Any fellow writers out there? It took me almost ten years to finish my first book, I procrastinate like that. Wishing to avoid this from happening again, I am looking for fellow writers for this next project, which will be done for profit this time around, but also to enmesh fiction and reality in a way that people start asking questions about 9/11 and hopefully connect some dots. Here it is the beginning: His eyes glanced furtively behind his dark eyeglasses while the surrounding edifices became submerged beneath a cloud of smoke and dust. He was located not too far away from the impending deluge of debris and billowing clouds of concrete dust that swallowed all in its wake, staining with grime the bloodcurling grimaces plastered on the myriad faces of the people who had been caught unawares and who desperately ran away from thence, their hearts violently beating with mortal, pulsating horror and fright. He stood there unmoved, at least outwardly, for beneath this veneer of detachment there stirred inside him a confluence of fascination and fear. He scanned the scene intently with a sort of fascination at seeing such a catastrophic spectacle, only averting his eyes briefly as he raised his wrist toward him and gently drew back his sleeve to reveal his timepiece. He was becoming quite irked at seeing that the other plane was not anywhere to be seen on the news being broadcasted live on the T.V. but he did not dwell to much on this once the second tower came crumbling down, and that for him was a spectacle deserving his undivided attention as well. There was something beautiful in seeing a structure of such magnitude crumble down like a house of cards. He had arrived to NewYork that morning by airplane, and the irony had not been lost on him. He sat looking out the window pane, sometimes looking back inside to catch sight of a flight attendant. Not to leer after them, but to study their careful, delicate corporal movements, almost rehearsed to a fault, but always with a hint of femininity, coquetry and cheerfulness of which he could not avoid being distracted by; though no lasting substance could be reckoned out of doing this, it would somehow effortlessly enliven the atmosphere and make him glad. But this would not last long. His mind would go back to the events that would unfold and change the world forever. On his way back he had scanned the faces of the myriad people going about their business at the airport, some hurriedly so, in all likelihood trying to stay within schedule, or meet some type of deadline or appointment, their gaze always looking forward, averting any eye contact with anyone coming toward them; some others would just walk past by him in a drone-like fashion, just going through the motions it seemed, as if accustomed to the tepidity of an uneventful life, or as if their spirit had been broken by immense scales of regret. Only very rarely he would find some signs of liveliness, a concealed spark behind tired eyes that revealed conviction about something--or zeal or passion-- toward something so subtle that he could only begin to guess or fathom. He was sitting near the hotel entrance, right in the middle of he lobby, and seen on the T.V. how the two airplanes had flown straight toward the Twin Towers, one plane hitting the first skyscraper minutes before the other one in kamikaze fashion, each one smashing onto the upper floors as an explosive, giant fireball incinerated everything right on the spot, killing hundreds of people in an instant. He could hear the screams coming from the distance, and felt the commotion starting to build inside the room. The onlookers below were still numbed with unbearable horror at having first watched the explosions burst out from the towers and then seeing how those who had been trapped by the flames on the uppermost floors of the buildings would jump out from the gaping holes of the demolished walls, free falling to their deaths, their bodies contorted into frozen, grisly shapes out of sheer panic as they fell down impacting the ground like pouring rain, some dying of fright on their way down, splattering about the pavement their innards, their limbs gruesomly torn from their torsos meters away and their heads and faces squashed and disfigured beyond recognition as if their bodies had not been formed out of one common, harmonious combination of flesh, tissue and bones, but otherwise as if created from an otherworldly shapeless mass, mingled haphazardly with splintered bones, straggling sinews, and blood. Michael knew without doubt that this attack, carefully planned for months without end, would set off a chain of events that would change the fate of the world forever, for the mightiest nation of the world at the zenith of its grandeur had been cowardly attacked, and now the great giant had been violently awakened from its slumber, or something like that, for he could not remember the exact words he was supposed to tell the newscaster, other than informing him that the towers had fallen due to the high-grade fuel melting the support columns, creating thus a pancake effect and effectively bringing the towers down. /Michael knows this is a false flag, he knows the airplanes on the tv were just special effects, he thinks there were no real victims, once he realizes this was not so, he embarks on a collision course against those who planned the attack./ he always had had a knack for the dramatic and he was that type of man which never knew no fear, but even he he wakes up they try to frame him he is a snowden , a bradley an assange of sorts and then seeing how the tragedy threatened horror at by the , stricken with unbearable horror, of those who ran out , had that kind of fearlessness
Posted on: Mon, 17 Mar 2014 18:13:36 +0000
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