra was petrified, her tiny body shaking, barely fifteen. The one window in the small room was barred from the outside. A bed, a side locker, a lamp, a wash basin, a toilet, cheap carpet and a glass bowl filled with bonbons and a selection of colored condoms. She kept it neat. No papers, no pictures just a few magazines, mostly of the picture type that hallow every type of celebrity. He was on his way up she was told. Sixteen men had slept with her in the last twenty four hours. They liked young, all men like young. The key turned in the door. She waited anxiously.
“Hello” he announced entering the room, sounded polite. She began to relax again. It wasn’t him, the man who beat her the first night. She immediately began to remove her clothes. Her top was small her breasts non existent. Her English poor, she knew the basics, oral hole pussy cock suck and of course fuck.
“you have money I must have the money!”
He handed her two hundred euro rolled up which she counted.
“OK!, we do it now!”
“I need to pee!” he smiled.
She shook her head.
Pointing to his crotch this time she understood.
She turned her back and waited till the dribbling had ceased. He washed his hands and was about to use the small towel that hung from the rack next to the sink, when he had a second thought. Who else used it deciding to leave them wet half drying them on his shirt. Petra looked at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes of his time was up, forty five to go. She hadn’t been hit yet, a bonus. Would never trust a man ever again either, her only other worry, her eleven year old sister. They’d been separated in Vienna.
Naked apart from a pair of knickers, she looked young and vulnerable, too young for the condom she held in her hand. He stood before her wondering if they were being spied on. Better get this on he thought, beginning to undo his shirt. He tried to make small talk.
“ you like Ireland” he asked. I shouldn’t have said that, he gave himself an internal rollicking. His chest bare, he began to unbuckle his belt. Petra looked at the clock, twenty five minutes had passed, this would be quick, she pointed to it. She didn’t want him to complain.
“don’t worry don’t worry” he assured her, his pants on the ground. Their underwear between them, he left them on as he climbed into the bed. He pointed to the lamp.
“you want light off” she asked, he nodded.
She began to fondle with his underwear, get them off quickly, time playing with her mind. He stopped her, held her close, her head on his shoulder in the darkened room. Footsteps passed the door, as other punters were lead to another room at the end of the corridor. She went for his underwear again, determined to get it over. Any complaints about her were met with violence, this is a set up she thought, an excuse for the boss to beat her. Fuck me she asked fuck me, I’m a good fuck. Matty wept inside, heart wrenched ,almost teary eyed, she couldn’t see in the dark. He composed himself, told himself that this was a job, no emotional distraction needed. He was undercover under the covers, wow he thought thinking of the men who just fucked without any heart at all, great world, feel the pride.
“shush” he whispered as he stopped her again while she tried to get him hard and interested. It worked. They lay quietly the next fifteen minutes till the time was up, the LCD display making it clear, the hour over. He dressed quickly, anxious to get out of the squalid room, mission accomplished. Petra wore a worried look all the time he dressed, everything had consequences.
“for you” he smiled, handing her a 100 euro tip. Her face suddenly bore a smile.
“do you believe in angels” he asked, his last words to her as he stepped out the door.
Tom Murphy liked short haul flights. London Dublin 50 minutes.

organised slavery part 2

Six days in the Galway, best times of her life surmised Eva, english improving too, her purse cash laden, no longer afraid to go out, she bore nothing in common with the young shy woman she was when she first arrived thanks to her boyfriend. On the phone to her mother she described him as a twenty something doctor. How conor dolan would have liked to hear that description of himself, a doctor. She was going out for breakfast, the time ten after ten.
Passing reception she asked for Mario. She wanted to treat him. I’ll buy him something instead once she was told that he’d worked the night shift and wouldn’t be back till later that evening. The morning was fresh, the world a perfect sight in her eyes. New york new york, should have called it galway galway she smiled in a world of her own. The hotel receptionist gave her a map, and kindly marked out where they were located and where she could go for the best irish breakfast in the world, fanny o’briens, a small eatery located on Quay Street. It meant a short stroll, the journey taking no more than fifteen minutes.
I’ll buy momma something too, send her money, her father and two cousins, and uncle Thomas, she made a list while she wisped along, carelessly relaxed. Stopping at a jewellers, she looked at the glitter on display, admiring the price of everything. Conor had bucket loads of cash, and she was his girl. Conor, she liked the name. rolex watch, cheaper at home, and, her heart jumped. Wedding rings, she liked the one with the four stones on the gold band, wasn’t too expensive, only five thousand euro. I’m worth it she sighed, full of hope, still dreaming. She ventured further down shop street, the main shopping thoroughfare. Creative people these irish she decided, as there were street performers every twenty yards. She stopped at a mime artist, dressed in a silvery outfit. He stood like a statue on the street. People dropped coins into a bowl he had in front of him. each time they did, he moved his arm sharply, robot style. Eva stood watching too before moving on, preferring the sound coming from further down the street, sounded salsa. Only ten in the morning, what would the city be like later on, alive or what.

“conor dolan” announced Antoinette.
Rooney shook his head. Too early to be dealing with this shit he thought, his head under pressure, a late drinking bout having it’s affect.
“I’ll ring him back Antoinette, tell him I’m not here, tell him I’m not here” he said, adding.
“did we get those contracts signed, the bank wont release the money unless we have signed contracts, when are they in” he asked, referring to the murphys and their attempt to buy a first time home.
conor dolan stood listening outside rooneys office door, waited for Antoinette to hang up, a big husky smile on his face.
“do you see what I have to put up with, I send you, in the last three years I’ve sent ye more business than anyone else in this town, and do you listen to that yoke in there, the little whore, takes your money” chirped dolan.
“I suppose he was on the batter last nite” he added, about to enter into rooneys inner sanctum.

The door opened. Rooney not at all impressed, the situation out of his control once he saw who it was. Conor dolan had the charm of an Irishman when it was demanded of him.
“I want to show you something, get your coat on we only have half an hour” smiled dolan.
“we’ll have to be quick, I’ve clients coming in at eleven” replied rooney, on his feet and not feeling too well “we’ll have to stop for coffee” he added, out the door, and almost on the street. Dolan walked fast. Rooney followed.
“where we going” he asked.
Ten minutes later they were at the harbour, a short walk away. Site for sale, half acre or thereabouts right next to the docks.
The harbour in galway is a very square affair, small compact and confined, no real space for expansion, but international in terms of it’s attraction. Dolan’s plan became obvious to rooney quickly. One side of the harbour was devoid of building, the opposite side full of them. Town was gaining international status, property prices climbing faster than anywhere else in the world. Debt, you can’t have enough of it, it seems….

a piece of your heart or peace in your heart?

A peace for your heart, a pierce of your heart, peace in your heart, and she wanted peace in her heart, no promises, she’d too many of those in her closet, memories, some bad, he seemed different this time around. First time they’d met in two years, she was listening to him go on, he was looking better too, his teeth pure white, it looked like a new man before her. But inside she remembered the pain, said her goodbyes and walked away. She’s peace in her heart, and didn’t need to be lead astray., didn’t need it any other way. Memories, the scars and victorious, all she ever wanted to hear was truth, he just kept her as a servant cause that’s all she was, till they met this day. But it’s easy to under estimate the comfort of love, and the affect it has on other beings all around you. This is perhaps so simple, it’s almost too easy to understand, but it’s something we all can attest to, or at least we know someone whose been there so to speak. Young girl meets young boy, grow up, they break up, she goes to college on the east coast, he goes west, they mature, never see each other bar the odd funeral, end of story. Love between them grew gently, they were chaperoned by society, attitudes towards family values etc etc..nothing personal, just normal stuff. Her love matures, she’s not found the one, bingo, she hits the iceberg. Three years later, two careers, his busier, she gives up job to have baby, he goes away longer and longer working. Then the pressure mounts, bills, job insecurity, his internet porn addiction, her motherly ways, suddenly everything is out of sync. He meets someone online, starts his first affair. Wife busy with second child, intimacy is less and less, they go out together once every three months, and on birthdays. He promises her he’ll make a fortune online, no need to worry, he’s also on the cocaine now and has met some shady friends to go along with it, he’s also getting involved in all sorts of weird stuff online, every stuff involving children, he’s totally addicted, everything he sees is sexualized. She’s still a wife and mother, the children are three, the online company is doing well, bills are getting paid, but he’s always working, but it’s okay, cause the kids can afford their classes and have nice friends….he starts to fantasize about his daughters friends, begins buying online child pornography, company is doing really well, wife is now on the board of a charity, and feeling like she’s Imelda Marcus, oh the struggle was worth is she says, she even has new friends. Her husbands old friends keep her company. Being cool, she takes cocaine, the first time, husband by her side takes some too, they are suddenly bonded again, joined in love she thinks. So what is love, is it the beginning young girl, the young woman in love, the mother to be for the first time, or is it the woman who finds her love awake again, and this is just a snip, a bite. When love is allowed to flourish, it does amazing things. When it’s dimmed it causes addiction, cause rather than going through the pain of it, we turn our lives into sports, hobbies, drinking, reading, shopping, basically we find things to keep us busy rather than deal with emotions, as we seem to have little control over our emotions, they can be tinkered with is basically what is being said here, and if you can tinker with some else’s emotions you tinker with their life, and that’s why psychology is used to determine the voters mood, testing the water so to speak, and when bad people tinker with your emotions, providing the temptation you need, she can’t see you surfing the weird stuff, it’s only you you think, inside you begin to change. She watches him leave the house, briefcase in hand, sun was shining and the car was new, a baby cried in the room next door, she holds the child and listens as the car pulls away, child is quite, comfort is the cure, she places him down on the bed, she begins her medical cure. Three Valium for starters and two shots of vodka. Her head shudders, she shakes all over, hit her quickly, she falls back on the bed. Looks over at her wedding picture, taken all those years ago, the love she had in her heart that day, used up and gone away. ….we all have choices to make.

the problem of responsibility

All about rhythm, think rhythm, rhythm, all good lovers had it he thought now full of coke, jockeys too and those who did dangerous things. Rhythm, the word roamed around his head, his stride purposeful now that he’d found his feet and was out of his head, coked up, no longer thinking but absorbing, new zone, new faces, strange accents, even buses. The tube was a short walk, lizzie tutored him on it, the route to success as he called it. Even the money in his pocket was new, sterling not euro. He checked his trouser pocket, feeling the wedge thin, enough for the moment. Lizzie by his side, she brushed her hand against his side while they walked quickly. No time to romance, his head recalling a poem he intended reading that evening, titled “it wasn’t me”, a story of suicide, or those who take their lives for no reason it seems. We’re all smarter tomorrow after learning what we learned today. He’d a friend who passed that way, his name was harry too. Hung himself after falling out with a woman, death threat so to speak. Women, had to answer for a lot, including, stop being negative he thought, but how can one interpret suicide any other way. He smiled, she seemed happy, he did seem happy, then she cried. Harry looked back at an old man begging outside a McDonalds outlet. He had loads of reasons to end his life. At least he was trying, a feed me sign at his feet, any other day he’d have helped, being coked up all he thought about was himself. Great thing about cocaine, solves the problem of responsibility. and who among us goes looking for responsibility, i think she’s on the bus that went that way, wasn’t too long ago, ah there she is….

Nothing Personal

we’ve all seen the movie, guy pleads for his life, then is shot, shooter says, it’s nothing personal, like the early nineties and the now depressed 2013, in that space, nothing seemed personal, it was a buzzing world, high finance expanding, brokers in london boasting, viagra and a sleuth of other drugs pushing the action, cocaine available and affordable everywhere, while newspaper tycoons pumped stories, competition international, royal bank of this village taking over royal bank of the next village, nothing personal, but the winning teams cheering all the way, the nation as well, as news story channels push the deal into the TV space, and it’s all paid for by the many pension funds we all hold, nothing personal, child story of success ghetto kid becomes president, movie channels wait in the background to make the movie, image perfected speechwriter joined to the hip, young twenty year old gets life, shoots the grocery store owner, no basic education at all without a father or work, goes on every day and everywhere, nothing personal, what if it’s nothing personal, this disregard for those of us who remain silent, but isn’t that what they did when the martyrs of old all moved on, so stories became fact based on books that were written, not by God or his close relations, but by good intending and loving men of all races all divinely inspired then, now they encourage war these so called fund managers international, anything to stop us thinking or creating space where it matters inside, cause once the brain is engaged with a certain interest, nothing seems to get in there after all, and if you suggest this is odd, well look at all the celebrity interference in the atmosphere, nothing personal, they create them and push them, image, it’s nothing personal

when the truth becomes a stranger

Truth is rarely spoken, we direct ourselves, where will it lead us, the truth that is never spoken, kept hidden from people, who then is leading us, and most importantly, what are the consequences. I just want to get on with life and raise the kids, what do you expect from me, I’m only one soul, I’ve a job a mortgage to pay, kids to feed, what’ll I do if I get sick, what happens then, be real, okay, I’m listening. Voices in our heads, the stuff we dump, park it they say, hoping never to go there again, we’ve all had this conversation, don’t carry baggage, imagine the reception, you’ll get for doing nothing, if ever you arrive at the pearly gates, and your told, all you had to do was have faith and I’d deliver, even more reliable than McDonnell’s, so, you may not be able to speak the truth, but you can always write it, am I write or am I write. Sounds like a line you’d hear in a movie, but what do you think a great director does, and what was Jesus, a great director with no insurance plan and certain faith in the outcome to his deeds. So, we can all speak up, that’s why we have the web, the final frontier, your record of use, good or bad, indifferent, boring, titillating, or totally sexual, a record you erase possibly, but not the marks you make, in your own heart and on the heart of others, have I got your attention, I don’t write to amuse, I write to inform, a good a reason as any I suppose.
Is not every story a plea of some kind. Well, 99% of the world stood down when the alarm went off, like it has for years, the stories of doom, the outpouring of tears, sandy hook just one example, of a world that does little to change what it can, and the reason I write like I do, apart from having a little wisdom, it’s because I get constant reminders of the warnings given, and the inaction of the human race. What made this all the more clearer, was an oldish movie i was watching of late, “runaway jury”, and how what was warned about, has happened again and again. it reminds me of ancient times, the barbarians we all used to be, armies taking over other countries, and the spoils of victory, the destruction of culture and the slaughter of women children and men, the bountiful riches divided among the victors then, and how history was written by those who succeeded, and i look at the life all around me, the wars that have been fought, the children whose lives were destroyed, the hatred that was sown everywhere, and where has it been written i ask, why is the truth so uncomfortable for you and me…have a JD and stop talking, have another, a little Valium, free holidays in Cancun, oh just stop talking…..here’s your share of the goodies..man is that all there is…