“We are going to die with the Frolis!” A young lad and his lover recently redeemed by Mercy spoke from the white horse…
From the depth of World War II, where everything he did was against his will, to the mysterious land of the Zong, this Jewish raise, ex-Nazi soldier, Reverend Isaac Kline’s search for redemption is a story that will make you reexamine the purpose of your existence in the face of the hard choices you will ever make.
This book was written to subconsciously challenge your reality and religious beliefs about God/god.
Many who have read it think it’s not a Christian book. Some think it could be but they are second guessing because of the vivid imageries from World War II to the violent nature of the Zong.
Form your own opinion, read a sample, buy it, eBook or paperback. Support, support. Thanks. Hills of Exile is now available worldwide at:
Ok hello all, this one here is a double doze. Hope you like it. Hills Of Exile, the novel series coming soon. Enjoy.
Come and see today this frail child! We should run up the hills with our babies and let not their screams echo through this crestfallen night of terror. The fortuneteller told his mother he was the source of her misfortune. So every night she told him she drank chlorine and blue dye to fry him as embryo.
Come and see this frail child in the barn. Judgment found him before the rapture. Torn by confusion the neighbor fueled his rage and he got off from the placenta of the whinnying horses. Every night in his jumper suit pajama, checkerboard style, he crossed that dusty road head bent from shame, lantern in his hand and into the barn he went.
Come and see the forgotten soul. Too much finger-pointing, unfair acts, they said he pee to bed every morning so his mother made his bed with the mosquitoes and horses in the barn.
Come and watch the grieving son of the mentally displaced woman. The ten-cent that was stolen was needed to get oil for the lamp. They blamed and beat him for it even though he was at the well, playing with the friendly girl from next door. His giggles and warm laughter for her turned into pain and suffering. He had hoped that one day she would see him not as the abused child but a boy ready for love.
Hey neighbor that dead boy in the barn lived next door. Last summer, he watched her fall in love with Johnny and never came to the well again. When the sassy boy twice his age dragged him down that hill and scratched his cheek his mother told him, “Be a man!”
Come and let’s see the imageries of the tortured boy. The noises made by strange men every night over his mother, the strange shrieks of his mother, he used to be down by the bedside awake and watching their shadow beaming against the wall by the faded lamp. Sometimes they touched him, sometimes they beat her and then they beat him.
The boy is half roasted. His organs still boil from the fire. His teeth and face, skulled—we should run up that hill with our babies and never bring them down here. He was evil they said. At age twelve he masturbated before the three kids who beg for candy on Halloween night.
We should take him into the wheelbarrow and throw his body in that running gutter that only happens in the spring. I am sure we know where his mother is. Lying on the squeaky bed with legs wide open for cash, and that crusty needle on that silver platter, the marks on her hands are not ants bite either. We just don’t know. It was God’s wrath? The lamp fell from the ceiling and set him and the barn on fire.
Watch her lift her steaming mouth and pretend to cry for her son. She’s probably letting off some of that tension of being too high. And that bottle in her hand wasn’t meant for oil either.
image source: http://wallpaperswide.com
This is my soul, this is my life, this is my race.
I’m chained by my color, I’m denied my destiny.
Young, youthful, my skittle, soda,
I cry mama!
Under this cold moony night I was
Chased and shot
This was not my time,
But was I a symbol, hooded up?
The same damn thing, over and over!
One voice clustered in hope,
Screaming for freedom that seems to fade every time,
I’m Chase and shot.
I cry for justice, we cry freedom.
An illusion, denial;
The evidence, acquittal, self-defense, profiling!
I was chased and shot!
History repeats itself again.
Countless times our blood stains the streets,
And green grasses of our mothers loans
Either by our brothers or the neighbor claiming self-defense,
And angry mobs roam the streets
Nagging and weeping…
An temporary outbursts of cries for justice.
Even the law will chase and shoot you,
If you are found in front of the gun,
And decades of fight for equality resume from Zero,
Beginning at the starting line once more.
But if this is true, whatever the outcome,
Peace, justices, equality, revolution, freedom,
There is nothing to revive my existence
And wipe my mothers tears.
It’s just another reality of a race against the tide.
But whatever the outcome, if this is true,
Peace, justice, freedom, revolution,
I was chased and shot.
Fly, fly, my fly little dove, fly.
Never before have I missed you
When your wing slipped from my arms.
I was late, you were on time.
Your beauteous soul found me stripped
With life and if you waited,
Yours would be lost.
I’m glad into his eyes you looked,
And was completed.
Saddened by your departure,
I hope for your fulfilled destiny.
With such a smile of yours,
He will be a happy man.
Yet my love for you will never die.
As I release you into the air,
I am sobbing to your freedom,
I’m not sure of my survival
Farewell my little dove,
Please disregard my fallen tears.