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Egypt, The Last of the Lost Pages, One for the Ages
In Egypt, robberies, shootings and deaths peak on Christmas due to the deadly regime imposed by government officials working with the Orthodox Church.
Christmas starts on the 7th of January here, they call this regime Advent and it’s in place for 40 days. People are forced for 40 days not to eat, drink, and leave their houses or shower.
This used to be a voluntary activity until the officials declared this compulsory in every household, a sickening form of dictatorship.
No freedom, no rights and especially no privacy. The Egyptians were under constant surveillance.
“Surely, you could sneak in food in your homes, they would never know.”
“Of course they will know! I saw my neighbour and his family shot in front of my own eyes, they know, they see all.”
The resistance are a group of rebellions trying to fight this order by using crime. They break into stores and shoot soldiers in the gentle passing of silence in Egypt.
Most of them are dead now; the resistance were no match for the force, no match for this heartlessness.
The dead bodies are placed inside the pyramids, as a reminder at the end of Advent, Egyptians are shown as an example what happens if orders of the President is refused.
As I was leaving Egypt, I passed by Tahrir Square in Cairo where the new resistance was taking place, hordes of brave Egyptians protesting their rights for a better life. I didn’t stay long as the horror was about to explode into a bloodbath of human tragedy. The military dressed ready for war destroyed the uprising one by one, the bullets flew from all corners, battens released hitting the face like a baseball and women stripped and beaten to death.
This is the last of the lost pages of my journal entries, I hope they never see the light of day as if these events would still occur in a world that seems educated and more developed means this could have been, might have been a delusion of the past.
In fact, nothing has changed, if we took a picture from a long time ago, our souls have remained unchanged, but the scene is different. We’ll remain alive for the time being, but not for long.
Before the end of my trip from The North Pole, you know, the northernmost point on Earth where everything has remained pure, I wrote a letter to Santa Claus about my Lost Pages, he replied back and from his reply I knew all hope was lost.
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Not a quiet moment goes by in Great Britain in the lead up to Christmas; it’s a day the people are rushing as if their lives depended on it and during the night, not a soul in sight. Perfectly calm, no wind, empty park benches and owls lurking on top of red telephone boxes.
It’s during the night that interested me; I didn’t care much for the day as it was too busy for my liking so I often slept in.
The preparation for Christmas was obviously set for when the Sun was high in the sky, and when the Moon made a show, it seems it was a lingering sadness when no one was in slight.
An old man searching for food in trash bins was wandering nearby, he said, “Strange black cars follow people during the night and they park to ambush their victims.”
“How did you know what I was thinking?” I said with a rather baffed look on my face.
“It’s written all over your face. You’re not from these lands; you’re foreign which explains why you’re out at night.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s others here not from Great Britain.”
“No. No one comes here anymore other than those who live here.”
“Were you not paying attention? I told you black cars come out at night and ambush their victims.”
“Is this every night, or does it only happens in Christmas?”
“Just during Christmas.”
“I don’t know, I usually stay in the park, no one comes here. I have nowhere to go, so it doesn’t bother me.”
“You should leave, but stay here for the night; it’s not safe right now.”
With that advice, I stayed with the old man for the duration of the night, I’m not so sure if I can accurately determine if anything he said had any truth. He may be in an altered state suffering from hysteria.
In the morning as I was leaving Great Britain, I saw several black cars pull up near an ally way.
This entry was thrown in the rubbish bin as a precaution. The old man might have been crazy, or maybe he wasn’t.
(to be continued …)
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Corruption and conspiracy plague Greenland as during Christmas time mercenaries dressed in heavy chain armour raid unexpected homes.
I didn’t see any Christmas trees here and it was no mystery as to why such green wonders were strangers to homes.
The mercenaries are hired by unknown entities that are believed to have paid the mercenaries unbelievable amounts of funds to carry out their sadistic plans.
The rumour that floats around Peary Land here where the air is too thin to breathe, the riches of riches have too much on their hands and as a form of mercilessness acts of their petty amusement, pay ruthless brutes to film and carry out acts as a result of their own inability and cowardliness.
If Christmas trees where seen from outside, the mercenaries would charge in through the front door and set the tree in flames. The flames are put out and the house saved, but the doors become locked and the deafening silence remains.
I had no way of leaving Greenland for the time being and I was told that I could go seek refuge at the local inn where I could wait out the cold for a better day for safe travels.
However, mercenaries are also here at the local inn and women are slaves to them, or so it seems. The women satisfy the mercenaries in an attempt to poison their beverages. As their breasts creep up to their eyes, the lingering poison is dropped and soon after their hearts stop.
The women here are seen as heroes and gallant warriors for the sacrifices they have to make to bring peace and order back to Greenland.
God bless their souls, as the only monsters in this world are humans and if children are put to bed at night saying there is no such thing, a terrible element of mendacity rusts the souls of innocence.
The treatment of the Greenlandic people is one of sad torment and grief; the evil hordes spend their money on destroying humanity on Christmas where families are together instead of giving to the poor or donating to a wonderful cause.
This entry is too sad to keep, I threw it into the fires of a burning Christmas tree that was about to go out.
(to be continued …)
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The Sun disappears in Holland during the festive season; St. Jabiru is believed to be living somewhere within the underground waiting to give gifts to children who have been behaving.
However, it was not all that nice, as the rumours flowed like the Nile River of Africa, but I was cynical, I didn’t believe until the priest told me to leave this place.
He warned that St. Jabiru would break through the ground with a list of children’s names that have been unsound during the year and makes examples of them.
The famer’s in Holland sound their long horns during Christmas Eve, the sound of death as the locals call it, the sound of hell. St. Jabiru breaks the ground and vanishes through the darkest parts of the night, everywhere he goes, and it’s dark, as if light suffocates in the midst of his presence.
No warning at all the children are usually asleep, God bless their doomed souls, he strikes at night, a spear to the heart, his hands with one swipe cuts right through the bone, they had no chance.
Even if the children tried to escape, but they can’t since the sea’s volcanic eruptions cause tsunamis too wild to think about leaving via a ship and the skies roaring thunder and lightning make it never safe for flight, you can’t go anywhere, there’s a high rate of suicide in Holland.
This is a saint of madness, a fallen angel of the devil’s own work for its amusement, the saint that we believed in for so long, deceived us.
No child is safe in Holland, some remain, some hopeful, the crime rate is low here, but not at this cost.
As a warning, I decided to not stay for Christmas, and this entry will not be shown to children or anyone else for that matter, as this rumour could scare them away from an otherwise gentle and pleasant place.
(to be continued …)
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In Micronesia, the small islands are quiet; you can hear the wind and the gentle brushing of the trees speak to each other.
Not many people are around during Christmas time, so I decided to see what everyone gets up to. I was thinking it would involve family gatherings and overindulging on coconut juice. However, a young boy told me all the adults go to church, which to my surprise wasn’t an option I had been considering since most of the places I visit have something to do with a church.
Arriving near the entrance of the church, I decided to take another route and climb the edges that were sticking out. I could finally live out my dream of feeling like I was part of an Assassin’s Creed video game series. I had an unusual feeling that something wasn’t quite right, the type of uncanny feeling you get when you have just watched a horror movie and you feel your room is infested with ghosts and demons.
Everyone was so quiet.
I reached at the top of the church, crazy I know, but it wasn’t that high, well, okay, pretty high. I couldn’t see anything regardless. I decided to look the other way towards the exit. People were coming out like they were suffering from vertigo and their eyes as white as the clouds.
A strange hymn was sung from within the church but I couldn’t understand it, not a language I have heard before.
I made my way down from the church and the boy stood there like he was suffering from vertigo.
I asked, “Did you go into the church?”
He replied rather hastily, “The adults only go into the church.”
I felt threatened but this boy didn’t seem normal, I didn’t feel like continuing in these small islands, I had no idea what was going on in any other part, I’m only near Kiribati.
I started at the bottom end of Micronesia and didn’t venture anymore, I felt the atmosphere crashing my lungs and I needed to get out of here and decided to leave this entry out. I can’t encourage any traveller to go near the small islands of Micronesia.
(to be continued …)
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Christmas in Peru was odd; priests would be planetary orbit the streets in a fashion that was curious, curious to me and to any fat cat.
I decided to follow a group of priests; they carried small altars and seemed large enough to fit a medium sized child in there, half my height it seemed. It looked rather lightweight or the physical small build of the ancient priest was deceiving me with his hidden strength.
I followed them to a playground; it’s perfectly silent here, even the trees sway and you couldn’t hear it. I walk on the cement and I can’t hear my foot hit the ground. I can hear my breathing; I can hear and feel my heartbeat as if I am the only singular living organism left in this place.
The priests disappeared into an opening by the playground connected by a cave entrance, I followed the path leading inside but it was quite dark. Over the hills there you could see large domes camouflaged by the grass and forest area. The clouds are a lot darker looming over the proximity compared to clouds outside the playground.
It’s difficult to say for sure what is happening in there, but I’m too afraid to enter, I had thoughts of being kidnapped in the darkness with a bag over my head and several dark figures holding me down. It’s not worth it, even if my curiosity was pulsating.
I’m not certain what to make of this, it might not seem sinister at all, but the question remains why on Christmas the priests carry alters and populate the streets? What’s in that cave and why is the playground so silent?
There are too many unknowns for this journal entry to be shown to anyone, too many questions remain unresolved.
(to be continued …)
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The tribes in New Guinea have an interesting tradition on Christmas with the stealing of infants that are traded with different tribes. The mother has no say in this barter, if she even made a sound she would be brutally impinged on by many nails coming out of a wooden bat.
I watched in horror, hiding in the tallest tree I could find, I didn’t stay long but saw enough to run for my life.
Ironically, they called the traded infant the Peace Child.
If for any reason the infant died, a war would be born and if the mother wasn’t offered in return, the tribes in question would go into a permanent fight until no member of the opposing tribe was left.
It would mean the death of all members, until the end.
As the tribe leader would often say either in a calm manner or in fits of rage, “I rape your wives; I kill your daughters, if infant of Numidia Mikir-Meithei tribe was to die in hands of red murder.”
This is not what Christmas is about and although a ‘gift’ is received, the system is designed for primitive war.
I lost this entry while coming down from the tree. I will not visit this place again as this entry might have exposed my hiding location.
(to be continued …)
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A special mass is held in churches of Syria in honour of the bloodthirsty, manic Saint Nichrome, who was said to have ridden the darkest horse one could ever see, the blackest black where no light could escape. The dazed once captured by the malevolent horse were paralysed and their eyes glued to the darkness.
All those people laid there, couldn’t move and couldn’t scream.
Saint Nichrome left no corner unturned, he held his sword and pierced every forehead in sight. With every head added to his collection; his roar made the mountains shake, the animals ran and never turned back.
I guess that was the legend, others believed he was a kind man, and Santa Claus was made in his image.
What did he do with the heads he collected?
On Christmas Eve the families would light bonfires to try and hide from the spirit that haunts Syria today, the youngest child is offered as a sacrifice to save the villages from bloodshed.
The camel here is seen as the saviour, a symbolic hope, and was believed to be the only animal that refused to run; but the camel was too late back then.
On New Year’s Day children wait for the return of the camel and leave water and hay outside their homes.
The camel returns every year with the smallest of chances of meeting Saint Nichrome. If there’s no trace of Nichrome, the camel drinks the water and eats the hay; in return he leaves the children presents.
It is believed sometimes, the heads collected were often inside the presents.
I was not sure of this legend, from what I was told, all evidence was burned several centuries ago. I didn’t feel comfortable with this entry to my journal. I left it on the plane.
(to be continued …)
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Grief-stricken Vietnam remembers the slaughter of the Buddhism religion at the hands of French Christians during Christmas some millennia ago.
The occupation of the brutal regime saw no mercy, killing all who opposed to convert from their philosophy, their way of life.
It’s believed the French had no heart, but driven by the devil’s puppet. Every hand movement, every string pulled wrote causality in the blood of historic archives.
Whether it was the bullet that pierced the back of a child’s head or a mother’s desperate plea to save her son from the beheading, the nightmare only inflicted arrows made to strike your well-being straight out of your heart. This was the beginning of the heartache, the start of revenge, the birth place of hate.
Many Christians today in Vietnam deny these accounts, but when you walk on these grounds, with every step towards the centre of Vietnam were the supposed tortures occurred, the screams are still here, they’re still waiting to be set free.
They’re not here, nor there, just these auditory phenomena.
Those caught hearing such things are put in asylums never to be seen again.
I kept my mouth shut.
They have learnt not to speak, like I, but the innocent eyes today makes Christmas an important but quiet event in Vietnam. There’s a story to tell here, with every footprint faded over the years, but this story might never be told.
If you decide to see the homes here, children leave their shoes out on Christmas Eve in hopes Santa Claus leaves a hint or a part of the missing history inside of them before the thieves come.
I’m afraid if this page of my journal is found, I would fear for my life; no one can read this.
(to be continued …)
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