William Fripp's Blog

#SCIFI #aliens #reincarnation #AdInfinitum #kindlebooks #solsticepublishing #amazon “William Fripp has written a multi-layered and complex story with colorful characters…” “…Like a spiritual superhero origin story, individuals discover and learn how to use their latent psychic abilities in the war against evil, complete with melodramatic backstories and tragic love stories…” READ AD INFINITUM

by

WILLIAM FRIPP

ONLY $3.99 FOR THE #KINDLE EDITION

OR

READ #FREE with your #KINDLEUNLIMITED subscription!!! Amazon.com: Ad Infinitum eBook: William Fripp: Kindle Store http://ow.ly/w7Gv100pVeN (at Fripptopia)

#SCIFI #MUSTREAD #ALIENS #REINCARNATION

#SOLSTICEPUBLISHING

AD PERPETUAM

by

WILLIAM FRIPP

“Another Home Run for William Fripp…”

“The best book I’ve ever read on kindle…”

“Can’t wait for the next one!”

GET THE #KINDLE EDITION FOR

ONLY $3.99!

(#FREE with #KindleUnlimited !) Amazon.com: Ad Perpetuam eBook: William Fripp: Kindle Store http://ow.ly/9UfM100hnFq

#SOLSTICEPUBLISHING

#SCIFI #KindleUnlimited

Another satisfied reader… “This is a gripping story with an unusual mix of elements:

…supernatural beings, lost souls, evil possession, multiple universes, a series of murders that bring in a female police detective, a potential political assassination and the end of the world–(well, THIS world.)…”

“Individually, these elements aren’t too unusual in fiction, but I’ve never read a book that puts ALL of them at the service of one story….

…The author got it all to work with logic and cohesion and building tension…”

Amazon.com: D. Wolf’s #review of Ad Infinitum

http://ow.ly/Tcbg100kEbA (at Fripptopia)

#SCIENCEFICTION #SOLSTICEPUBLISHING

AD PERPETUAM

by WILLIAM FRIPP “What an excellent follow up to Ad Infinitum!

Once again I was caught up in the story and the characters lives.

Very difficult to put this book down once you pick it up.

William Fripp is definitely showing that he is a great author and story teller.” Amazon.com: Ad Perpetuam eBook: William Fripp: Kindle Store http://ow.ly/axA21005y2s (at Fripptopia)

@Springsteen @StevieVanZandt

#BRUCESPRINGSTEEN

How does an American icon, a home grown champion of the protest song as a form of social expression, express himself by NOT playing protest songs?

I’m a long time fan…

…and a #Charlotte native…

…and I would love to see and hear your musical interpretation of your stance on this issue…

…and I guarantee you have many, many fans in North Carolina who would support you and show up in record numbers for a concert in protest of the law…

…because THAT’S your forum, where YOU are THE BOSS of what your image projects…

…and you’re damn good at it.

Don’t let down your fans who love and follow you…

…instead, lead by example and be the exception you’ve always been to every rule…

…sing your songs. We’ll listen.

williamfripp:

Inside a tiny, claustrophobic interrogation room of the Osaka police department, Indira Singh sat quietly, in meditation, eyes wide open.

She was using the techniques she herself had trained others in, Switching On Sojourner acolytes and guiding them through the delicate currents and treacherous tides of the Slipstream on their journey towards realization and acceptance of who they are and who they have been and, in some cases, who they were meant to be long before they gained a Vessel in this dimension.

Indira herself possessed knowledge far beyond many modern Sojourner sentinels, a knowledge passed down from one age to the next, like a genetic self help manual for the soul, and as she looked through her Sojourner eyes, she could “see” three auras through the two way mirror, talking amongst themselves, making the occasional gesture towards her as she watched, outwardly amused, but inwardly scared and cautious and ever wary of the possible presence of Wayward auras near her. She was more than a match for the majority of the unaware, un-Switched On public, but there were those among the Wayward that were not so easily out maneuvered, and as formidable as she may be, the less Indira had to use that part of her Sojourner inheritance the better. She was sickened by violence, physically and spiritually, and the use of her talents to do harm was inherently revolting to her, both as a human and as the reincarnation of a Sojourner elder.

Now there’s irony for you, she thought to herself and chuckled.

The door opened and a man dressed in a very conservative black business suit, with a starched white shirt and thin black tie, black leather shoes polished to a mirror finish. His face was clean shaven and severe as he frowned at her, his hands thrust into his pockets. He stood that way, gently rocking back and forth on his heels as he glared at her. as though the force of his will alone would compel her to break down like a hysterical woman and cry and plead for leniency. Indira, now completely in her present self, smiling sweetly at him, clasped her hands together in front of her on the table, and said nothing.

“You are, you say, the Aunt of the young girl,” he began in near flawless English, “Musashi?”

“Okino, yes,” Indira lied, and was shocked by how easily and perfectly the untruths spilled from her lips. “I was in Bangladesh when I heard she was attacked.” Indira shifted uncomfortably in her chair, playing the upset Aunt like a skilled actress. The policeman, her audience, was not impressed.

“Miss Singh,” he said, Indira’s pretense shattered, “the hospital officials told us who you are.”

He stepped up to the table and sliding back a chair opposite hers, sat down.

He leaned back and crossed his legs in front of him, a repetitive motion Indira had no doubt had been performed countless times in this very room. “And they told us why you are here.”

“They did?” she cooed, her smile turned down into a mocking pout. For some reason, she did not like this man and mocking him suited her present state of mind.

“Yes, they did,” he returned. “They say you believe this child is the Devil,” he said matter-of-factly, no hint of humor in the delivery. “Is that true?”

“That’s she’s the Devil?” Indira asked, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Of course not. Do you believe in the Devil Mr.?” she said, trailing off.

“Oh, please forgive me,” he said, rising and reaching across the table to shake Indira’s hand. “Detective Hideji Takagi.” Re-seating himself, he crossed his legs and resumed his laid back position.

“Detective Takagi, all I wanted to do was see if somehow I could help that girl. Nothing more.”

“You wanted to help the Devil?” he replied flatly.

Indira smirked. “Really, now, Detective,” she said grinning, “you are playing games with me.”

Takagi sat suddenly upright and leaned his elbows on the table, reducing the space between them.

“This is no game, Miss Singh,” he said sternly, “you infiltrated a state hospital, impersonated a government employee and was this close,” and, standing, he leaned closer to Indira, who, despite herself, instinctively flinched, “to a patient with whom you have a rather unpleasant history, according to the hospital records.” He sat back down and recrossed his legs. “The hospital administrator wants you deported immediately.”

Indira’s heart dropped. She had known the risks of being caught, had considered the possibility of a fine and a few days in jail, but had not reckoned on the fact the the hospital was run by the Japanese government. It occurred to her that Detective Takagi had been more than right when he said that this was no game. Still, she kept her mouth shut.

No one ever learned anything with their mouth, said Botu’s rich, African bass in her head, speaking to her from the Void. She had heard him say that many times to many young people, and as the memories flitted across her consciousness, Aaron Stiles’ face became conspicuously center screen, and she knew he had been searching for her, could feel that he was working on her behalf, but was also still very far away. All of this had registered in her Sojourner brain in the briefest nanosecond.


She looked at Detective Takagi, sitting there, watching her and waiting patiently for her to make the next move.

“I meant her no harm,” she repeated stubbornly, refusing to budge.

Again he rose, and grimacing at her, he shrugged his shoulders. “Then there is nothing I can do for you.” Turning, he opened the door and strode out, the door coming to a loud, clacking close behind him, locking her once again into the tiny room, a mouse to be studied and experimented on in an empty cage.

Eyes wide open, Indira Singh sat in meditation.

williamfripp:

Inside a tiny, claustrophobic interrogation room of the Osaka police department, Indira Singh sat quietly, in meditation, eyes wide open.

She was using the techniques she herself had trained others in, Switching On Sojourner acolytes and guiding them through the delicate currents and treacherous tides of the Slipstream on their journey towards realization and acceptance of who they are and who they have been and, in some cases, who they were meant to be long before they gained a Vessel in this dimension.

Indira herself possessed knowledge far beyond many modern Sojourner sentinels, a knowledge passed down from one age to the next, like a genetic self help manual for the soul, and as she looked through her Sojourner eyes, she could “see” three auras through the two way mirror, talking amongst themselves, making the occasional gesture towards her as she watched, outwardly amused, but inwardly scared and cautious and ever wary of the possible presence of Wayward auras near her. She was more than a match for the majority of the unaware, un-Switched On public, but there were those among the Wayward that were not so easily out maneuvered, and as formidable as she may be, the less Indira had to use that part of her Sojourner inheritance the better. She was sickened by violence, physically and spiritually, and the use of her talents to do harm was inherently revolting to her, both as a human and as the reincarnation of a Sojourner elder.

Now there’s irony for you, she thought to herself and chuckled.

The door opened and a man dressed in a very conservative black business suit, with a starched white shirt and thin black tie, black leather shoes polished to a mirror finish. His face was clean shaven and severe as he frowned at her, his hands thrust into his pockets. He stood that way, gently rocking back and forth on his heels as he glared at her. as though the force of his will alone would compel her to break down like a hysterical woman and cry and plead for leniency. Indira, now completely in her present self, smiling sweetly at him, clasped her hands together in front of her on the table, and said nothing.

“You are, you say, the Aunt of the young girl,” he began in near flawless English, “Musashi?”

“Okino, yes,” Indira lied, and was shocked by how easily and perfectly the untruths spilled from her lips. “I was in Bangladesh when I heard she was attacked.” Indira shifted uncomfortably in her chair, playing the upset Aunt like a skilled actress. The policeman, her audience, was not impressed.

“Miss Singh,” he said, Indira’s pretense shattered, “the hospital officials told us who you are.”

He stepped up to the table and sliding back a chair opposite hers, sat down.

He leaned back and crossed his legs in front of him, a repetitive motion Indira had no doubt had been performed countless times in this very room. “And they told us why you are here.”

“They did?” she cooed, her smile turned down into a mocking pout. For some reason, she did not like this man and mocking him suited her present state of mind.

“Yes, they did,” he returned. “They say you believe this child is the Devil,” he said matter-of-factly, no hint of humor in the delivery. “Is that true?”

“That’s she’s the Devil?” Indira asked, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Of course not. Do you believe in the Devil Mr.?” she said, trailing off.

“Oh, please forgive me,” he said, rising and reaching across the table to shake Indira’s hand. “Detective Hideji Takagi.” Re-seating himself, he crossed his legs and resumed his laid back position.

“Detective Takagi, all I wanted to do was see if somehow I could help that girl. Nothing more.”

“You wanted to help the Devil?” he replied flatly.

Indira smirked. “Really, now, Detective,” she said grinning, “you are playing games with me.”

Takagi sat suddenly upright and leaned his elbows on the table, reducing the space between them.

“This is no game, Miss Singh,” he said sternly, “you infiltrated a state hospital, impersonated a government employee and was this close,” and, standing, he leaned closer to Indira, who, despite herself, instinctively flinched, “to a patient with whom you have a rather unpleasant history, according to the hospital records.” He sat back down and recrossed his legs. “The hospital administrator wants you deported immediately.”

Indira’s heart dropped. She had known the risks of being caught, had considered the possibility of a fine and a few days in jail, but had not reckoned on the fact the the hospital was run by the Japanese government. It occurred to her that Detective Takagi had been more than right when he said that this was no game. Still, she kept her mouth shut.

No one ever learned anything with their mouth, said Botu’s rich, African bass in her head, speaking to her from the Void. She had heard him say that many times to many young people, and as the memories flitted across her consciousness, Aaron Stiles’ face became conspicuously center screen, and she knew he had been searching for her, could feel that he was working on her behalf, but was also still very far away. All of this had registered in her Sojourner brain in the briefest nanosecond.


She looked at Detective Takagi, sitting there, watching her and waiting patiently for her to make the next move.

“I meant her no harm,” she repeated stubbornly, refusing to budge.

Again he rose, and grimacing at her, he shrugged his shoulders. “Then there is nothing I can do for you.” Turning, he opened the door and strode out, the door coming to a loud, clacking close behind him, locking her once again into the tiny room, a mouse to be studied and experimented on in an empty cage.

Eyes wide open, Indira Singh sat in meditation.

Inside a tiny, claustrophobic interrogation room of the Osaka police department, Indira Singh sat quietly, in meditation, eyes wide open.

She was using the techniques she herself had trained others in, Switching On Sojourner acolytes and guiding them through the delicate currents and treacherous tides of the Slipstream on their journey towards realization and acceptance of who they are and who they have been and, in some cases, who they were meant to be long before they gained a Vessel in this dimension.

Indira herself possessed knowledge far beyond many modern Sojourner sentinels, a knowledge passed down from one age to the next, like a genetic self help manual for the soul, and as she looked through her Sojourner eyes, she could “see” three auras through the two way mirror, talking amongst themselves, making the occasional gesture towards her as she watched, outwardly amused, but inwardly scared and cautious and ever wary of the possible presence of Wayward auras near her. She was more than a match for the majority of the unaware, un-Switched On public, but there were those among the Wayward that were not so easily out maneuvered, and as formidable as she may be, the less Indira had to use that part of her Sojourner inheritance the better. She was sickened by violence, physically and spiritually, and the use of her talents to do harm was inherently revolting to her, both as a human and as the reincarnation of a Sojourner elder.

Now there’s irony for you, she thought to herself and chuckled.

The door opened and a man entered, dressed in a very conservative black business suit, with a starched white shirt and thin black tie, black leather shoes polished to a mirror finish. His face was clean shaven and severe as he frowned at her, his hands thrust into his pockets. He stood that way, gently rocking back and forth on his heels as he glared at her. as though the force of his will alone would compel her to break down like a hysterical woman and cry and plead for leniency. Indira, now completely in her present self, smiling sweetly at him, clasped her hands together in front of her on the table, and said nothing.

“You are, you say, the Aunt of the young girl,” he began in near flawless English, “Musashi?”

“Okino, yes,” Indira lied, and was shocked by how easily and perfectly the untruths spilled from her lips. “I was in Bangladesh when I heard she was attacked.” Indira shifted uncomfortably in her chair, playing the upset Aunt like a skilled actress. The policeman, her audience, was not impressed.

“Miss Singh,” he said, Indira’s pretense shattered, “the hospital officials told us who you are.”

He stepped up to the table and sliding back a chair opposite hers, sat down.

He leaned back and crossed his legs in front of him, a repetitive motion Indira had no doubt had been performed countless times in this very room. “And they told us why you are here.”

“They did?” she cooed, her smile turned down into a mocking pout. For some reason, she did not like this man and mocking him suited her present state of mind.

“Yes, they did,” he returned. “They say you believe this child is the Devil,” he said matter-of-factly, no hint of humor in the delivery. “Is that true?”

“That’s she’s the Devil?” Indira asked, sarcasm dripping from every word. “Of course not. Do you believe in the Devil Mr.?” she said, trailing off.

“Oh, please forgive me,” he said, rising and reaching across the table to shake Indira’s hand. “Detective Hideji Takagi.” Re-seating himself, he crossed his legs and resumed his laid back position.

“Detective Takagi, all I wanted to do was see if somehow I could help that girl. Nothing more.”

“You wanted to help the Devil?” he replied flatly.

Indira smirked. “Really, now, Detective,” she said grinning, “you are playing games with me.”

Takagi sat suddenly upright and leaned his elbows on the table, reducing the space between them.

“This is no game, Miss Singh,” he said sternly, “you infiltrated a state hospital, impersonated a government employee and was this close,” and, standing, he leaned closer to Indira, who, despite herself, instinctively flinched, “to a patient with whom you have a rather unpleasant history, according to the hospital records.” He sat back down and recrossed his legs. “The hospital administrator wants you deported immediately.”

Indira’s heart dropped. She had known the risks of being caught, had considered the possibility of a fine and a few days in jail, but had not reckoned on the fact the the hospital was run by the Japanese government. It occurred to her that Detective Takagi had been more than right when he said that this was no game. Still, she kept her mouth shut.

No one ever learned anything with their mouth, said Botu’s rich, African bass in her head, speaking to her from the Void. She had heard him say that many times to many young people, and as the memories flitted across her consciousness, Aaron Stiles’ face became conspicuously center screen, and she knew he had been searching for her, could feel that he was working on her behalf, but was also still very far away. All of this had registered in her Sojourner brain in the briefest nanosecond.


She looked at Detective Takagi, sitting there, watching her and waiting patiently for her to make the next move.

“I meant her no harm,” she repeated stubbornly, refusing to budge.

Again he rose, and grimacing at her, he shrugged his shoulders. “Then there is nothing I can do for you.” Turning, he opened the door and strode out, the door coming to a loud, clacking close behind him, locking her once again into the tiny room, a mouse to be studied and experimented on in an empty cage.

Eyes wide open, Indira Singh sat in meditation.

A new promo picture…

williamfripp:

Sumida Mental Hospital, Osaka, Japan

It is winter in Osaka; a deep blanket of snow covers everything, temples, homes, housing projects and shopping malls - all is shrouded in glistening white.

For the people themselves, life goes on as it always has. Traditions ingrained over thousands of years, lifestyles and beliefs that predate Western religion, handed down over the ages, generation to generation, father to son, mother to daughter, all were reflected in the attitudes of the Osakans as they dutifully trudged through the slushy mess and went about their business.

The city itself glimmered like a miniature in a snow globe, icy bas relief on stone, frozen in time, the buildings reflecting the bright December morning light, stoically withstanding the weather as they had, in some cases, for thousands and thousands of years.

Modern and ancient architecture, side by side, intricately pieced together with as much an aesthetic as a practical eye, artfully and tastefully appointed within the confines of the landscape rather than in contrast to it. Osaka, to many, was a paradise, to others a home and, to a few, a prison.

Okino Musashi was one of the few.

Her days consisted of a mind numbing monotony, a drudgery of endless repetition, and as days staggered forward into weeks and months, to the staff that had bathed and fed and diapered and cared for the vessel Okino had left behind when her mother in law struck her from behind with a golf club and made a vegetable of her, it seemed almost a mercy that the mind of the young newlywed was far too damaged to have any understanding of what was happening to her. It was enough for them that the Pruitt estate sent regular payments for Okino’s care, but still, the younger nurses could not help but have compassion for the poor young girl. How she got there did not concern them; that she was in need of their ministrations was the only reason they required, and so they did all that they could to treat her with as much dignity as they, in their willful ignorance, believed she was due.

And all the time, from inside her own personal Hell, Okino Musashi burned with white hot hatred for every one of them.

The Slipstream, for all its seeming intangibility, is as “real” a place as the Waking World it parallels, and despite the very unreal feeling it causes in the un-Switched on Sojourner noobs, its effects are equally as real, and just as physically binding, a fact to which many reincarnated Wayward and Sojourner souls could attest.

Okino Musashi, the real Musashi, existed here now, as alive and malevolent and malicious as the Musashi who had been the physical Vessel of the Other in the Waking World, the violent, passionless killer who had been stopped far too short on her path to fulfill her Master’s agenda on Earth. Enraged beyond control, she railed and screamed vile insults at her nurses in a voice she knew only she could hear, lashed out at them from inside the desolate darkness of her own spite, and that they were oblivious to it only caused it it to burn the brighter.

“Get your fucking hands off of me”, she bellowed, her voice rising to a frighteningly inhuman screech, yet wholly genuine in its conceit.

She was, indeed, completely aware that the nurses could not hear her, was, in fact, totally cognizant of what had happened to her from the second the five iron had bashed in the back of her skull in a dreary North Carolina mansion, and all the way through the entire ordeal that had landed her back here in Osaka.

The bitch detective had saved her life. After Pearl Pruitt had ambushed her and hit her with the club while Harvey, Pearl’s son and Okino’s husband (albeit in name only) lay on the bed watching helplessly, the Charlotte detective had wrestled the golf club away from the old woman, handcuffed and secured her, then phoned in the attack.

From there, she checked Harvey on the bed and, determining that he was still among the living, had finally checked Okino and, to her surprise, had found the young Japanese girl still breathing. She got back on her cell phone and called again, this time advising the responders that there was a severely injured party involved.

“Don’t worry, somebody’s coming,” she said as reassuringly as she could, and Okino’s dislike for the young policewoman doubled. Mercy was a weakness. Okino was glad she did not suffer from it.

Inside the Slipstream, Okino remembered how she had quite abruptly come to the realization, naked, covered in her own blood and slumped forward on the dressing table, that she was vividly aware of what was going on around her, though she could tell by Anne Richard’s reaction to her that the detective considered her uncommunicative, so that meant she was conscious, and no one other than she knew it.

She had tried to make a sound, any kind of sound, and move her arms and legs, but quickly determined that she was paralyzed and unable to speak or communicate in any way. She could not even blink her eyes. In her extremis, she had called out for the Other. And was answered with cold, barren silence.

Having never cared for the company of others, Okino had been unprepared for the wave of desperate loneliness that had overwhelmed he. For the first time in her life, Okino Musashi wept, though, in the bitterest of ironies, no tears fell from her almond eyes.

In due course, the paramedics had arrived, accompanied by what surely must have been the entire Charlotte Mecklenburg Police Department, even though the Pruitt estate lay outside the city itself, and, trapped in her own body and unable to make sound or movement, Okino had then endured weeks of testing, physical therapy, MRI’s, CAT scans, EEG’s and any other relevant procedures that the doctors and specialists at Carolina’s Medical Center could recommend. Their eventual diagnosis was that Okino was in a persistent vegetative state and would most likely never recover from it, meaning whatever life she had left would be spent being cared for 24 hours a day.

The unspoken suggestion was to allow her to simply starve to death, that a lifetime of round the clock medical care would be an incredible expense that would amount to nothing, as there was currently no known cure for having your brains bashed in. But that suggestion was swiftly and decidedly put down by the new executor of the Pruitt fortune, one Harvey Pruitt, who, having recovered from his own near death experience at the hands of the very girl he had now decided to spare, was more afraid of Okino in death than were she forever disabled, but still “living”.

So, Harvey signed the papers and, eight months after the events at the Pruitt estate in Charlotte, Okino was shipped back to Japan, to the city she had hated her entire young life, from where she had murdered and made deals with the actual Devil to escape, and it was here she now sat, rotting from the outside in, yet still existing outside of her ruined Vessel, and from that prison inside the Slipstream, Okino’s sentience suffered an immeasurable, frustrated fury she could not quench.

As was the routine, after breakfast, the staff at Sumida placed the patients that could be moved into the common room, a large, white, sterile room furnished with low tables and plastic chairs, where they could be watched and monitored as a group instead of left alone in their rooms. It was normal for Okino to be wheeled over to a row of windows that made up one wall of the room, through which, with unseeing eyes, she watched, drooling, as the world crept by without her.

Sometimes, from the Slipstream, if she concentrated on it, she could see through her Waking World eyes and look through the window, and the view always only fed her anger, knowing that she could not break that glass and release her Vessel from the chains of the Waking World, for, as long as her body remained alive, she would be trapped here in the Slipstream, unable to cross back over into the Void, and from there fold back into the Source to be reborn.

Now, as she looked through her Vessel’s eyes, she noticed a human shaped reflection in the window move toward her and focused more intently on identifying it. As the reflection moved closer, she could see a white nurses uniform detach itself from the back of the room and move to her right side, unusual for this time of day, as she had already taken her meds and been fed breakfast.

Closer to her now, Okino could see the nurse more clearly, and was alarmed to discover she had never seen her here before, but vaguely recognized her nonetheless.

Panic rising in Okino’s heart, the nurse knelt in front of her and looked into her eyes.

“I’m going to help you,” the nurse whispered, and smiled.

Looking out from the Slipstream through her own eyes in the Waking World, Okino instantly recognized the impossibly large, breathtakingly brown eyes smiling back at her, and as the nurse reached out a strong, brown hand towards her, Okino tried her level best to leap from her wheelchair and run for her life.