A blog where thought provoking articles are sure to engender grand discussions. The whimsical satire scattered throughout is thrown in for sheer levity.
The author I have a huge affinity for is Dean Koontz, but I simply cannot ignore the works of Stephen King. I always believed that Mr. King's body of work was similar to the works of Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci. Particularly the late artists final manuscript- THE CODEX LEICESTER. I will not bother describing THE CODEX LEICESTER to you because I'm sure you'll Google it.
King's work has a hidden meaning that, for generations, literary enthusiasts will be endlessly combing over. I have a bold theory, however. Stephen King is working on something huge. A project more potent than anything he has done so far.
I believe after he passes from this earth, his publisher will release the authors final work. A goliath manuscript tying his universe into one and forever sealing his legacy as the G.O.A.T. To add even more to my theory, I believe Mr. King officially passed the torch to his son Owen King when they co-wrote SLEEPING BEAUTIES.
The following piece was inspired by the utter sadness on display within America today. If you are not moved to action by children torn haphazardly from their families, then you are, no doubt, a wilted flower; the very same people who welcome this madness.
If you are not moved to action by children torn haphazardly from their families, then IT has already placed your name in ITs satchel, called you a settler and made you ITs peddler. You are one among ITs legion of unconquerable spirits, in Hell; entirely oblivious to the fact that the children screaming for your help WAS your pathway to Heaven.
I have both a strange and creepy theory about the legendary Stephen King and his body of work. I believe Mr. King is a man not of this world and each story he has ever written was produced fully formed. As you read, please keep in mind what the preeminent science fiction writer Arthur C. Clarke once said, ‘any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’
MY THEORY […]
Stephen King was born on Sunday, September 21, 1947, but on the evening of Saturday, June 14, 1947, a royal seedling in the care of a Cel’jul sovereign guardian from the planet Yattrha located in the Phelon Provinceexactly 560 light years from earth, was hastily ferried away during an attempted coup d’état on the royal family. Stephen was only a seedling then who had not undergone the all-important Cassh’ikar, the royal Cel’jul birth ceremony. His fate was uncertain.
In entering earth’s atmosphere an unusual disturbance in its guardian and the pilots symbiotic link they had with the ship caused their craft to crash-land in Roswell, New Mexico. His guardian, having survived the impact, broke royal protocol and attempted to tend to the pilots before retrieving the seedling and fleeing. Injured, his guardian activated the ichor; searching far and wide for a suitable pregnant human female for the seedling and a human male as host for himself.
Stephen King is an intergalactic prince. His abilities are wonderous, but, unbeknownst to his guardian, the crash had irrevocably damaged the seedling. After two years of trying to right this wrong and return to Yattrha with the heir apparent safely in tow, the man- the royal guardian who the eventual author would refer to as his father, was dutybound to return to its homeworld now that the rebellion had been defeated.
The last symbiotic link the author had to his homeworld was severed when his guardian forsaken him. Ever since Stephen has struggled to remember both his homeworld and who he is. And at the age of seven, this struggle manifested itself into a mural of stories he began writing in an attempt at piecing together his life. Like in a dream, his mind has been busy producing scattered pieces of a world he has never known. This extraordinary revelation has me asking myself, which is his real world—the good parts or the execrable?
WANT PROOF [?]
Listen closely to the following Stephen King interview. He admits that he ‘…did it all in a series of wonderful dreams…’”
Sex
with a writer should be on any and everyone’s bucket list. Like a box of chocolates,
you’d have no clue which of our multiple personalities you’d encounter. Odds
are, you’d find that perfect lover. So perfect this inamorata and/or inamorato
that your psyche would forever be consumed with hopes that you’d, again, experience, even for a brief moment, the all-encompassing magmatism of that carnal deity
within.
