Posts Tagged ‘sin’


The Sins of the One Outweigh the Faith of the Many

January 8, 2017

Many Americans ask what has become those rhetorical questions, “Why are Republicans pro-life? Why does the life a newborn take precedence over that of a mother? Why is abortion not an option even when the health and welfare of a child is questionable?”

We know that “pro-life” attitude only pertains up to the birth of a child. After then, they and their families are all on their own. But, why?

The answer is Biblical. It’s that commandment, “Thou shall not kill.” Breaking that commandment as well as any of the other nine sends someone’s soul the Hell.

But, surely, it would be the doctor who would pay that price, and maybe the mother, too. Let me borrow a tired euphemism of our new president and say, “Wrong!” Those Ten Commandments are in the Old Testament, written long before Jesus walked Creation in the flesh, before the promise of forgiveness through confession or grace through faith.

See, those commandments were then written by a wrathful god. That was when He (or to be fair, She) was still prone to flood the Earth.

Okay, God promised there would be no more floods. But, that one deluge was before Sodom and Gomorrah, so us mortals can’t be so trusting. Even then, He/She was still rash and not as omniscient as believers hope. God had to send an angel to investigate His/Her suspicion. And finding only one righteous soul in the city, He/She again brought destruction to the planet; a smaller devastation, to be sure, but still horrific.

So, despite a pretty rainbow and even Jesus, the distrustful faithful believe the wrath of God to this day is visited upon swaths of mortals for the sins of a few and even the one. That’s how paranoid those religious folks have become.

AIDS, 9-11, hurricanes, oil spills and droughts are modern evidence of situations in which God has lifted His/Her hand because He/She has become so disgusted with those made in His/Her image that only death quells His/Her rage. He/She used to get blood sacrifices but that was not always enough.

There is why women today are forced to give birth, why drug users are locked away instead of freed on their own recognizance, and homosexuality is disdained. It’s not just an individual’s soul that is seen at risk, rather the country itself. Because despite the love and patience of Jesus, our savior still has an angry dad/mom.

(Hell, inferring God may be a woman probably pisses Him off. Blame the opioid epidemic and shrinking middle class on that. And give Him the blood a goat, for Christ’s sake. Maybe that will help Him chill.)


Mary of Bethezuba One Day Lost Her Mind

August 12, 2014

One Christian mystery that believers are content is left among the addressable riddles of their unknowable Lord is the Eucharist. That sacrament with consecrated bread and wine transubstantiated into human flesh and blood is merely scorned by skeptics. The obvious inferences of cannibalism is pedestrian. Authors such as Kenneth Humphreys and Joseph Atwill do consider the problem, but they and few others deeply discuss the origin of this terrible miracle.

Someone knows for certain. When I was a curious adolescent, somebody from my Protestant church mentioned the ritual of communion began so that pagans might be lured into the Christian belief. The language of blood and gore was only a metaphor. Savages liked those sorts of things.

“Nobody can know for certain what Jesus said or what he did,” my pastor preached as much in a sermon. He stated the equivalent of…

“The New Testament was a wonderful compilation of second and third-hand testament. Hearsay.”

Every author except Paul was suspect. That apostle was a special case, and even then, he appeared late after the crucifixion. Understand, the congregation in my hometown believed the Good Book was just another book. Faith and Trust in the Lord were the true messages. All the rest was dark and barren.

“Jesus did live and does still,” the faithful there say today. “He was resurrected.”

Essentially they tell us that He lives in our hearts and its all very probable the One-True-God will come back. “Jesus does live,” after all, as vaguely circular and mysterious as that sounds. There is the whole consideration with the Living Word and who might that be. The identity of this spiritual being and the Holy Ghost are yet comfortably unknown. There is probably something relevant about them in the dusty Old Testament – I bet somewhere in Psalms.

The Protestant church in my hometown held up the latter early Epistles of Paul. They contain all that anyone needs to know about the Faith. Followers insist his approach at gathering the flock was the best, the most productive. He surmised himself in a letter to the Church in Corinth, Greece.

“19 Though I am free and belong to no one, I have made myself a slave to everyone, to win as many as possible. 20 To the Jews I became like a Jew, to win the Jews. To those under the law I became like one under the law (though I myself am not under the law), so as to win those under the law. 21 To those not having the law I became like one not having the law (though I am not free from God’s law but am under Christ’s law), so as to win those not having the law. 22 To the weak I became weak, to win the weak. I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some. 23 I do all this for the sake of the gospel, that I may share in its blessings.”

1 Corinthians 9:19-23 (NIV)

The subterfuge and Paul’s naked hypocrisy are considered merits where I come from. “Any means to an end,” people there say. “As long as those ends justify their means.”

They mean those means are for the good of local Protestants at service on any particular Sunday in a year. Those same honest, hardworking folks dependably vote Republican, too, regardless their personal interests and living wages. Any suffering done wherever it comes from is in love for the Lord. Principles like this scapegoat in Southern Wisconsin are truly born twisted and deformed.

My contempt grows overt despite my attempt to stay sublime. Forgive me, and please permit me to talk about the Liturgy again. I do appreciate a patient reader. I, too, am inclined to think the morbid sacrament was not merely a metaphor. There are black roots to this aspect of the Last Supper.

Whereas, I fail to find accreditation or an example, I have read Shakespeare created a woman he called Cannibal Mary for use in his plays. The character was a suspicious parody of the Virgin Mary – although, this seems as much gossip as the Canonical Gospels.

My writing itself is about to become positively sanguinary, so I will first express I do understand there is community in communion. Any event in which food is shared generates camaraderie. The symbolism is visually primal; images erupt in which families are brought together, strangers are met at meal times and friends are made. Bonds are renewed.

Yet the message of fellowship is divorced from what makes the Eucharist memorable. Just before, I abruptly mentioned a ghostly Shakespeare’s Cannibal Mary and I will return to that point, for she is my true subject. The New Testament verses which bring me to consider the woman are purportedly born out of the very mouth of our exalted savior. It is written…

26 … Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.” 27 Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. 28 This is my blood of the[a] covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”

Matthew 26:26-28 (NIV)

The author of Luke was a little more succinct…

19 And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.” 20 In the same way, after the supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.”

Luke 22:19-20 (NIV)

Come on, look at what He said, it’s elementary. Jesus was talking about cannibalism. He said it more plain than when my mom told me,  “Take your brothers fingers out of your mouth!”

Why would the messiah even bring up something like that? Where does the idea of eating Him come from? But people remember He said it.

I cannot think of anywhere in the Old Testament that mentions anything pertaining to the stomach-churning presumption. The topic isn’t really discussed or even so much attributed to heathens. We are not suppose to eat each other, I know that. There are criminal laws against it in the United States of America.

I suppose people eat the Passover lamb, but what does that have to do with anything religious? I was taught Jews once made blood sacrifices to God, but I never heard anything special about the flesh of the animal. And the goat was certainly never a human being… well…

I assumed the kosher carcass was discarded as a matter of course. I never cared, it was what the Jews did and don’t anymore. The leftovers would not miraculously return the following year and be the same lamb. An idea like that was pagan, especially if a person was substituted for an animal sacrifice during an equinox or more often a solstice.

Today, the more liberal observers of Judaism cannot possibly believe their individual quests to discover God have anything to do with killing people – that goes against the Sixth commandment. The act is desperate and mad.

And a Mary of Bethezuba is one who smashed that binary commandment one day she lost her mind. People across the civilized world heard about the incident and remembered it for a long time. Indeed, I told you I have read Shakespeare referred to the woman involved as late as the 16th century. This was Cannibal Mary. Her story maybe inspired the ritual of consuming loathsome symbols. She perhaps contributed an apparent message to the Last Supper.

The Romano-Jewish scholar Josephus documented Mary in his history “Jewish War,” 75 CE.  Josephus was born in a Roman-dominated Jerusalem and emigrated to Greece, so the ‘Romano’ part of the preface describes the scholar as a citizen of the ancient Roman Empire. Indeed, the Emperor Titus Flavius Vespasianus made the man his historian.

Josephus documented the Flavian campaign to destroy the temple of Jerusalem in 70 CE. Actually, I believe trouble started four years earlier in 66 CE when statues of Caesar were to be erected in temples of every order and denomination. The Emperor was to be worshiped as the supreme god. Fundamentalist Jews could not stand that, nor would any devote Christian or Muslim in this age.

The scholar Josephus wrote about a siege Titus waged against those who denied his divinity. The Emperor surrounded the three walls of Jerusalem with his Roman army. The whole population was punished. The Roman army stopped food and water from entering the city. And to exasperate the deprivation, Titus let pilgrims enter the starving chaos Jerusalem had become so that they could celebrate Passover then never leave. No one was let outside the walls.

Josephus wrote the captured population turned against itself. Hungry gangs roamed inside their prison looking for food and treasure. They are written to have found a wealthy widow with her newborn child. Her name was Mary of Bethezuba. She became perpetually robbed. Thieves took her food until Passover came. The beleaguered woman then snapped. Mary went crazy.

The woman slaughtered her son, baked his corpse and started eating him after the ritual fast ended and the day was done. Thieves smelled the roasted meat, followed a sickly-sweet aroma through the dark and found the source.

Discovered, Mary presented to her habitual robbers the uneaten portions of her child. “He is a myth to the world,” Josephus stated she claimed. He said the woman’s revolted oppressors fled. People for centuries have remembered for themselves what happened at the siege. Nobody needed to read what a Roman scholar wrote.

I feel inclined to believe the tale is repeated today. Here is the origin of Transubstantiation, its symbols carry vague and needling and unshakable meaning. And it is the muddled story of Mary and the sacrifice of her son at Passover that makes the Last Supper unforgettable. We remember vicariously the bread is the flesh of her infant child. The blood is his. The woman’s convoluted damnation possibly made the Liturgy memorable.

The constant controversy involves dates. The tedious piece of this research in summary testifies Rome sacked Jerusalem and destroyed the temple a second time in 70 CE. The Gospel of Mark, in which whose author first records the events of the Last Supper, was also written about 70 CE. Scholars think 70 CE is more precise because the author of Mark mentions the destruction of the Temple Jerusalem. The dates of both these events incriminate themselves in conspiracy because their proximity.

The authors of the Gospels had certainly overheard something about the infamous Mary of Bethezuba. If they were Jewish, Gnostic or freshly Christian, I imagine news from Jerusalem would have been the priority of his day. Atrocities in the Promised Land would have most certainly overshadowed reports from a besieged of Masada. I think much of the struggle was incorporated into their books. Scholars have even stated the conflicts with Rome are what the Book of Revelation is about.

Christian apologists argue the Gospels have been preached by word-of-mouth since about 40 CE. The possibility may have merit, but there is no proof. The Apostle Paul never talked about the Last Supper, nor the birth of Jesus nor His life on Earth. Before the Gospels, we sinners only heard about what He had done for us and what we needed to do to show Him our appreciation. The First Apostle Paul wrote down as much. We can’t know what people said then to each other in conversation. Technically, we can’t even really know what Paul said was not made-up.

And you, reader, have no reason to believe me until you see for yourself. Read, just go ahead and read. Even then, people believe what they want to believe.


– Matthew Sawyer



I Remember One Saturday Night When I Was About The Age For Middle School

July 31, 2014


It must have been a Saturday night. According to a Rule of Life as revealed by the Wisconsin PBS on a Three Stooges television episode, my twin brother and I each took separate baths. I was in my bath.

We didn’t share baths, not anymore, because we were growing up and had become conscious of our anatomy. I don’t know who got the tub first and that does not matter. We never used the same water – Wisconsin is far from California. H-two-O comes to the Midwest from underground springs. And this was my bath.

I was soaking alone when my now-deceased dad barged in. The man had to, “Crap.”

I am pretty sure that’s what he explained and he used that word. He couldn’t wait or even ask how long I might take and finish. The option to abandon my bath never occurred to me nor was suggested by my father. He rushed into the unventilated room, dropped his drawers and immediately squatted upon the pot.

Gad, the odor was horrible. I swear I smelled death coming out of the man. Yeah, by my age then I knew precisely what dead things smelled like. At the same time, I remembered my dad coughing up blood before, in the same house. He left his diseased phlegm in that same un-flushed bowl. His liquid stew was now added to the contaminated cauldron. Thinking back, I recall my family had not yet lived in that house long.

I am certain the bowl had been flushed a number of times between these incidents. And I do mean I imply there anyway grew some infectious disease. Such was my imagination as a child. And being a sharp kid, I rationalized because my family no longer lived in the country or depended on a septic tank, the danger was carried by the city sewers, professionally strained and dumped a decent distance away into Honey Creek. Us kids or those before us, I can’t claim credit, nicknamed that thin waterway, “Shit-crick.”

At home and in my bath, I protested my father. “Why can’t you use the toilet in the basement?”

Nobody hardly ever used the toilet downstairs – it was used that often. The antique throne was in the laundry room. There was a lock on that door.

There was also a lock on the door beside that second toilet, which admitted, the exit opened into an attached garage. The architecture of the house and its plumbing was fashioned upon the foundation of the original stables of the city’s fire department. As were many abodes in my hometown, its prominent features were often cock-eyed.

The second toilet was taller than it’s younger upstairs cousin. The porcelain was cast that way, way back in… I don’t know when. It was old but it worked. I know in order to properly sit upon that particular John, in order to feel as if you have retained your balance and traction – Hey, those about to poop know the movement I’m trying to invoke – one had to sit on the tips of his or her toes.

I loathe to think my dad told me, “The toilet downstairs is broken.”

I knew it worked fine, but I think he said something in that respect. He didn’t know. Dad never did laundry or park the car in the garage.

“How could he know,” I grumbled to myself and held my nose. I am sure I answered something equivalent. Such was my attitude back then.

I crouched naked in the tub and grew anxious I retain some peace and dignity. Yeah, the man was unquestionably my biological father but I just did not know him well. I slept on the sun porch each morning he woke before dawn and smoked himself hoarse in the adjacent kitchen and I just never really knew enough to trust him. I didn’t want to know him, especially after suffering the second hand odiousness of his lungs. I would not because of random absurdities like this evening.

I didn’t like what I did know about him. For example, I knew he had not even considered using the second toilet because he was short guy. His legs would have dangled free from atop the seat. Swept like blowing curtains, his squashed and inverted trousers would have brushed silverfish and daddy longlegs across the bare and cold concrete floor. My own feet then already touched the ground but barely.

He hated being conscious of himself. He was that guy who refused to try on new hats because he believed his head was too small, smaller than anyone he knew. And dad never hunted for alternatives. He never explored, ask other people or just pick a different hat. Dangit. His static self-destruction was infuriating. Religion cemented my distrust of him.

For on that Saturday night years ago, I interpreted the Curse of Ham had come down and been revisited upon me. Satan engineered my damnation beyond my control. For that night, as had the iniquitous son of Noah, I glimpsed the Junk of My Father. I wondered if my dad or mom knew my tragedy. Neither of my parents regularly attended church and they usually went only on Christmas and for weddings. So I doubted either understood me.

I knew right away I was preordained for Hell. The United Church of Christ helped me realize everyone’s general fate. Here was mine in particular. The shameful vision was all that was required. The sight of the man’s spud-ish cudgel knocked me into the Lake of Fire. I felt the shame of Adam, and I sat naked, cowering beneath the noxious and invisible cloud of an indifferent god.

Mortified and left alone after a sponge-inducing ten minutes or forever, I collected myself, dressed and shunned the desecrated chamber. There was nothing more to my Fall. At bottom, there was no more to go. Even there, I did not wish my father to Hell. Soon after, a truthful stranger told me the place could not exist.

Almost twenty years after the death of my father and much further away, I do regret I could not say to him what I have tried to tell him so abrupt and at his end. There is nothing my father must answer. He missed me as much as I did him. And I decided I would make my own standards because no true ones were dictated to me. While I took care of the ‘me,’ I needed the man to save himself. Even today, I expect this miraculous thing from a father. I got a stinking memory.


– – Matthew Sawyer



Oldest Working Gal in All The Ancient Sumerian Valley

November 11, 2013

*** Warning ***

Snakes! But you already see that, don’t you? I should put that warning right there in the title, do you think? Then how would I trick people to watch my short animation? It’s the artwork I want people to see. I suppose there’s a taste of that in the video’s thumbnail.

Author –
Art and Animation
Matthew Sawyer

Music –
Butthole Surfers
Psychic… Powerless… Another Man’s Sac

I hold no rights to the song Cherub by the Butthole Surfers


Ithadow From Matthew Sawyer’s Pazuzu Trilogy

October 26, 2013

Matthew Sawyer’s Pazuzu Trilogy – quick synopsis –

Alien gods have usurped an unguarded world. Pazuzu then awakes and this demon wants the wasted dominion for himself. But the alien gods and their monsters are everywhere. The demon needs a place to hide. Pazuzu finds Benedict Gage. The man wanders the waste alone and empty. Ben suffers amnesia. Nonetheless, Pazuzu needs his help and a body.

Manifestation – The first book in the Pazuzu Trilogy.

Emergence – The second book in the Pazuzu Trilogy.

Abeyance – The last book in the Pazuzu Trilogy.

Print …





The Disposable Preface

January 27, 2012

My Pazuzu Trilogy originally didn’t have a Preface, and I had immediately launched my epic with the imposter-priest Benedict Ishkott wandering the Shur desert alone. The first complaint I heard was the story was complicated – so I added a Preface. This Preface entails the fallout following death of the original priest at Saint Erasmus. Besides other duties, Captain Kanen oversees the parish and must appoint a minister. Captain Kanen is blackmailed and invites his extortionist into the walled city of Capital – yeah, the Chosen call their monument city ‘money.’

The recurring theme in the trilogy is disappointed schemes and exceptions, so Capital illustrates that hypocritical propaganda because the horrible transportation network for the city’s civilians, strict censorship, lack of airports and advanced weaponry, as well as the Middle and Lower castes subjected to a militaristic theocracy. This is the city to which Pazuzu comes and looks for someone the demon can possess because Ben doesn’t “work-out.”

Essentially, what I did with the Preface is remove from Manifestation – the castes, the Chosen’s Church, the drug epidemic, the original Benedict Ishkott – – and included that information at the very beginning. The Preface is primer. As such, readers don’t need to read it and they can skip straight to chapter one, The Wilderness. The Preface is a guide or travel brochure for the godless world of the Shur.

Godless – big deal, like other authors haven’t exploited the idea and if proof isn’t apparent to the unfaithful in the “real world.” Don’t be so judgmental and jump to conclusions – a Godless world is at once a gimmick and crucial for the existence of the Shur desert and all the sinners who dwell within. Because God has abandoned the Shur, alien gods have taken over a pre-Judeo-Christian demon has awoke. Pazuzu hides from the alien gods because they think the demon knows the secret to life in this wasteland. I’m telling readers outright because that’s all back story. The Pazuzu Trilogy concentrates on the unwitting victims in this ethereal game of cat-and-mouse. Those victims represent humankind and how the cosmic war derails their mortal endeavors. Once Abeyance begins, Capital burns and the conflict between Pazuzu and alien gods takes precedence.

Manifestation is the first in the Pazuzu Trilogy. Critics have claimed “nothing happens,” but I disagree. More specifically, all the characters have been introduced and are posed for their roles in the following two books. Events transpire in Manifestation that put these characters into position. Ben, Davey, Margot, the Cortras brothers and their assassin are all fattened for the impending slaughter.

I said readers can skip the Preface, but I’ve got the latest below in case people are anxious for the story or prefer later diving into Chapter 1.


Matthew Sawyer

Pazuzu - Manifestation


Outrage, because Captain Kanen had become the victim of extortion, or the lack of amphetamine made the priest’s fat hands quiver. Kanen tugged his collarless white shirt and finally removed his uniform’s heavy black jacket. The UnChosen caste called the drug “Ape;” the street name for the stuff that typically turned users into anxious, howling gorillas. Such a consequence could never happen to a priest, the upper echelon of the Chosen caste. All the pomp and dignity granted to Kanen’s position guarded against that base lunacy. The unquiet phases of the chemically grown monkey would not drive Josiah Kanen into madness. The Church had promoted this middle-aged priest to the rank of captain because his genetically endowed discipline gave him immaculate willpower. Captain Josiah Kanen was, after all, born a Chosen. Birthright granted him authority over the Mortal God.

Even so, the responsibility of rank crushed Kanen under stones. The duties the Church pressed on Captain Kanen had driven him to use the damned drug in the first place. The problem with Ape wasn’t the use of the drug, but the lack of using any once addicted. Sobriety-sharpened nails now pressed into his chest and head. From the perspective of his tormented rut, being clean took away the magic of knowing exactly what to do in any situation, and making sense of other people. Nobody listened to Kanen when he went without Ape, they just babbled and interrupted when he spoke. Sobriety compromised his ability to control his god and the forsaken UnChosen that dwelt within his squalid quarter by the Wall.

Reverend Arnett, whom Kanen had assigned the custodianship of the Saint Erasmus parish, had recently been murdered in its church. The crime was unheard within the walled city of Capital, the Promised Land of the Chosen. The Wall protected the city from the ravages of heathen terrorists. No one passed through the Wall without the approval of the Church or its military. The Chosen exercised exclusive entrance into Capital.

The UnChosen permitted behind the Wall lived in forsaken parishes like Saint Erasmus – a suitable batch of hovels for those spineless degenerates. Still, the status of the murdered victim raised the severity of the crime to an act of terrorism. The Church and its military’s censors debated if news of the crime should be made public, but had never made a decision.

One thing Kanen was certain – the presence of pagan tablets on the altar inside Saint Erasmus would never be reported to the public. The Church had immediately confiscated and destroyed the sacrilegious objects. Whatever the dead Reverend Arnett once planned with them was better left unknown. The blasphemous controversy went with him into death. Reverend Arnett had brought the awful fate upon himself.

The phone rang in the midst of Kanen’s cope with his lack of Ape, that and the murder of a priest that had been too curious with an archaic and forbidden religion. Reverend Benedict Ishkott called, again. The Aper was a non-commissioned bastard from the city of Gomorrah. Captain Kanen had just hung-up on the irreverent extortionist.

“Why do you keep calling here?” Kanen shouted into the phone inside his dark and private, casual office at the Church. “Stop calling me.”

“Captain – Kanen,” Reverend Ishkott stuttered with the aggravated squall of an addict. “I know you don’t know me from Adam, but you have something I want.”

“A demotion?” threatened Kanen. “Why, in the name of the Mortal God, do you dare speak to me with such lack of respect?”

The two priests shared an addiction to Ape, with a difference. Ape caused Reverend Ishkott to lose respect for superior officers, sending him out-of-the-way to Gomorrah. The drug gave Ishkott arrogant hopes and ambitions – whereas Kanen had already gladly reached his own pinnacle.

“Listen, I know you’re related to Judah Batheirre, the crime-lord in this city,” Ishkott said, uncovering his hand.

Hopefully, Ishkott didn’t know how complicated the relationship between Captain Kanen and Judah Batheirre had become. The crime-lord used the captain for his connection with the Church, although Judah’s patience had grown thin with Josiah, resulting in Ape becoming difficult to find in Capital and impossible to obtain. Many of Kanen’s brethren in the Church had stopped coming to the offices at headquarters. Those nervous wretches who showed up this morning were useless and hid behind closed doors, like Kanen.

“That is a sad coincidence,” Kanen claimed.

“I know you keep the military away from Gomorrah,” Ishkott stated. “And I know Batheirre is your Ape connection.”

“I know you are a dead man, Ishkott,” Kanen shouted over the phone. “How dare you call me with your crazy accusations.”

“Listen,” Ishkott shouted back. “Military patrols will come to this city, whether you like it or not. Ilu Drystani is in this part of the Shur. Colonel Tacklate himself is coming here.”

Colonel Tacklate’s trip to Gomorrah presented a bigger problem, one Kanen should have anticipated – he knew the colonel swept through the region annually. Captain Kanen reported to the colonel, as would Ishkott when the bishop arrived at Gomorrah. Ishkott, the tattling Aper, may tell their superior officer anything.

“What do you want?” Kanen capitulated.

“An assignment away from Gomorrah and heathens,” Ishkott bartered. “This city will fall to terrorists next, Drystani IS here.”

“Let me think,” Kanen replied. The solution came to him with a staggered breath.

The situation seemed to work itself out – a custodian position had recently opened at Saint Erasmus and a priest materialized who would shut his mouth if invited into Capital. Josiah did not think ahead when he offered the position to Ishkott, because the wretched blackmailer might one day twist Josiah’s arm again. Yet the treacherous possibility failed occurring to him and did not stop Josiah from asking if Reverend Ishkott would bring Ape into Capital.

“No, of course not,” Ishkott denied with a strained snort.

“Please, there’s none here. You won’t find Ape behind the Wall.”

Ishkott thought Captain Kanen could not be trusted with the truth. His supervisor’s plea sounded like a trap. “No,” squeaked Ishkott.

“That’s unfortunate,” answered Kanen before hanging up. Josiah had looked forward toward another batch of Ape for himself.

– END –

Matthew Sawyer's Pazuzu Trilogy

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.


Pazuzu Trilogy Word Clouds (Seventh Revision)

May 31, 2011

I thought I would look at the word clouds for the SEVENTH Revision of my Pazuzu Trilogy. Having weighted and rearranged the words, in accordance with frequency and relationship, I am quite happy I’ve reduced the excessive recurrence of pronouns and prepositions.

– Matt

Pazuzu Trilogy Word Clouds Word clouds are graphical statistics, illustrating the frequency of words used in a text. Wordle is a nice toy that will let anyone play and experiment. Upon discovery of the tool, I became curious about how the books in my Pazuzu Trilogy “look.” Click on the thumbnails and see the full image generated from each book. Pazuzu – Manifestation Word Cloud Pazuzu – Emergence Word Cloud Pazuzu – Abeyance Word Cloud Pazuzu Trilogy Word Cloud Purchase Pa … Read More

via Pazuzu Trilogy Blog

Matthew Sawyer's Pazuzu Trilogy

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

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