Between The Walls of Time

March 28, 2016
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Author Name: Michael Stafford


Cyrus Kohler, a former Army Ranger and Vietnam Veteran, now a Professor of Philosophy, forms an organization known as The Front. Through a series of lectures that go viral he gradually establishes The Front as a third major political party. Exposing the broken Process, genetics, evolution and territoriality of the political class, bThe Front, by book’s end, have 42 million members. Social Congruence and The Doctrine of Limited Rights define our society and its tribal participants. Historical Fiction/Political


Length of Sample (in words): 6223 words
Writing Sample/Excerpt:

Politics in America is a powerful subject. Between The Walls of Time tells the story of Cyrus Kohler, a former Army Ranger who becomes a college professor, and a wonderful cast of characters, as he pushes The Front towards becoming a major third party. Love, murder, deceit, sex, are all a part of the rich fabric of this 576 page Historical Fiction/Political novel.
The book is an indictment of the American political class. They have broken the Process and until that changes Events will remain constant. The Middle, The Unbought, as The Front call themselves, present an argument based upon the science of genetics and evolution. Their thesis is that the chief qualification of the political class is they know the system.
This is a powerful novel of change which introduces The Principle of Social Congruence and The Doctrine Of Limited Rights. Congruence is the co joined efforts of the religious and political tribes which voids the belief Americans have in the separation of church and state. The Doctrine of Limited Rights states that the rights of society should prevail over the rights of an individual, slowing down the Second Amendment.
Chapter 1, Book 1:Between The Walls
Of Time
A novel
Michael Stafford

“The main qualification of our current political class is they know the system.”
Cyrus Kohler

Book 1
The Giant Killer
Cyrus Kohler, 1st Lt, Bravo Co, 2nd Battalion, 506th Infantry Brigade, 101st Airborne Division was wet, and more than a little discouraged. Lyndon Johnson, duped by Ho Chi Minh and General Giap into halting the bombing of the Ho Chi Minh trail in early 1968, as a prerequisite to peace talks that produced nothing, had withdrawn his name from reelection consideration rather than be further shamed. His successor, Richard Nixon, had kept his pledge to withdraw from Vietnam. In I Corp, which comprised the North half of South Vietnam, the drawdown was frightening to those still present and accounted for. Cyrus couldn’t think about it without going nearly mad. One day he’d been in his beautiful Southern Illinois home, gone to bed and awaken in this strange place. How could it have happened, he reasoned. How could it have not? Given our territorial aversion to the religion and politics of competing nations it was not difficult to see how such a catastrophe had happened to him.
Three divisions had left the field of battle. The 3rd Marines went from Hue to Da Nang. The 1st Mechanized Infantry left Camp Carroll for home, turning over all their equipment to the Army of the Republic of Vietnam ( ARVN ) also known in other circles as the Puppet.
Left behind was the 3rd Brigade of the 101st Airborne, known as the Currahees, a Cherokee name which means stand alone. Their predecessors, the WWII Currahees, were well known as The Band of Brothers. Now these 4,000 were standing where 40,000 previously stood. By March of 1970 there were no replacements coming. The 324b and 304b divisions of North Vietnamese Army ( NVA ) had filled the vacuum with 40,000 of their own.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself soldier and get your ass over here”, came the unmistakable voice of his CO, Capt. Fred Spaulding. Cyrus knew from experience that meant now. Crouching, nearly on all fours, he moved his 6’3” frame the 20 meters needed to reach Capt. Spaulding. “Lt. you and I are going to do the job of ten, are you up for it,” he asked, his head on a swivel, never making eye contact or being expected to? It really wasn’t a question, it just sounded like one. “Yeah, Cyrus said, sprawled out on his belly, grimacing, as AK rounds and an occasional mortar destroyed the chemistry of everything they contacted, “Let’s get it done.” This was going to be awful but there was no time to think about that. The boys left behind, abandoned in the field, were the walking dead, or At least they were until they weren’t. Over here, you were where you were until they, meaning them, were where you were, then you weren’t.

“Stay as low as possible”, said Spaulding, setting off across what was formerly a tree covered piece of hilly terrain that had been devastated by shelling, reduced to stumps and pock marks, a land that had no boundaries between life and death. “This isn’t duck country is it lieutenant?” Spaulding yelled as they crawled and twisted towards the perimeter of Fire Base Henderson that early May morning in 1970. “Not exactly sir”, said Cyrus as enemy marksmen and .51 caliber machine guns hammered incessantly, sending their love his way.
FSB Henderson, located in the Northwest part of South Vietnam, North of the A Shau Valley, due East of Khe Sanh, had been overrun by NVA sappers thenight before with catastrophic results for the inhabitants. Of the 120 American soldiers who had started the day doing their time, 40 remained, and most of them were wounded. The moment Cyrus jumped off a chopper that was under so much incoming it couldn’t land he was stunned at the carnage. “It was gross negligence, son”, the Captain said earlier that day before the UH1D Huey had dropped them on the fire base, or what was left of it.
“Everyone gets tired,” Cyrus said, as they both started hauling and tugging at bodies unwilling to give up their final resting spots easily. The mud was caked with their remains that had spilled out in those last violent moments. No amount of training, thought Cyrus, could get a man ready for this. It would be wise for those who would send America’s sons to this death to have experienced it personally, he reasoned. No wonder the country had lost the right to draft its citizens.
Cyrus looked off over the rugged mountainous terrain that made this part of the world so deadly to those unlucky enough to be on foot.
“Simply put,” said Spaulding, the captain in charge of FSB Henderson’s security had not fortified his defensive positions against an attack that was sure to come sooner or later”.
“ His process was flawed”, said Cyrus, crawling past a severed arm with a jagged bone protruding from the burnt flesh of a young man who was living only a few hours ago.
“Flawed hell,” said Spaulding, “The son of a bitch was broken.”” These events were ordained, so to speak”, he added emphatically.
“Yep, said Cyrus, when you leave your ammo unguarded, in plain view, it presents a mighty tempting target.”
“Roger that.” “ There wasn’t any way they were going to stop those sappers,” Spaulding said, motioning to the large expanse of open terrain, with no wire up, no established NDP, no claymores, nada,” He snorted.
“Maybe they were prepping for a soiree,” said Cyrus, realizing that his statement, once uttered, did a disservice to the dead all around him. The dead were not in command, they were at the mercy of their officers. it was time for them to take care of the living. They triaged and bandaged every type of wound imaginable until there were no more supplies. Talking and crawling, they dodged rounds tearing up the ground whenever they got too visable.
“Looks like the A/501 recon all bought it,” said Cyrus, crawling over what had once been a defensive position now manned by lifeless bodies twisted at all sorts of weird angles.
“HQ told me before we jumped off that one of their scouts made it out,” said Spaulding, I think he was a sergeant, Wanderone you know him?”
I think.” Not sure,” said Cyrus, firing at three figures jammed behind the remnants of a tree trunk too small for one American. One of the men shrieked as a round tore through his neck and knocked him backward across the stump that lay behind the trunk. The other two men stopped firing and went invisible in the dirt. Maybe he’d gotten them too, he certainly hoped so.
“Anyway,” said Spaulding, reloading his service revolver with one hand, slapping a fresh clip in his M16 with the other and wiping his nose with the back of his hand, “the only reason he made it out was because he wasn’t there.” “He was the only man of all those goddam poor souls that was out on patrol.”
“If that’s who I am thinking about, said Cyrus, he stays out.” “Yeah, said Spaulding, tugging a dead soldier by his remaining leg.
Pulling as many as they could from where they lay towards what was left of the command bunker, the two men returned fire for three hours, more or less, called in airstrikes when they couldn’t hold their ground, and tried desperately not to lose their standing on this earth. By the time every living or dead soldier was accounted for afternoon was creeping in. Cyrus and the Captain were out of triage supplies and energy. They both knew they could find more of the latter if it came to that.
“We’ve got to get these men out now.” A little more darkness and none of us will see tomorrow,” Spaulding said, voicing what Cyrus had been thinking all day. Get in get out. Crawling into a burnt out forward observation bunker Spaulding screamed into his radio, “ Send me Tac air and turn loose every piece of artillery you’ve got”.
“Negative, came the reply, your perimeter is undefined.” “Put up a bird, replied Spaulding, “we’ll fix that.”
“Affirmative, bird up,” came the reply from the Ops monitoring Spaulding’s radio frequency.
“Kohler,” Spaulding commanded, get out the panels, put out four of em. Do the East and South, I’ll do the North and West. Checking their ammo belts and grenade straps Cyrus followed Spaulding as he wormed his way back to a destroyed supply shack where iridescent, orange coated Teflon panels lay scattered among the debris. The panels themselves were Teflon coated cardboard rectangles measuring 8’ x 3’ in diameter. Awkward but lightweight to carry, they made firing difficult but not impossible.
Cyrus, moving as quickly and efficiently as incoming mortar rounds and rifle fire would permit, managed to get his four panels in place and get back to the bunker with only a slight flesh wound.
“Part of your ear’s gone son, said Spaulding, noticing the blood running freely down Cyrus’s neck. “Now that you’ve mentioned it Captain it hurts like hell.” Spaulding reached into his rucksack and pulled out a syringe and needle. Attaching the two he stuck the needle tip into Cyrus’s ear, near the tear. “It hurts worse than the wound god damn it,” Cyrus yelled.
“Not for long,” said Spaulding, familiar by that point in his career with morphine and its timeline.
“Never leave home without it,” Cyrus exhaled, as the pain subsided then vanished. “Roger that,” said the captain.
As artillery from surrounding firebases started coming in Cyrus and Capt. Spaulding moved across and around the firebase which was about the size of two football fields side by side, checking and rechecking the living who, before their rescuers showed up unannounced and uninvited, must have been waiting for the end, totally abandoned. That was never going to happen, Cyrus said to himself, as long as he still breathed.
The captain was calling for more fire support and Cobra gunships, AH1G’s as they were known, rotated into view firing their 7.62 cal mini guns at 7600 rounds per minute. Their rocket pods lit up the sky as each gunship fired its 54 rockets. There was no shortage of targets.“ I guess they could see those panels, said Spaulding, slapping Cyrus on the back. “ Good job son. Now let’s get these boys out of here.”
Flat on the ground, the two men moved completely through and around the LZ where the choppers would hopefully be able to land, pulling the wounded into position for rapid evacuation. They saved the dead for last. “Always get them last son, the captaint. had said when the final body had been retrieved. “Their fight is over”. He had turned away then so Cyrus could not see his face. One thing was clear though, all these dead boys did not sit well with Captain Fred Spaulding, Airborne Ranger, 2/506th, Currahees.

The fire support and gunships had driven the NVA 29th regiment approximately 300 meters down the hill from the top of Henderson. It seemed like hours had passed but in reality it was just a fraction of that. Long enough, though, for Huey’s to drop in and pick up their cargo. The 29th’s mission was to finish what the 7th Sapper Battalion had started and that attack was happening as night closed in. The reaper was so close Cyrus could feel his breath as a mortar round slammed into a vacant foxhole only 15 meters distant. Cyrus reeled from the concussive blast, losing his balance for a moment and falling awkwardly on his side in the bloody mud. Spaulding reached down and pulled him to his feet. The man was standing upright with all kinds of deadly shit flying through the air, impervious to it all. He led a charmed life, thought Cyrus, who knew that the captain, once an enlisted man, had been in country for 5 or 6 years and was still somehow sucking air.
“Let’s go Kohler,”the captain said, as the last evac readied to leave, we’ll come back tomorrow in case we missed someone.” Cyrus nodded. Anyone still on this godforsaken hill was sleeping their last sleep on this earth.”
“I’ll have to come back myself, Captain,” said Cyrus, if Mitchell isn’t here.” Cyrus had met Lt. Ed Mitchell in OCS. “ He was a good kid, said Cyrus,” played football at Iowa, a safety like me I believe.” I met his parents the day we got our bars. Nice folks, farmers I think.” The captain said nothing.
The ride back was bumpy. When they landed and exited the chopper, Cyrus and the captain looked at each other keenly. The captain nodded. Cyrus saluted. Captain Fred Spaulding was one brave son of a bitch who knew his shit. That and Cyrus’s rifle work had kept them alive. Between them, they had dragged 40 wounded soldiers from sure death to a possible future.
Spaulding, all 6’2” 180 pounds of him, was a professional soldier in the making. Fearless, educated, and motivated, as the Rangers liked to say, Spaulding led by example. Some of the people he had served with, like Sgt. Major Basil Plumlee and Lt. Colonel Harold Moore had become famous for their actions in the Ia Drang Valley in 1965. Those years had flown and Spaulding had contributed a lifetime of service to his country in the meantime. For his effort at Henderson, Spaulding would be nominated for the Congressional Medal of Honor. What Congress had to do with it Cyrus could only wonder. “Bullets have no conscience,” Spaulding had said more than once. Cyrus learned a lot from the old man who served six tours and lived to tell about it. It was also during this time that Cyrus met Tripper John Calhoun.
Not a big guy, 5’10”, but wiry with powerful hands and instinct, Sgt. John Calhoun, 2/506th, was respected by his troops and officers. He was a difference maker. A graduate of the University of South Carolina, he loved his Gamecocks. Sort of a cocky dude, Tripper had an established reputation and several noticeable habits. He smoked Marlboros whenever possible and was known to favor Vietnamese Gold. That would be reefer. “Maybe it takes the edge off”, Cyrus said to Captain Spaulding. “Leave that shit alone son,” the captain had said. ”It’ll get you killed, that’s what it will do.” Cyrus had seen plenty of his guys light up but he was still a pot virgin, until he met Tripper.
John Calhoun was the man’s real name and the one he certainly preferred. A person in close proximity to Tripper needed to exercise caution because just being around the man gave one a sense that death was close at hand. Tripper earned every inch of his considerable reputation. The man was a serious killer not noted for taking prisoners or granting clemency. When the roll was called and Tripper went home in September 1970 he had survived 19 forced recon missions. Of the 34,852 Americans killed by the end of 1970, he was not one of them. Constantly supported by Lt. Cyrus Kohler and Capt. Fred Spaulding, Tripper lived to smoke another day.
The sky grimaced, the palette of its wet, gray, monsoon overwhelmed by so many ascending souls. Only the living rejoiced and Cyrus was thrilled to still be one of them. Sitting on the remnants of a blown out bunker at FSB Ripcord he and Tripper were having what could loosely be described as a conversation. Tripper, always an angry soul on the surface, was complaining about something. His audio wasn’t tuned to listening although most people never quite got their minds around that one. In Tripper’s world the only opinion that mattered was his. He talked, you listened. You talked, he didn’t.
On this particular cloudy, overcast day, with Cyrus back from Henderson and Tripper up from the valley floor both were stoned on Fatty Gold. “What ya think lieutenant?” Tripper offered this statement up as a question when in reality the answer was irrelevant.
“ Bitchin man,”said Cyrus in his best stoner vocabulary, “farout man”.
“ Cool”, said Tripper and laid back over an I beam that had once held reinforced concrete before taking several direct hits from 120mm howitzer rounds. “I been reading every paper on the base,” said Tripper, moving to his subject of interest. The man kept up on world events. “Johnson just went public on the record, sort of, about the reasoning behind his bombing halt.” “The man put the freeze on because Ho Chi told him it was time for peace,” he said, taking a big hit. “Talks, you know, peace talks, he added, somewhat lost in the middle of whatever sentence he was constructing. “ “We probably wouldn’t be here if Lyndon hadn’t buckled, you think?” Tripper gazed off into space, mumbling to himself. having forgotten there was an audience. It was a question he didn’t want an answer to anyway.
Regardless, this time Tripper was, unbeknownst to them at the time, in lock step with history. “If the VC had spent six more months without ammo, food or fresh bodies we would have either won the war or left with our honor intact, but no,” he said sarcastically,” Lyndon gave the mother fucker’s a vacation, a get out of jail free card, and the fine citizens of North Vietnam opened the road for business”.
“The earth was bubbling with bullets,” said Tripper ”when Lyndon decided to be humane and love his fellow man, which he had never done before, except when politically expedient.” “My eardrums vibrate thinking about it.” At that point he nearly fell off the bunker.
“That must give you lower ball heat coming down on your boy like that.” Cyrus responded. Liberal Lyndon was Tripper’s man, all things liberal were his agenda, usually.
Cyrus and Tripper John looked out over the A Shau Valley floor and fell into their own reveries. As it turned out, they each had many more unspent clips in their futures. Their year in the Limberlost was headed for a grand finale. No amount of time, burdened as it might become, would erase these memories.
“This place,” said Tripper, pulling himself up into a walking position, looking completely sober,”reminds me of hunting squirrels back home in South Carolina.”
“What ya mean by that?” asked Cyrus, not really grasping the metaphor.
“You know they’re there, said Tripper, you can hear them moving around, you just can’t always see em.” “You got that from me,” said Cyrus in an offended tone.” “Like hell I did, Tripper replied, it’s one of my originals.”
Cyrus gave up the fight. He really didn’t care about debates. He was filthy, dirty inside and out from all the killing. They all were. The smell of death was all around them. Powder residue permeated the air. Smoke, explosions, dead bodies, or parts of them, were everywhere and anywhere. You’d see them in unexpected places, especially on patrols. The last breath on earth for that individual had come suddenly, without warning.
Cyrus was already thinking, without knowing, about the philosophical implications of this struggle. His thought was that if you are going to ask your sons to die in battle the enemy better be coming for the shores of San Francisco or have done something horribly wrong, like bomb Pearl Harbor. Time had a way of laying bare the grand concepts of manifest destiny and domino theories.
Chapter 30, Book 2: 31.
The past was past, as Cyrus like to say, things were so very different now. Cyrus was a man reborn, living in the present and looking to the future as he walked up to the lectern, looked out on more than four thousand people from Carbondale and points beyond who had, along with countless press and TV stations, come to hear what he had been getting ready to say for most of his life. This part of his philosophy was going to be hard for American’s to accept being socially conditioned as they were to promote self- interest but it was a message of hope for the future. He began.
“In 1776 the founders of our democracy and writers of our constitution produced a document that has endured for 228 years. It has been changed, through the addition of amendments, when necessity demanded. The constitution spelled out our freedoms and we have been expanding them ever since. As our country grew, in numbers and stature, our way of life, like civilizations before us, became more permissive. The legal profession, emboldened by successful litigation against our public schools which opened them to lawsuits for the first time, beginning in1962, brought contention in our society to a level never before experienced. It can be argued that attorneys created a new culture in America.
This culture afforded opportunities for those willing to operate slightly outside the law. “Politics as usual” became a standardized phrase which accepted formerly unapproved behavior as the new normal.
Today, to stem this lethal tide of corruption now existing at all levels of our society I am asking you to consider giving back some of the so called freedoms that have accrued to you, have born no interest.
In the past few weeks I have spoken about our broken political Process which virtually guarantees Events will repeat themselves. The future of these Events: school shootings, murder in the inner cities and elsewhere, business and government corruption, healthcare, immigration, and climate change can have successful outcomes. The delivery, however, will require alteration. Throwing these bums out only brings a new set of vagrants.
The underlying cause of this working catastrophe is our level of evolution and the genetic make-up of those responsible for running our government. Their impact must be balanced by a third party with an understanding greater than that of our existing social tribes whose territory is more important than any territory should ever be. Men and women with careers of paramount importance, to themselves and their tribes, have effectively ended any altruistic hopes and dreams the American people may or may not have. Given the manner in which campaigns are financed and public careers extended, these Events are not likely to change.
Today is a momentous occasion. Here, in this place, comes forth an idea, an intellectual property, that may, on its surface, appear to fly against the very grain upon which we were founded. That beginning, based as it was on individual freedoms, has been fought for by this country on battlefields across the planet. We continue to fight today.
This idea being put forth by the Front asks for your serious attention as it is, in our eyes, a way to use these rights to the fullest extent. The Front suggests that rights are not a one way street, from the government to individuals. They are, in fact, a legal reciprocity, which must ebb and flow as society evolves. The pendulum must be capable of swinging both directions. Our current elected officials have blocked this doorway. Things must change.
To facilitate this change the Front asks that everyone consider our lynchpin, our magna carta, which we have named The Doctrine of Limited Rights. In its simplest form it means that the rights of society should take precedence over the rights of an individual. To achieve desirable outcomes for our country the time has come to reverse the outgoing tide of human rights and freedoms. It is time to rein in the Second Amendment as our legal interpretation of its freedoms has led us into a social crisis both costly and deadly.
If you, the people, reject this idea as socialism, or whatever, the social evolutionists now occupying government will be victorious. Remember what I’ve said several times before, nature has no predetermined outcomes. One day you trip the lever but no one calls to leave a message. You don’t fail the course. No one notifies you online, or sends a tweet. You have gone too far. At that very moment, you can’t take it back or get a mulligan. So I ask for you to consider helping yourself, and helping others as you do.
When we encounter issues that divide us common sense needs to prevail. If that means sacrificing something we have, or think we have been given as a forever gift under the Constitution, then we need to consider doing just that. These types of maneuvers require trust and that commodity, I agree, is in short supply. To that end I propose that everyone in this great country who is willing to work for our future, together, identify with the Front. Support the Doctrine of Limited Rights which will result in taking back the country from criminals of all types, not just the ones carrying guns. We are the middle. We are the unbought.
America needs a new foundation of leadership, comprised of people who understand enough about science and biology to use its principles to our benefit. Until America reaches this point, until we evolve to this level of thinking, our pathway will remain littered with all manner of corpses.
Looters are everywhere and, think about it before you point a finger, most of us are guilty. We have gotten so used to taking we’ve forgotten how to give back. Our mentality is: our leaders lie, cheat and steal so it’s ok for us to do the same. Let me tell you, it’s not ok, it never was ok, and our resources to make it all ok are dwindling.
People, do not let Social Congruence trump the Doctrine of Limited Rights. The business of political leadership will attempt to defeat your best efforts. Be resolute, join the battle Front, advance with us.
Science is our friend, not our enemy. Science is grounded in known equations and entities. Science and its people are our way to the future. Science evolves and changes when errors are uncovered. This does not mean that all current political leadership is inferior. There are some bright lights in our political universe that are trying desperately to effect positive change using the current set of rules. Unfortunately, they are submerged under a wall of water that is drowning all of us as I speak. To these individuals I say, come to the Front. We have room for you here.
As most of you know, we are working to secure a following in each state, starting with our already established RSO’s. As we move forward and gain members our political philosophy gains momentum. We are focused on reversing several disturbing trends in American life. Let’s discuss those.
First and foremost, America has a huge problem spiraling out of control. Never, during my days as a member of the 75th Ranger Regiment did I envision an America so racked with violence as to defy description. We ask everyone here to consider this time as The Age of Violence, a term that has been used by others before us to mean many things. As our cities have become more compressed, as our value system has been shredded, trending forward came the brotherhood of murder, corruption, guns, killing, drugs; trends that must change.
This is an enormous time we have been born into that now requires a reset. A new course must be charted. To accomplish this daunting task will require a different mindset. Think about what is possible, not what you are told is impossible. Discard your confirmation bias, if you have one that supports your preconceptions and ignores anything that contradicts those beliefs.
Try to understand that our founders never envisioned America’s current armament as they crafted the Second Amendment, but we know too well the outcomes, the Events, caused by this violent presence in our society. For anyone laughing at the thought of it can’t be done; Americans will always be cowboys, my answer is that over time things do change, even the Cowboys.
Under our current legal system criminals often have unlimited rights. Some have been set free because of procedural legalities. I realize a fine line exists between order and a police state but it seems to me that violent acts with weapons transition the perpetrator from a citizens status, one with full constitutional rights, to a place where his rights are diminished. It takes a strong will to reel in violence, it will not stop itself. I expect the ACLU to scream but the last time I checked they weren’t patrolling the streets or pulling guard duty. It is difficult to voice but some humans cannot be saved, some do not want to be saved. Whatever we decide to do will require concrete, legal remedies. Once that framework is in place we can address the hardware, but not the other way around. Declare war on violence and our children will prosper as it declines. Put black and white laws in place and enforce them. Once laws are in place to penalize gun violence and its companions as not acceptable in our society, the only complainants will be those whose livelihoods have been redacted.
What a territory, what a profit center this must be, for these we confront to hold on to such tools in the face of carnage beyond our expectations. And yet our leadership spends none of their political capital to rein in the perpetrators. Why is that you ask? My answer is because they hold membership in the same social club.
Faith tribes, churches, and civic organizations can have a huge impact on violence by vetting the candidates they support on issues of conscience. Just ask these men and women before you endorse them if they support constraint. It is a yes or no answer.
This type of grass roots program works. In the State of Indiana 1.5 million teachers and sympathizers voted with their conscience and elected Glenda Ritz Secretary of Education. The woman had no money and yet overwhelmed a certain Tony Bennett, financed mightily by the GOP. We can apply this Process to achieve other solutions. It won’t be done for us. Change the Process, change the Events.
Cyrus looked at the throng. It was quiet out there. No jeers, no applause. No protesters. The cat had surely jumped right out of the bag.
The millions of people joining our organization, swelling its ranks daily are telling us with their dollar to push forward. They are asking us to lead. These people want to trust the man in charge. I submit there is no more weighty burden. Trust is difficult to obtain. We trusted FDR and he led us through a war that claimed 50 million lives. Harry Truman dropped a terrible bomb on a nation that tried to kill us. As a former soldier I can tell you that some events are beyond description or the ability of people to grasp. We are in such a war, one with an undetermined outcome.
When I was a child in the fifties I rode the Greyhound bus from So Ill to St. Louis, MO to see my grandpa. The bus was slow and I never had a chaperone yet there was never a problem. Today, a 7 year old child, alone on a bus, you would never think of such a thing, as you would be offering up your child as a target for predators. The Front has reached the point where enough is enough. Let’s take back our lost property.
The Doctrine of Limited Rights enables the population of citizens to conceive creatively, to make changes where necessary to benefit the survival of a society, if, in fact, that society is to prevail. The citizens must have leadership that leads and since we have introduced our Principle of Social Congruence there is no misunderstanding about the complicity of the tribes, which has enabled all concerned, resulting in representation by the bought.”
“I promise you,” Cyrus said, looking across the platform he was standing on to where Jax was seated, “that if you choose to support The Front as a major third party in America we will advocate for changes to our political system and the representatives who man the trenches. Changing the guard is a way forward from these dark times.
One day you will again have leaders you can trust but the journey will be arduous. George Orwell, in his novel 1984, warned of totalitarianism, whether from the right or the left. We are in those times.
Someone in the crowd whistled. Almost simultaneously a voice rang out from behind one of the camera crews, “You god damn traitor, you won’t get away with this.” People turned to look in the direction of that voice and camera crews, still on Cyrus, tried to spot the target of opportunity. They received an unforced assist as the man walked out into the aisle and, with a portable microphone shoved toward him said, “If we can’t protect ourselves no one else will. I’m not giving up any of my rights, you can damn well bet on that Professor Cyrus Kohler.” From somewhere else came a clap. Suddenly, a security guard came out of nowhere and reached for the man in an attempt to remove him from the scene. A roar tore loose and ascended to the cosmos. It was unexpected and Cyrus could only watch and listen, taken completely off guard. These were academicians, reporters, TV crews, and the public, standing side by side, it was hard to tell who was saying what but they were making the heavens shake.
“Guard, let him stay,” Cyrus said in a voice loud enough to drown out some of the chaos. “Let him go.” The guard did as asked and the crowd began to quiet. As they did Cyrus said, speaking directly to the man who had voiced his complaint, “The beautiful thing about a true democracy is its tolerance of dissent. You and I are both dissenters. Both of us are saying no, you to the idea of change, and the uncertainty that comes with it, me to staying in this tidal pool of evil and drowning without attempting to swim. The Front, sir, will always respect your right to disagree, which you have just done.”
The man moved back behind the camera from whence he came.
It took a while but when silence once again came to the beautiful lawn outside Faner Hall Cyrus spoke, “ I/we,” Cyrus said emphatically, pointing both of his index fingers inward towards his chest, “live in a democracy that is indeed under water, covered by a surge of its own unchecked excess. A wave of unlimited freedoms, growing daily, engulfing our citizens who may, or may not, be able to crawl from the wastewater of their own making. The Process, being so broken, gives us no remedies to fix ourselves. We cannot, at present, select the unbought because they cannot be selected.
History looks through a long prism. Tightening up our intolerance for crime, getting rid of PACS, lobbyists, equalizing campaign funding, setting term limits, providing a health care and immigration solution while reeling in the Second Amendment’s voracious expansion of individual rights seems like good corporate business to me. This time, however, the USA is the LLC.
There are many issues on our plate. Immigration, health care, the budget, which our blog will address for all of you with a computer to study at your leisure but I want to close with my greatest concern, a little issue called global warming.
“I talk to people all the time,” Cyrus said, looking out over the sea of cameras and reporters, “their take on climate change seems closely tied to their sociality. Oscar Wilde once said ‘In America the young are always ready to give those who are older than themselves the full benefit of their experience.’ That might not apply here. The Millenials seem to grasp their planets destiny more securely than their elders but regardless, the Front supports the notion that even if we were to accomplish a breakthrough now there are no guarantees that action would have been timely. We surely do believe the time for debating has passed. Everyone needs to get on board and embrace the science surrounding this controversy. Only the dinosaurs are in denial; I don’t want to go with them. Democratic senator, Daniel Patrick Moynihan once said, ‘Everyone is entitled to his own opinion, but not to his own facts.’
Deniers of climate change create a discussion that is less than engaging but sensible to those whose livelihoods are impacted. Again, it is the intersection of people and opportunity. What we should be focused on, in our opinion, is how to eliminate CO2 emissions from cars and coal without causing a financial disaster in terms of lost jobs. The country needs clean air. How do we get there and protect our workers?”
Cyrus looked spent. “I worry about us all,” he said. “Although America is decaying, it has not decayed. Although a want has become a need it has shown us a path to follow. Although our system is corrupt and wracked with violence it can be fixed. Energizing science to replace sociality will walk us out of this quagmire. No one, individual or nation, should ever again have unlimited rights. The time to recognize that fact is upon us.
Giving special interests, indeed segments of society, what they want, is not necessarily an appropriate societal solution. Spending more than we take in, with few exceptions, is not a solution. Savings are better than debt. Homicides that seem to be on every street corner can be curbed. This country is still better served by fidelity and commitment than by huge numbers of unwed mothers. 67% of black births, 56% of Hispanic babies, and 38% of white newborns fall into that category. 70% of marriages last less than 7 years. Education, under attack ever since Madalyn O’Hair took on prayer in the schools, now cannot find teachers willing to agree to the rules of engagement. Homelessness is all over our cities. The financial cost of protecting ourselves from the Bin Laden’s has become more burdensome than even he predicted. We have seemingly unsolvable problems and a check mated government.
Cyrus stepped back from the lectern and raised his arms skyward. “Great men have come before me opening the doors to our future, men such as Isaac Newton and gravity, Michael Faraday and electricity, and Albert Einstein and relativity. Although their science led mankind forward these men, not being socially congruent, never ran for public office. Their territory existed within the realm of science.
We must find a way to bring these types of men forward. There must be rules and those rules must err on the side of law and sanity. All men are not created equal. Our current model must be abandoned as we realign ourselves with common sense where decision making reeks of clarity. ”Snatch the day and pocket it, said Cyrus, “wring its textures and hues from its exposed fabric. Make it into life.”
It was over. Cyrus turned, walked back to his chair and sat down. A muted silence filled the air. People talked quietly to each other. Quaint murmurs abounded. Truth be known, the sounds of silence engulfed the lawn. For the next few weeks all the talk would be about the Front and their call to action. Age old myths had been targeted, to be replaced by logic and facts. Evolution and genetics would by themselves engineer in a new world, given the opportunity.


Recent Projects:

Speaking engagements related to Between The Walls of Time and New Rationalism. Radio Talk shows focused on key ideas in the book. A sequel to Between The Walls entitled Oblivions Reach. Planning a university lecture series.

Projects or Proposals Offered:


Experience, Credits and/or Awards:

This is my first major fiction work.

Excerpts from Reviews or References:

Not yet published or reviewed

Resumé Training/Experience:

Michael Stafford was born and raised in Southern Illinois. He attended Washington University, St. Louis, on a basketball scholarship and received an MBA from Southern Illinois University. Mr. Stafford was a pioneer in the development of portable computing and is a willing golfer.
The author lives in Indiana with his wife Susan and dog Scout.

Contact Number For Book Order: 3175026601

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