In the Garden Beauty means nothing compared to this. The incredible sensation of love had an almost tangible aspect.

Incredible to think that a few seconds ago I had just been swimming in the lake, trying to escape all of the strains and pressures of life; similar to how some people drink, I swim to forget. Life is funny. As soon as you think that you have everything in control, life has a nasty habit of picking you up and dropping you right on your well-pampered butt. At least, that happens to be pertaining to what happened to me. To think that I could have the capability to actually be the most destructive thing in this new world grips my heart and twists it into oblivion every time I think of it. The cool creek giggles and dances over my feet as I rise out of the water, my hair flowing over my shoulders. Walking slowly and carefully, I stare in awe at the cloudless blue sky and drag my feet over the soft grass. Everything resonates of beauty here; both lion and lamb lay together under the cool shade of the fruit trees. Peace, this place permeated of peace and prosperity. But I also felt something else, a presence. Not like any presence, bad or good, one of hope and peace and love. When I look down, I see that I had miraculously been clothed in my work uniform, a pristine suit with an immaculate skirt. Quite abnormal, but nothing to dally about now, as I had business to complete; the business of finding out exactly what this place held in store. Continuing to walk, I would slow in awe every so often as to admire a creek, animal, mountain, and even butterflies. As a lawyer I could not often take time to slow down my busy life and do things like admire common scenery, but this place had a different feel to it. Little did I realize that this place would soon have a rude awakening, and that awakening knew the name of Victoria Sinfrey. People actually lived on this place. They happened to obtain incredible luck, for I had found that this place could only be described as perfect. I looked to my left and saw two people standing by a nearby stream, stark naked. My astonishment gave way to my curiosity as I noticed the grandest fruit tree I had seen yet. The tree had a difference from the others though. No animals rested itself in this shade, no birds sang from its branches. This tree possessed an interesting feel about it, something that would take rebellion to awake. Making my way over to the man and women, I became determined to find out more about this haven. After meeting with them, I have determined that their Creator must dictate them in everything they do. This perfect was too perfect. There had to be something wrong with it. While talking to them, I discovered that the only rule that plagued this place involved not eating from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. After a little digging I discovered the whereabouts of that same tree, the same one that struck me as awesome before. Sitting down by the creek, I thought about this little world. Obviously this God had hoped that His people would remain ignorant, that they would follow His rule until their end. At last, a reason for me to be here. Finally I could work in my trade in this perfect world. It is incredible that they have not been independent already. Unaware of my acing bones and new wrinkles, I walked over to the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and sat, waiting for one of the people to come up. The women came alone. She sat beside me, and we spoke. I told her of my world, where we had free will, and the ability to make decisions. I told her how she could be free to make this decision, that it was her life, and she should choose to live it as she pleases. I told her that she had the political right to eat that fruit. I told her of my religion, created by Oprah Whinifry, an intelligent talk show host, and how she believed that we all possessed the ability to be gods. If she ate this fruit, I told her, she would finally be free to make conclusions based on her own opinions, not those of her God and His worthless ways. I convinced her. Standing up, she grabbed the biggest fruit of the bunch and took a huge bite. Immediately her eyes brightened, and

she ran off to share her new-found gift with her husband. I stood up with some difficulty and used my ivory cane to support me as I tried to walk briskly down the path. I had truly made this place perfect with my pro-choice ideals. But all at once, the sky grew dark, and fire seemed to leap from everything around me. A voice boomed from above the sky as the sound of both the man and the woman weeping reached my ears. The power in his voice made me quake with fear. He told me that I had deceived them all. That could not have any truth. I could see them now, wearing animal clothing, crawling out of the garden. A pang of guilt consumed me, and then flickered away. They made their decision; I had not made it for them. With one word, the God of the universe condemned me to crawl the earth, licking the dust, with my already aging body. As the Angel drew his fiery sword on the garden, a snake slithered quietly away in the dusk.

A Rider on a White Horse Then I saw in the right hand of him who sat on the throne a scroll with writing on both sides and sealed with seven seals. Revelation 5:1 People had disappeared. No warning, no sign left behind on their piled of clothes. Nothing left behind, except for us. It had taken years, but we finally had figured out what happened. All the signs had been administered, and we had missed them. Now we fight for our lives, every day, waiting for the day of the Final battle. My own brother now lay slain as his refusal to accept the sign, the sign of the antichrist. I still remember his face as he stood, his face aglow, as the Officer sent bullets burrowing into his frame. The spurting blood flew onto the Officer, who didnt even flinch; he just turned and walked away. As I sank down to his side, he held out his hands in front of him, but not towards me. However through that, the oddest thing came in what he said: Jesus, take me home. Then his hands dropped, and my only source of protection died. And I saw a beast coming out of the sea. He had ten horns and seven heads, with ten crowns on his horns, and on each head a blasphemous nameOne of the heads seemed to have a fatal wound, but the fatal wound had been healed.He was given power to make war against the saints and to conquer them.- Revelation 13:1,3,7 Life had become meaningless. Despite the searches done by the Officers and even Alexander Whinifry himself, we remained unfound and safe, until today. Today we would fight. We would break out of our game of Cat-and-Mouse, and let the cat find us. We do not know the outcome, or the consequence of fighting, but seven years had passed, and we needed to strike immediately. We formed at the Coliseum that Alexander would soon enter and perform in. At this time, the party consisted of me and three other surviving Christians. At this time we saw Paula, Alexanders girlfriend at the time, take her place near her boyfriend. Our preparation and training did nothing for us in what happened next. Paula stuck her hand in her pocket while leaning over to talk to Alexander, and produced a knife which she proceeded to implant in the back of Alexanders head. He fell forward, blood spilling all over the platform as Paula grabbed the knife, twisted it upward, and let his brains fall at the feet of his advisors and biggest fans. Then she kissed his cheek, swiped at the blood that had transferred to her lips, and left. We stood, stark still, and watched as the horror of the universe bleed his life away. Little did we know that he did not hold the name horror of the universe quite yet. Three days later, the nurse who worked in the morgue said she heard a disruption from the room where Alexanders body lay. As she walked in, she said that she saw Alexander sitting up, his eyes black with hatred and little shadows swirling around his feet. He then proceeded to walk over and place his hands on the nurses shoulders, saying that the time had come. It said in Revelation that Alexanders quest led to the overtaking of Babylon, but we had the intentions of hindering his progress. With such violence will the great city of Babylon will be thrown down, never to be found again. Revelation 18:21 Our small resistance only contained about fifteen thousand people, but it would help us enough to create at least a dent in Alexanders massive army. I stood, with my hands extended, praying for strength and courage that I would desperately need. Then, I turned and examined the few faithful. Not all of them bore the sign of the cross on their foreheads, so I prayed for them, and approached them to speak about Gods great love and justice. When I had finally finished, many more crosses decorated the foreheads of many more people. Then we heard the shouts. The time had come. Again turning, I looked into the eyes of the frightened solders, some no more than children, and spoke something not of me. You had the choice to fight, and you have chosen

to try and hinder this oppressor that seizes up. Truly, we have no chance without divine intervention, and we all have death marked out for us. But since God is for us, who can be against us? No one could possibly even hope to come against us. So let us fight, for the Kingdom, for Christ, and for the ruin of this monster. Cheers met my speech, followed by near panic as Alexanders army reached the walls of the city. The doors resistance did not last long, and the army entered the city, greeted by our yells of war. The impact of the two armies sent a wave of heat soaring through the city. The sound of clanking metal and the booming of guns sounded like a roaring lion, and I ran to meet the Enemy. Engaging a chunky man with the horrific 6 on his head, I ducked his clumsy blow and sent a dagger whizzing into the rolls of his neck. His eyes showed astonishment as I yanked the knife back out and left him to breathe his laugh. The battle seemed to be going our way. The dead lay everywhere, mostly officers, but I cringe to see familiar faces frozen in pain. One man had half of his leg missing; I wonder what could have caused that. Sorrow flooded me to see our dead, but joy that they now danced with God in heaven. Hopefully I can afflict more damage until my time comes as well. Then I saw the man. Alexander literally snapped an attacking mans arm in half as he approached, untouchable. Pulling the trigger on his hand gun, I cringed as the mans eyes welled in pain and then glazed over. Flicking the dead man away, Alexander turned towards me. Behind him I saw the horror of war. Men with their intestines strung around their face sobbed as they died, the inhumane officers laughing as they tortured the dying by ripping out the ribs and stomach, and twisting them into figures as the victims screamed. Other men ran, crying and praying, only to be shot down. An officers head exploded as one of the faithful dropped bricks onto it. But we did not have the upper hand. Dying out slowly, the army had no more chances of survival. I faced Alexander, and my doom. At that moment, I saw a rider on a white horse descending from the sky. He wore a white robe with King of Kings and Lord of Lords writing onto it. All around him angels sang and praised him. His eyes filled with compassion and love, He looked at me, and then turned to the ensuing battle. And with His one word, it ended. Officers dropped to the ground, screaming as their faces melted bones turned to ash. I turned away from the sight and smell. The guns exploded into the hands of others, the hot metal leaving them shrieking before they died. All at once, our battle had been one from a Beautiful God, the Savior Jesus. Walking among them, the Saviors white robe became stained with the blood of His enemies. As he approached me, I sank to the ground and worshiped my Lord. The battle for the throne had taken place, and God immerged the victor with no effort at all. Now I got to experience the greatness of the Kingdom of Heaven, and I could not wait. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be His people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. -Revelation 21:3-4

Thus is the Island of Crackendor Although mere hours had passed since the Soul Searcher had crashed and sunk by this God-forsaken island, I felt ages older. Being the sole survivor, I had little time to mourn the fates of my companions, as I had more trouble staying conscious long enough to make a temporary bed out of some leaves I found in the forest about twenty feet from the beach. In the morning I would explore my new prison. The sound of rushing water yanked me out of my coma-like state. When I opened my eyes I saw a massive waterfall cascading into a clear blue lake. The green grass swayed in the gentle wind, large trees of an indescribable species dotted the area around the lake. Off in the distance birds sang their love song of morning and the breeze shook the trees. I stood silent and let the island serenade me with its song. If the whole island amassed this beauty, this serenity, I could finally be happy. After what seemed like hours, I left the lake and its unsurpassable beauty and went off to discover the rest of my haven. What I found is not able to be described in human terms, so this is where you as the reader decide whether to believe my story or to rebuke it. The shack stood in the middle of the island, next to the waterfall and lake. But here a cold wind blew, sending shivers down my spine. No light could escape through the trees, making it even colder. Vines hung from the willow trees, their large thorns seeming small in comparison to the ones encompassing the wild grass and weeds. Even though the housing could not have produced itself, I doubted that anyone had lived there. It could not have been more than 10 feet wide and made crudely of rotting wood. The walls had distinct scratches on the sides and a porch with broken steps. The whole building seeped darkness and fear. I prodded painfully through the field, flinching at every sound that reached my alert ears. When I reached the porch of the shack I saw that the scratches on the wall were not scratches, but actual writing. At this, my fear overtook me, and I stood stalk still, shocked. After a while, I lifted my head to examine the writing on the wall. Where terror strikes and truth stands, And all is revealed through the Makers plans, When the soul finds rest and yearns for more, Thus is the Island of Crackendor. It made no sense. How could this island possibly give me rest? I had done too much, and I considered myself lost. Someone must have been here before and done this to keep himself from going crazy before he died. No way would I give into this absurdity; if I wanted to live, then I had to abide in that very shack until I have the means to make myself a house. So with a new frame of mind, I entered the house. The door moaned when I pushed it open shed what little light it had on the pitch black room. The shack contained a small bed, two logs set up to account for a table, and an old worn Bible sitting on top. I felt as if my world were spinning insanely around me, and it well could have been. Questions swirling around in my head, I stumbled out the door and out into the cold air. No natural explanations presented themselves for this situation, no easy solution, just me and this shack on an utterly supernatural island. After leaving the shack, I staggered back to the lake and its waterfall. I remained there for the rest of the day. As dark finally fell, I ran back to the shack, oblivious to the scratches of the thorns because I wanted to be safe before night took its hold on me and the island. Upon entering the shack, I noticed a slight difference in the size of the shack; however, I collapsed without investigating and slept until the morning again replenished my soul. I knew I had to finish exploring my island, so I came out set on finding more places like the lake. I entered the forest

and walked around, looking at the thorns and demented trees. This whole place seemed weary and weak, filled with an inexplicable darkness. The only place I could find peace held itself deep within the heart of the island, the lake. While thinking about this glorious place, I nearly passed the cave that suddenly appeared to my right. I froze, debating whether to enter the mysterious unknown or to return to my exploring. Deciding on the first, I squared my shoulders and set out into the cave. Immediately emotions overcame me that I thought to be long dead. My mind flashed and I fell to the ground, unable to bear the images wrecking my brain. My father, my father whom I had not thought of for at least twenty years came looming over me, screaming in rage as he had so many nights of my young life. I saw myself before him, cowering as my beloved father raved with spittle flying from his mouth as he struck me again and again. You will never be good enough. Ever since your mother died you have been worthless. I wish you were never born, that way my wife would still be with me! Nothing could stop the images from flashing around me. Countless times of beatings, fights, screaming insanity reappeared from where I had buried them years ago. Out of habit I looked down at the scar that reached from her wrist to her elbow as one particular memory exploded in front of her. Dad stop hitting her, stop hitting her you are going to kill my sister! Shut up, I am the parent; I will do what I want. Stop, please Daddy stop. Fine, but you will regret saying that. Dad, put that knife down, you dont know what you are doing, no Dad! I tried to stop him, and after cutting up some grocery bags he left my sister trembling in the corner and came for me. I put my hand up at the last second and the knife brought excruciating pain to me. At the sight of my blood my father sobered up and apologized, which always happened after a fight, and said again never to tell anyone. So, I hid that incident inside of me, and had never told a soul. I ran out of the cave, unable to speak and unable to breathe. I collapsed on the thick jungle floor, sobbing for myself, my sister, and my father. As the sun grew hotter and the harsh thorns of the jungle drew my blood, I finally got up from the jungle floor and stumbled back towards the lake. As I passed walked, I passed by a meadow that I had not seen before. Pausing in my steps, I decided to tentatively walk towards it and see what the island had in store for me here. This has passed the point of insanity and I am determined to silence my stupid thoughts that this island possessed supernatural abilities. Once I reached the middle of the meadow, nothing had happened, so I turned around and ran back to the lake, unable to see the crumpled figure lying in the long weeds. The rest of the day I spent gaining back my confidence and piecing my heart back together. That night I tossed and turned for hours dreaming of my sister. The hours passed without my knowledge, and time had no meaning to me. It seems like years since my life had been normal, before the accident, and before Crackendor. I had to explore the island. Things still need to be discovered, the truth to be revealed, peace and rest to be found. Convincing myself to get out of the small bed proved itself to be a challenge, and when I finally managed to get my heavy body and soul out of the bed, I froze. The shack did not look like this before. The floor seemed to stretch out more than a foot longer, and a dingy couch had been added to the meager furniture. The bed had received the same treatment. A foot had been added to that, and another, warmer blanket. Fantastic, that described the emotions swirling in my head, trying to wrap my head around this new occurrence; fantastic, and

horrifying. Even though the idea of this supernatural island had begun to fester in my mind, it still evoked horrific shock when a new development reared its ugly head. I shook my head and left the shack, unable to process anything anymore. I went back to the meadow. When I finally reached the field, only a few thorns had taken the chance to implant themselves into my flesh. It seemed fewer of them plagued me now. Shaking off the feeling that yet another surprise awaited me, I continued walking in the clear air. I caught a glimpse of something in the corner of my peripheral vision and turned. I saw something lying there in the corner of the field, not moving. It looked like a person. Fear mounting inside of me, I sprinted over there, feeling the tears break the fragile veil that they had hidden behind. No, this could not happen to me, not again. I could not live that again, ever. If it unraveled itself, and held what I thought in its iron grasp, then death would hold victory over me. I approached the figure, my sister. I shrieked as the flashbacks again possessed me. My dad had drunk far too much that night; he had not known what he had inflicted upon my sister. I gasped, a stood still as the images roared. A small boy walks home, excited about school and ready to share all he has learned with his nine year old sister. When he walks inside, he pauses, and screams as he sees his sister crumpled on the floor in the corner, blood spurting out of a wound in his head. Sobbing, he rushes over to his sisters side and checks for a pulse. No steady beat greets his grasping fingers. No, please. Not my sister, not my sister. She had never woken up. My loving sister, the young one that I shared all of my trials, problems with, had not lived through the pain, through the horror of my father. That young, bright spot in my life would never again hug me, cry with me, and pray with me. To some extent I am glad that she no longer took could see what I had become, what I had done next. God had lost all meaning to me that day; my faith had shattered, never to be resurrected. Once again aware of the meadow, I did not cry, I could not cry. My sister had been dead for years, but the idea of her death had never fully sunk in. This horrible memory painfully brought very detail back, and the reality rushing towards me gave me no warning before it ripped and shredded my heart, my soul. The hugeness her death rammed into me with such force that I could not run or scream, but only stand there with silent tears running down my face until the world went black. When I woke up and finally dragged myself back to the shack, I noticed yet another transformation. The walls had been painted, and the bed had grown, a couch added, and a brand new table lay under the still-worn Bible. Startled but unsurprised, I settled in for the night. I knew what came next. But before it could posses me, I would be gone. There must be some way that I could escape this horror before the final judgment, the final condemnation, the final revealing of what I had done breaks the bonds of my memory and sinks itself into my mind. This could not happen. I had buried this memory deep within me that no one knew of it; even I hardly could remember its gory details. But I would never underestimate the power of the island. No matter how hard I tried, I could not escape the draw of finding out if the island really could give me, of all people, peace. Strength, I need strength. This would no longer have power over me. If the island knew, then I would find out. It took place in the stone garden. I discovered these beautiful structures when I walked along the beach that I had dragged myself upon so long ago. It most certainly had not been there before, or I would have surely noticed it. Fearful, but ready to face my fate, I tentatively walked into the center of the stone garden. In there, I found what I never expected to find, my worst nightmares had been met and amplified. In the center of the stones my father stood on top of a

blood red rock. A deep, guttural laugh escaped from his mouth as he looked at me. Shaking, and debating whether or not I could beat me father in a foot race, I tried to bring myself to my full height and bring some resistance into my posture and eyes. The stare down only lasted about a minute, and he broke the silence, his words cutting deeper than any knife could. Hello boy. His tone oozed disgust and hatred. Do you really think you could escape me? After all of these years, lying in the dark corners of your memory, I have escaped, and I have come to tell you something. All of the years of your puny young life, you have been blaming me. You call me a horrible father, say that I have ruined you, and especially that my murders are the most horrendous things of the world. But let me say something to you. You are just as bad as I. Countless times you have murdered me in your mind, each time worse than the next. And this corrupted you; your mind had gone so far that you could no longer restrain yourself. White hot anger spurred through me. I am not just as bad as he. No way could this possibility have any aspect of truth. I had done nothing similar to him, nothing half as bad as his murders. What I did happened by chance, happened by accident. As my father retold the titillated story, the images came to life in my mind. Months had passed since my sister had been brutally murdered by my father. But no one knew about it. My dad had scared me into believing that people would think that I killed her, so I told no one. Night after night I would dream about ripping my fathers heart out, and finding it covered in worms and mold. Every night I would kill him in my sleep, and every day I would find myself fancying turning those dreams into a reality. The day the accident had happened, my dad had decided to keep me home from school again and lock me in the closet with the decayed body to convince me further not to tell a soul. Refusing to go in the closet yet again, I adamantly stood still. Tension mounted, and I could tell that my dad had been drinking again. Tension turned into aggression, and as my father approached me to administer yet another beating, I sank to the ground. But as I fell, my hand hit a knife sitting halfway on the counter. The knife sailed into the air, and my whole world slowed. What I saw through my splayed fingers I will never forget. The knife, spinning in mid air, my father, his anger and misty eyes as he came towards me, and my scream, as I braced myself for the blows all seemed to slow down and almost come to a stop. Then, the knife met its target. Shock echoed on my fathers face as a thin layer of blood trickled down his forehead, where the knife had imbedded itself. I slowly rose from the ground, unable to process what I had done. Then he died. The everlasting tormentor had died by the hands of an 11 year old boy. My father now had the audacity to tell me that I killed him on purpose; that I had committed a horrible murder with intent and reason. He had always accused me for things I never did, and now he had crossed the line. I stood tall, looked into his eyes, and saw the broken man he had been. Everything from his life, everything that had ever happened playing in his eyes, every moment being horribly replayed. At this moment, I remembered my faith, my faith that had kept me through the hard times until my sisters death. Everything had broken after that. I wanted my faith back. Right there, in front of my dad and facing his condemnation, I prayed for forgiveness, for a new life, for my God to come back into me. My father started laughing again, and spoke with his voice filled with condemnation. You think, after what you have done, that Jesus will come and save you? You have done something unforgivable, something that had put you even farther down into the hole of death. Come with me, down to hell, where you belong. Lets all go back there together, happy family of killers and live out our days in torment. You have condemned yourself, sealed your own fate. Nothing can save you now. Then he started

walking towards me, his hands reaching for me the way they had that fateful day. I could cry, scream, but no one would hear me, maybe I could not hope for forgiveness. But no, forgiveness had come, Hope had presented itself to me, and that hope bore the name of Jesus. Right then, a man immerged from the edge of the stone garden, came up to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and spoke: He cannot come with you, because he is mine. Then my father did something unbelievable, he cowered and out of his hunched body jumped a pale white spirit snarling and hissing at his Maker. Its voice, though thin and wiry, seemed to be everywhere and seeped with hatred and fear. You have no business here, it hissed, I hold that boy; mine, its mine. Jesus stood calmly, and looked into the spirits eyes, and spoke, his voice overflowing with love, for me. No, he belongs to me. Now leave, and never return to this place again. At this, the spirit collided into my father, and roared like a lion as the ground opened and swallowed them both forever. After this I turned, and saw all of the thorns gone on the island. The cold wind transformed into a gentle warm breeze, and the sun peeked through the clouds as the warm rain fell. I danced and sang with my Savior. Running, I set out to the shack, and with Jesus laughing behind me, I cried tears of joy as I saw the beautiful island. All of the thorns and vines were gone, replaced with flowers and gentle rivers. The birds chirped and soared as I approached the once-shack that had turned into a beautiful house. The painted porch and beautiful walls had nothing to compare to the inside. It had everything that I would ever need, a kitchen, a bedroom, and my wife. We ran to each other and cried tears of pure happiness. After a time of talking to here and Jesus and reading the old worn Bible sitting on the table, I went outside and saw the poem, plated in gold. Where terror strikes and truth stands, And all is revealed through the Makers plans, When the soul finds rest and yearns for more, Thus is the Island of Crackendor. Then the Maker of universe did the unimaginable, he hugged me and said Welcome home, son, welcome home.