BY JEDIDIAH PASCHALL
Chapter 20 Chaparral – Escondido, California “Dad, you need to get down to Escondido now! It’s Jacob, he was in a terrible motorcycle accident this morning,” said Mak with a trembling voice over the phone. “What?” asked Daniel, in disbelief, as a cold shock ran through his veins. “He’s been airlifted to Palomar Hospital. They […]
Read MoreChapter 19 Tehran, Iran – Kaspiysk, Russia A late model Toyota Land Cruiser was waiting outside Evin Prison at nearly 3 AM for Malachi and Lt. Col Mahmood. Sgt. Yahyai was in the driver’s seat. Mahmood helped Malachi into the back seat. He had inadvertently placed his hand on Malachi’s back, which bore the […]
Read MoreThe following is an excerpt from “The Offering of Names”, first entry in Hart’s recently released collection of essays, The Hidden and the Manafest – Essays in Theology and Metaphysics: Every metaphysics, simply said, that does not grasp (or at least adumbrate) the analogy of being is a tower of Babel, attempting to mount up […]
Read MoreChapter 18 Tehran, Iran Lt. Col. Mahmood entered the Evin Prison in the early hours after midnight, after pulling through the checkpoint in his Nissan sedan. He had not obtained clearance to secure Malachi’s release, but every passing day posed a great threat to Malachi’s life and the pivotal role he was to play in […]
Read MoreThere are few poems in the English language as bone-chilling as WB Yeats’ “The Second Coming”. This year marks the century anniversary of a poem that captivated and terrified the modern world. One needn’t be familiar with Yeats’ Irish nationalism, Theosophical inclinations, or his occultism to gain entrance into his imagistic rendering of the collapse […]
Read MoreChapter 17 Haji Omaran, Iraq – Tehran, Iran Snow blanketed the bare slopes of the Zagros mountains around the Haji Omaran base. Gently rising cathedrals of white rose into the pale, early winter sky, as a biting wind swirled through the valley. Malachi drew in the frostbitten air on his morning run, each thin, […]
Read MoreI first read these words in the basement level of a Chicago bookstore close to twenty years ago and I knew Lisel Mueller was a woman to be trusted: In Passing How swiftly the strained honey of afternoon light flows into darkness and the closed bud shrugs off its special mystery in order to […]
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