88 and or Pretty Air

By Luke Sabe Jacob Olo’h

Whats your mind liketwisted or pretty? Despite hierarchy trampoline and need value waffling factor deposited made human in mind created beneath uncertainty.

They had Emmanuel Luther, a loner with ankling eternal sorrow in collection basket, rounded galaxy thoughts, weird chances, and enduring spirit, stumbled upon paranoia, system net, an aerogram. That instinctive awareness invented him and psyche as secret.

Posted his life, like them and you or me, under intuitive heart and curios mind finally, Luther defeated; irony inspired, reflected and exposed the back of ghostly errors baked from love peculiar risen freedom envy, riot, and idol.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Oct 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524594572

Luke Sabe Jacob Olo’h

Luke Sabe Jacob Olo’h, born by N. Elisabeth and M. Joseph, validated his very first earth picture caught at infancy with robust sighting scent of liquid detergent, which if it popped now, he reverts then to event merrier than a dream.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Luke Sabe Jacob Olo’h.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016915341

ISBN:      Hardcover        978-1-5245-9459-6

                 Softcover          978-1-5245-9458-9

                 eBook               978-1-5245-9457-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Creed Fiction, Note.

The story, all names, characters and events layout depicted in this book, even at creed, solely are of an author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and places, is purely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/10/2016

Xlibris

800-056-3182

www.Xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Glossary

‘I wash my sins with an old towel cloth, for as I learned to cover up yesterday’s actions_ and I just don’t change for as, there is no death in a heart… by Oligan-gam hearts thesis memoirs; said by a demon fake cry that rang to wake me up ... to Gloss mystery explorer.’ Protagonist

Chapter One

From generations of sleep, and into sudden realized dart’s (,) comma and sharp existence, with wait; early at four in the morning, sunrise began to show with imitated outlook, approached gloomy, a view to non-existence, enjoyed by many at its infancy, of frequently, to a great day. A rare testimony that was anticipated by millions of optimists in a stricken town of derelict and arctic product called ‘world.’

And this, to all of those at their decryption was a day’s prophesy, a sought after miracle pertaining hope. As never, a great scarce interval of distance in open skies in between clouds incepted before, that would be rumored, and be for sin and early judgment to men, and at that time had consecutively occurred.

It was read and taught history to a generation of late two decades past that was often been accurate. A belief that was officially becoming an imprint to all of, but impending, which had been written, somewhere, and stayed a mystery to humanity onto those presumed glory of last days.

For residents of improved societal living and unco in stunning standard height views _courtesy of ticketed buildings, towers and gratified landscapes, to; even those of colic less cordon bleu homes, the underprivileged in rustic areas. That mystery, unto all of them, it was a moment to be cherished and relished on relentlessly.

In apartment 607 AC, a sunrise that defined a morning, showed broke through the window and beyond the curtain with its lividness yellow light. Inside, it was almost a weekend’s daily routine of urgent pasturing stomps reoccurring with disorderly sounds, which would compete with subdued known crock-bird time bawd canvas like in farms. Though there in a home, disturbed and peeved was a peaceful mother whom her love for her children was gently sermonizing.

Eventually, a voice descended from a bedroom door, firmly described. ‘Boy, are you trying to kill us?’

In a minute a door sound actuated in the corridor facing another open bedroom door that was left hasten uncouth, but like any responsible parent, she led by an example that was consistent and executed well, suiting needs which were blindly unintended. And again slowly, she closed the door as she started picking up the pieces, collecting invented misfortunes of disrespect.

Just as of that incident it drove for creeping espionage by the light sent from. Thereinafter, not so spacious, it was a two bedroom apartment, small inside painted with warmth introduced on first view from the entrance, a back and waist of three pieces of a kitchen suit, where two of those cupboard pieces, backed a wall created division to open plan kitchen and another small living room behind them.

And stood out in that studio ground hope decor, were the living room and the diner mask dream, under synced pair Triplet losses of freedom. Another spade which brought about the quadruplet life on fourth tales given birth to intact significance of the old brown couch beautifully providing for, to three or four people.

In the centre of that living room between and from the television stand and a couch, it was an accidentally decorated coffee table with a book revered casual by most, a bible.

A few meters away from the kitchen, there was a foyer that sent for two door salvoes at anytime, at each other for would have arose enemies, but briefly, and again, she walked the passage filled with equanimity and at the corridor terminal, she stopped, leaned against a wall. Quickly, she implied a gesture impeccable that provoked with glare in her eyes, staring down at him and out on peak in complacency of mother’s love.

That place called a home; it was a matriarch led space with a survival theme that sang honesty and truth. But when she would be esteemed to teach, she would be saying, ‘It’s feral integrity of self to own wander and intrigue, just all within time hydraulics.’

And never for anyone, did they know where those words came from, but she said them every time like of a soul in great memory of a place.

Placed and so serene on the kitchen table chair on little venture’s of guilt for intricacy’s and vandalism, was a Nine year old boy, with curled black hair depicting a Saturday’s morning freedom. Walked towards him at the table, she rearranged her sleeping rope, in sailing with wonder and inflicted by curiosity and though there wasn’t any signs of perturbation in her face.

She pulled a chair out of the table and placed on his forefront opposite the high length of the table confronting the face of a young grown toddler. There were no quick vocal words up until later, in assuagement as she dragged the chair, and tried to reason in her part of up-coming judgement.

But as she sat next to the boy she asked. ‘Something is troubling you, boy? Rare in this house has such madness occurred. And leaving doors opened like that…’ Anthela knew about his boarding of fantasies.

But known to herself to have overlooked his mischievous acts before, she persisted comforting the lost boy’s soul. ‘Look, as a child you are still under my care, and what you just did, it won’t happen again, it’s unacceptable. I just don’t want to see it again.’

That this young boy had done, he disturbed encroaching on other people’s private time. His mother’s read on child, it was never orchestrated to mislead or be interpreted in strangers’ conception. And the boy had sat on the table pacified out of reasons hidden like robot thoughts while placed were his elbows touched the surface of the table with holders hands hung up on as two sharp arrows, just there his hands sat read illustrating palmistry.

Who was he at the time?

For his brain cells were operating in like parallel bit ports of a software program opened a secret loophole unto the space. It could have been rock and roll, a triangular thought process.

His eyes were up and down scratching the wall, and seconds after driven into a corridor tunnel. Perhaps it could have been that flower vase he knocked coming out of his bedroom, or his older brothers tiresome and trespass into his early day meditation.

And more crept in were his five year old thought wishes. An age he thought might have been a life changer going to his eleventh year on earth, because by that he would be the man he dreamt of becoming. Some things are unprecedented he thought, ‘Me’ himself ‘an eleven year old man.’ Suddenly he was caught by his mother gallivanting.

A soul he loves and adores was speaking whispers to his left ear, stood beside him holding both of his shoulders saying.

‘You not are entertaining those crazy thoughts boy, huh? Are you? A road to destruction, you know. Too much of that is madness, and I don’t agree with. And you know very well that some worlds do not exist in the mind, of stable.’

The mother wasn’t aware of the great tease he ran from. ‘She has no idea’, he thought.

Agitated from an older brother was the cause of drama. He had spoken on how to be to dissentients. And they argued, and it escalated for no better reason than of an ego and to be triumphant, as one had claimed to have had a superior insight, that’s attributed to the long lived years of sixteen, when the other gave a sincere argument, and a very passionate cry on how to be. Amazing enough, it wasn’t enough. What was debated was a valid sentiment right to both of them. But hopelessly had they knew, none of them were to have it their own way, they shouldn’t have tried.

Staggered, they too, started to realize a repetition of something magnificent. Continuing was a beauty’s nature that fell beyond conservations repair, seemingly at a questioned accord and reversed. The event awakened to those who were sedated acting a body sense. For other’s redefining their world’s path was a confidence sense spoken in essentials. Many more hoped cuddling in the sunlight, but always reverted, invented into past time bred in the darkened nest, out alive erred. Err, that, most of it, their future and presence. Therefore these lives which were theirs were in an ever backward presented twist.

Just in a greater way of which they collided inside their secrets of worlds. Exposed off their [Lab darkened Nest]. But in sake of rosy while viewed through the windows they greeted with their teeth, and silently said, ‘Further be not or be a myth mystery.’ And that day consumed souls that were insensible to the hour.

Threaded carefully gotten from the seat to the window, she said. ‘Boy, come to the window with me. We don’t get to see this every day. Come, Luther. Don’t be mad now.’

At 04:40 in that morning on that government housing project, appeared on the window and high length end side of the wall, just with their heads measured below the steel frame, and stood behind a glass window; it was a thirty-seven year old woman accompanied by a boy. That third last floor window diner view became a beautiful Christmas picture. Luther and his family lived there, in a rendezvous dusk of long strapped meter length and height. The outdoors of it, starting from header had been plastered by remnants of snow covering certain places on the roof to additional six neighboring buildings that were soaked and glistened wet on footer with water.

It was a third palace, a sequel, dreamless and denied. Just like a perfect scenario gesture on perdition Greenland. With beautiful preserved trees and lawn of green theme added in between every building centre that came with a (beach like promenade) pavement. And also made its mark was a flamboyant garden in the vicinity uncared for, but stayed alive. And again, shone was the children’s court yard filled, and taken a tall to growing green grass, basically that horrified as the image of humans budding succession.

Breathed in deeper inhaling and exhaling was Anthela. Her facial said it all that she had something to say. ‘Today son we won’t be reminded of this junkie refuge we live in, the least. But then could there be living your own dream in this dying world?’

Rhetorical; upon her she gazed through the window glass using her eyes, and her warmth breathe of air blown out like of smoke by a smoker, came out with a color visible symbolizing the time of season, a relenting winter it was of eighteen years.

And Anthela had spoken as if she was abducted to a degree and that his son’s ears had to carry and delegate according to the abductors will, to be or live free. Supposedly, there should be a phone call for ransom. To back and forth of heated tries in communication, led to a cause to appease to demands should there be surety and wellness of a victim. A solid evidence to that, the kidnapped person is stilled in, under stations of dirt trafficked to report on all color of the winds. While the abductors are forced to accede, threshing their hearts to be delicate, a beginner’s glory at a most crucial time of their lives needed to comprehend and be ruled by emotions, a thing that should be common amongst people for accelerating happiness.

And so they will succumb and lend the victim a right to voice. Praying not to be caught when she speaks, she would redirect clues of hostile location though. Informing on a chapter of Intel required for cracking a concise inkling, had there be anything bestowed. To; ‘could there be living your dream in this world?’ An ever fought for independence to reform a dream by bringing experience that beats glory to where everything is made out of a simple thing, the same difference, an order for seeing in the dark to survival.

It was an action of a horrendous story delayed. If it had not been for an earlier conclusion compared to preserved places such as Greenland because earlier there alongside, it was an inhabitants of Eskimos caring only for that beautiful place. There, now, it was peace in Greenland, humans had not been able to go via. Now their atmosphere was far from Greenland, a corrupted environment populated with humans. It strayed and not remained as they wished.

Joined together were other parts of the world such as cities and towns just costly to live in, with those exotic few area’s that defied forestry rules of Excellencies inspired by animals untamed that never had to endure competition from different species except for to be their own enemies.

A planet was different from Earth. (A new world had begun then, now Earth NeuCous). Now no more were cruise liners, yachts or sailing ships but just that one last ship.

A thrive for everyone after seven continents had had a collision, smashed unto each other’s inshore ends was finding a better way to adaptation. Distant shore points cemented like an end game tessellation complete, a proof of precise accuracy to once studied theory of earth history.

Shivered were all living beings immensely freaked under new last and unexpected hostility. And so typical a magnifying tons of earthquakes trembled spread in world corners of the realm. At sea the water brought chaos to everything sailing, breathing senses or even the dead. To sea side bays they were not a dream haven anymore. It was blitz impact of events not forewarned. Considered to have stridden out, it was impossible. To live past was only meant for those who surpassed an odd-terror holocaust, a cut of cruelty to human hearts and spirits. And that was before the winter.

To survivors of an actual event, it was adrenalin rush picking at death driving far away. A turbo feeling of an integral organ wished for procrastination in suicidal re-image of death, with them at their own dream funerals. A fictitious blood of beheaded heads and a wicked nightmare dream.

At 05:00 o’clock Luther was bored standing near that window watching an unknown peculiar sunrise. And Anthela had told Luther, she was going to the bedroom to make her bed. As she left the window, she went to the kitchen and prepared for an earlier route to breakfast. It was a Saturday morning after all. She opened the fridge retrieving a four liter plastic container, emphasized on its full cream type and fresh milk. Looked across her left side of her cupboard shelves she drew her left arm and there, were kaleidoscopic glasses decorated the cupboard aisles. They were Luther’s favorite. And stretched her arm, she pulled down two glasses. She rinsed the two glasses with running tap water on the sink fell cold as she washed them thoroughly. That tap water ran down like rapids in the eyes of watching Luther, as her eyes stole glimpses of Luther’s face.

It seemed there was a communication breakdown between Luther and her mother. And Anthela driven by her message distorted in the ears of