This book is an illustrated Christian philosophy novel. The world of Charyli, existing outside of our Earth, unites two lovers whose love is unaccepted on our Earth, as love often is. This is so, because in Charyli, Charyllyns have the third eye, which enables them to see the demons that we do not see. Fighters trade bodies with the lovers on Earth, to fight the demons in the flesh on Earth. Meanwhile, the human soul trains as a fighter in Charyli.
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Charyli, Where Love Never Fails
In a world and time where love is often accepted after success and stability, love is not always obtained. Not everyone is able to take advantage in the working world when lacking the basic needs. This latter describes Ginger and Billy, born and raised in corrupt homes, never accepted their love for each other, nor received acceptance from that world and time. Human beings have the hearts for hope, but without the eye for the demons which pollute their body and mind, often lose it.
What if there was another world and another time where love could be accepted, or where stability and success are universal, where demons could be abolished?
There is such a world. That world is Charyli, where demons and spirits are controlled.
The inhabitants of Charyli are trained and educated to save those souls in our world, in our time, so they may love again. To ensure the selflessness, the inhabitants store their emotions in their third eyes, where time is not stretched on one line, but filled up with moments of past, present, and future that are often altered. Alleviated of the burden of flesh, the fighters trade bodies with whatever living soul is to be saved. These bodies are protected with family medallions from demons and thieves.
Roxy, the first fighter, saves the soul of Jessie. Yet, like Jessie and other humans, Roxy relishes in emotion, something Charyli, pure as it may be, deprives him of. Jessie, given the body of Roxy in Charyli, trains in Charyli’s ways, and knowing the emotional distraction of humanity, eventually surpasses her savior.
In this amazing tale, Roxy preaches to the children of Earth Charyli’s teachings through poetic verse, more specifically to Jessie’s daughter, while simultaneously learning about humanity through them. Meanwhile, Jessie is reborn in innocence by being given a new sight. The original mission, the saving of Jessie’s soul, becomes tainted, due to both curious souls lost in a new world.
Roxy ignores his father’s voice and chooses a mission of his own on Earth. Trained and wise as a Charyli fighter and savior, Roxy is tortured and distracted with the flesh and its emotions. Jessie, in learning Charyli’s ways, sacrifices more than any other fighter has done before and is rewarded a medallion, a Charylynn body, of her own. This new sacrifice bans Roxy from his home, and Jessie from her new body.
The power of the third sight is given to the new owner of the fighter’s body, something that owner, the current master of Time itself, will abuse. Who will save Charyli now? What will happen to Jessie’s soul? Will love fail?
People’s lives intertwine daily. We live by momentary explorations of
new faces limiting their potential with the expected casual conversation.
Our tongues dance around opportunities. The probabilities play chess protecting the queen’s side, due The Man’s philosophy. Society brews my
black tea with no honey. A therapeutic black out consisting of square
opinions piling up on a stranger’s table because abstract enthralls us,
giving us logical direction. I keep adjusting my pillow, head racing to the
speed of my ancestor’s sex drive while conversing with a new mind. I
observe the silent eyes. They are better that way. Sweet ’n’ low thins my
soul. Popular drugged alterations from alien turf the orators drop with
fears of discovery as plagiarized philosophers rather than new babies
excited over the vast fields of technology, culture, sciences, and the arts.Life deflates the peace with sharp eyes or detours around it in a beeline.So busy are we that in our boring schedules we carry our homes on backs,and our silence in our cell phones, like turtles on speed, until some commercial muse suggests Feng Shui to our cluttered shells. Hellos and goodbyes from familiar faces familiarize through intrusions, reoccurring until notched in our agendas. We grow from these new greetings, free ourselves from Old Man Time, the infinite cycle, when we give in to a new tone of a fresh voice or a disparate walk we haven’t seen yet.
Like those women men leave their bodies for. Perhaps an exotic
haircut, a mannequin’s delicatessen, or Momma’s voluptuous curves do
the trick? Boys’ eyes give auras to those curves. If only that girl could
read a mute. We can. She touches her toes without freeing them. Don’t
miss it, boy! She struts carefully, one foot in front of the other on the velvet line at the grocery store, as if she might at any moment drown into the aisle. Her eyes smile. Her bottom lip hangs. She treads on your spine for
a balance beam. You, my boy, are hoping for a bra strap to fall down one
golden shoulder, for a laugh to spill over from some untold story. You bite
your tongue and the warm blood mingles with the fire way up there, yet
it’s boiling down below; it is rising ever so slowly, in tune with your heavy
breathing. Or maybe she lives on stage, behind a name, masked before
shaded eyes, but “she remains human,” you tell yourself, only yourself.
You know where she’ll be. You refrain, still, from “making a stripper into
a housewife” and keep that ass firm. I, a woman, take notes.
Or like those men women become virgin again when he is so alien fromthe crowd he must be our personal angel. Or maybe he is horrid, beating
down girls and boys with his manhood, pinching and contorting our
pearls, without fingers budging from the desk. We dawdle on one foot
now, needing his river to flow our way. Maybe he breaks the rules. The
authority makes his bigger, more powerful. We wipe the mud off our
halos. One finger dams the river, finding there are no panties, in fact, girl,you are wearing nothing at all. Sweat beading down your thighs,
postponing the extravaganza for another day. You know where to find
him. The fire is shunned with one more finger and a wet dream, but cannot
be extinguished. Here you remain parted from yourself again, begging to
be raped, holding your curiosity in a mini skirt. You refuse to be the
willing in a fantasy of sin.
I am the woman narrating. I hope you can relate.
Then there are those freaks that exercise our fantasies, our practices,reopen those scars we still scratch, carry those smells we lure, breed the beasts we feed, ignite the flames we attempt to smother in our skirts,answer that phone number we keep under our beds in a shoe box; the
people who unify reader and writer, man and woman, student and teacher. When our souls are locked in demonic shadows, the keys to our closet might be found in the eyes of some person on the other side of the greeting card aisle while we obsess over the notion that we must find the perfect birthday card for our neighbors and cannot believe it has already been a year. We go home to our families, our cats, our porno, our chat rooms, our romance novels, our video games, our homework. The person behind the birthday balloons doesn’t go home. In line he purchases sixblades, some condoms, flaming Cheeto fries, a lighter, film, and some duct tape. They mock our narrow paths of education, family, and other ball and chains.
Go ahead. How many stories can you write, tell, about the list of items in front of you? Which one is right? Maybe you don’t daydream in the
“Love bites,” yet is never a catch. Pain, lust, that runner’s high, is a charge in the opposing sex that was my Billy. Another universal principle I leash with a word: Pain. Over a cup of coffee we once toyed with the idea of being swingers for a month and falling in love with our prey for thirty one days plus leap year, but really doing it, then carving our broken hearts with a knife, with a drug, shaping a new love. This was ten years ago, longer in Charyli. My friend was an alcoholic. He was grungy and skinny with lack of proper nutrition didn’t speak right and carried his home in a backpack. I wanted to be that druggie without the potbelly,without the curses. I was fame back then, a hooker with everything in a dream, except myself. I was without myself. I wasn’t the one sleeping, so these weren’t my dreams, or my money. Perhaps pieces of me were left swimming in men’s balls, I thought, hoping herpes swam along with my forgotten history. We fell in love not with a stranger, but with each other and did end up having to reshape our hearts. The new love was what I birthed.
“…For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities,
against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against
spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.”
What about demons? I read this in a Bible a cute church boy gave me
on my porch. Until then I once believed this term as a label for the
unexplainable, the unimaginable, the peripheral shadows that cause car
accidents, the baby’s sudden death syndrome, cancer, and voices heard
from the inside, voices heard from the outside. I was not a pagan, I was not
a Christian. I was Ginger with a head holding a neat little vacuumcleaning my world of reality. It was where I went when playing video games, when doing puzzles, when counting steps into familiar and alien
hotel rooms, a suction being the ultimate abuse of mankind’s motor skills.
I met my demon once. Took me on a trip, he did, and I may never