4 - The Spark That Stays

 

The Spark That Stays

A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok

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Week 4 – Chapter 4: The Crew Grows

Jake Tanner slipped into New Boise High with the journal burning a hole under his patched jacket, the morning fog still clinging to his boots like a bad dream. It was 2045, and the gray grind was in full swing—drones buzzing overhead, holoscreens blaring “Equity Day” slogans, and the ration line’s soy taste lingering in his throat. Last night in Mia’s basement had lit a spark—Grandpa’s words about freedom, the Ten Commandments, and elites like the Sadducees pulling strings. Now, he had to spread it, and Mia Cruz was already on it, her hacked goggles glinting as she caught him by the lockers. “Ready?” she whispered, voice sharp under the drone hum. 

Hmmmmmmm

“Yeah,” Jake said, scanning the hall. “Tomas and Lila—we need ‘em.” Mia nodded, her wiry frame tense—she’d cracked enough secrets to know numbers mattered. The school was a cage—patched desks, flickering lights, kids shuffling like drones themselves—but it was their ground now. Jake’s gut churned; that drone from two nights back still haunted him, its red eye too close. Monitors were sniffing, and time was tight.

They nabbed Tomas Rivera in the back stairwell, away from the holoscreen glare. He was 15, stocky, with dirt-streaked hands from tending carrots he grew under his porch—secret patches the UN quotas hadn’t sniffed out yet. “Elites again?” Tomas groaned, brushing soil off his patched jeans, the knees worn thin from crawling under floorboards. “My dad’s auto shop died—gas quotas choked it last year. Now I’m patching tires with glue and prayers.” His voice was rough, but his eyes were hard—fed up didn’t cover it.

“Same game, different suits,” Jake said, sliding the journal across the chipped stair. “Grandpa says it’s old as dirt—elites crushing us to stay big. We’re next unless we fight smart.”

Tomas squinted at the scrawl—“Freedom’s the West’s soul—Ten Commandments, fair laws”—then looked up. “Fair laws? Like not fining me for growing food? I’m listening.”

Lila Nguyen slipped in next, 14, quiet as a shadow, her sketchbook tucked under a patched coat—art was “non-essential,” banned since 2043’s “Resource Edict.” She traced a flower on her pad with a pencil stub, her voice soft but steady. “I’d kill for real colors—not this gray muck. They took my paints—said it’s wasteful.” Her dark eyes flickered; she’d been dodging drones to sketch in secret, a rebel with a pencil.

Mia leaned against the wall, goggles glinting. “That’s the cage—Grandpa’s calling it out. Sadducees started it—power over love, freedom, beauty. Now it’s UN, WEF, suits graying us out. History’s our weapon—let’s learn it, use it.”

Jake flipped the journal to the Sadducees bit, reading low: “Sadducees said, ‘One man dies, we stay kings.’ Rigged a mob, killed a guy—Jesus—to keep their throne. Temple’s dust by 70 AD.” He looked up. “They hated freedom—sounds like quotas killing your shop, Tomas, or banning your art, Lila. Same pattern—elites scared of the spark.”

Tomas cracked his knuckles, a slow grin breaking. “So they kill to stay big? I’m in—knowledge beats their drones any day. What’s the play?”

Lila’s pencil paused, her flower half-drawn. “They can’t ban what we know—colors in here,” she tapped her head, “stay alive. I’m with you.”

Jake felt it—a crew forming, a spark catching. “School’s our start,” he said. “Kids hate this gray—soy, fines, patched lives. We dig into Grandpa’s map—Sadducees, Reds, suits—figure who’s pulling strings now. Spread it quiet—Monitors are itchy.”

Mia’s grin was a blade. “My rig’s ready—off-grid, no traces. We crack it tonight—more history, more dirt. Then we hit ‘em where they don’t see—right here.” She tapped the stair, concrete cold under her finger.

Tomas nodded, brushing dirt off his hands. “I’ve got a stash—old books Dad hid when they banned ‘em. Might help.”

Lila slipped her sketch into the journal, a flower blooming over Grandpa’s words. “I’ll draw it—show ‘em what’s lost.”

Jake’s chest buzzed—four of ‘em now, a flicker against the gray. He’d patched the pickup with Dad last night, wire and spit keeping it alive, and this felt the same—rigging something real from scraps. But the hall buzzed—a drone patrol swept closer, its hum cutting through the fog outside. “Scatter,” he hissed, shoving the journal back under his jacket. “Tonight—Mia’s.”

They split—Tomas down the stairs, Lila to class, Mia blending into the crowd. Jake ducked out, the drone’s red eye glinting through a window. Had it tagged him? Monitors were fast—yesterday’s ration check flagged a kid for “excess talking,” hauled him off. The journal was a bomb—if they caught it, he’d be grayed out before the fight even started.

He hit the alley, fog swallowing him, the spark flaring hotter. Grandpa’s map was growing—Sadducees were just the beginning, and this crew was his shot. But that drone hum stuck in his ears, a shadow on the spark. How long ‘til it saw too much? 

 

To Be Continued

 

Next Week: The crew digs into the journal—history’s got blood, and the fight’s heating up. Don’t miss it.

Dig Deeper: Search “UN quotas impact” or “Cuba car repairs”—see how folks patch through the gray.

3 - The Spark That Stays

 The Spark That Stays

A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok

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Week 3 – Chapter 3: The First Spark

Jake Tanner slipped out of New Boise High as the last drone patrol buzzed off, the journal tucked tight under his patched jacket like a secret grenade. The fog hung thick, muffling the hum of the gray towers, but his heart thumped loud enough to wake the dead. It was 2045, and after another day of soy slop and “Equity Day” slogans, he couldn’t shake Grandpa’s words—fight for the spark. What spark? He’d dodged a close call with that drone last night, and now Mia Cruz was waiting, her off-grid rig ready to crack open the mystery. He darted through back alleys, boots squishing mud, the weight of the gray grind pressing down—ration lines, patched pickups, a life where even breathing felt like it cost credits.

Mia’s basement was a glow of rebellion—scavenged screens flickering, wires snaking like vines across the concrete floor. She’d patched it all herself: an old TV gutted for parts, a 2020 generator wheezing on siphoned gas, a tangle of circuits that kept the Net Monitors blind.  “Took you long enough,” she said, her wiry frame hunched over a keyboard, hacked goggles glinting in the dim light. At 14, she was a wizard with anything that sparked—drones, screens, secrets.  Jake dropped into a chair scavenged from some junked office, the journal thumping onto the table between them. “Had to dodge a tail,” he said, wiping sweat off his brow. “They’re itchy today.”

Mia grinned, sharp and alive, and flipped the journal open.  “Let’s see what Grandpa’s got. Sadducees, suits—elites, huh?  Spill it.” Jake leaned in, his voice low as he read aloud, the words cutting through the basement’s hum: “Freedom’s the West’s soul—Ten Commandments, fair laws you tweak local.  Love your neighbor, don’t steal—simple, strong. Elites hate it—too free.”

Mia’s fingers paused on her keys, her goggles slipping down her nose. “Ten Commandments?  Like, Bible stuff?”

Jake nodded, tracing the scrawl. “Grandpa says it’s the root—God’s rules, fair, not forced.  Back when the West was towns and guts, not towers and quotas, they built on it. Laws fit the place—kept love and beauty alive, not this gray cage.”  He thought of Dad’s pickup, patched to death, and Mom’s coffee maker limping along—ingenuity fighting a system that wanted ‘em down.  The Ten Commandments sounded old, sure, but simple: don’t kill, don’t steal, love your neighbor. Nothing about soy bricks or drone fines in there.

Mia smirked, leaning back. “Not bad—beats quotas telling me no burger ‘cause cows fart too much. What’s the catch?”

Jake flipped the page, and Grandpa’s tone shifted—darker, sharper: “Sadducees started it—power over love. Watch the pattern.” He looked up, the basement’s glow flickering in his eyes. “That’s the hook—Mia, these Sadducees, they were big shots way back, right? Roman days. Grandpa’s saying it’s the same game now—elites crushing us to stay on top.”

Mia’s grin faded, her fingers drumming the table. “Yeah, Sadducees—ran the Temple, played nice with Rome to keep their gold. Hated anything that rocked their boat. You’re saying the UN, WEF, these suits—they’re pulling the same stunt?”

“Looks like it,” Jake said, tapping the journal. “That Harris bit—2024 win, NWO kicking off—it’s nuts, but it fits. Drones, quotas, gray everywhere—feels like a cage snapping shut, just like he wrote.” He didn’t know if Harris really won back then—it was fiction, a story Grandpa spun—but the towers outside, the soy lines, the patched-up life? That was real enough to choke on.

Mia’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. “Okay, so freedom’s this spark—Ten Commandments, fair laws, love, all that. Elites hate it ‘cause it’s free—can’t control it. What’s next?”

Jake read on, voice steady: “They’ve been at it forever—Sadducees were just the start. Power over people, always. Dig into it, Jake—know the pattern, fight it.” He shut the journal, the thud echoing in the basement. “He’s telling us to learn—figure out who’s pulling this now.”

Mia leaned forward, her goggles glinting again. “We’ve got the rig—off-grid, no Monitors sniffing. Let’s crack this wide—Sadducees, Reds, suits, whatever. But we need more heads—school’s crawling with kids who hate this gray as much as we do.”

Jake’s mind flashed—Tomas Rivera, the stocky kid who grew carrots under his porch, dodging quotas with a patched-up grin; Lila Nguyen, quiet, sketching colors the drones couldn’t gray out. “Tomas and Lila,” he said. “They’re sharp—and fed up. Tomas lost his dad’s shop to gas rules; Lila’s art’s banned as ‘non-essential.’ They’d get this.”

Mia nodded, her fingers flying over the keys, pulling up a blank X thread on her hacked screen. “Good—crew’s step one. We dig tomorrow—school’s our ground. History’s our weapon, Jake—Grandpa’s handing us a map, and I’m not letting it sit.”

The generator coughed, a spark flaring in its guts, and Jake felt it—a flicker in his chest, matching the journal’s dare. The gray grind outside—soy, drones, patched relics—was a cage, sure, but Mia’s rig, Grandpa’s words, this basement? It was a crack in the concrete, a spark the suits couldn’t snuff.  Tomorrow, they’d spread it. But tonight, that drone from last night still haunted him—red eye hunting, closing in. Had it seen him? Was it waiting?

He shoved the journal back under his jacket, the leather cool against his ribs.  “Let’s move fast,” he said. “They’re watching.”

Mia’s grin was a blade in the dark.  “Let ‘em watch—they won’t see this coming.”

 

To Be Continued…

 

Next Week: Jake and Mia pull in Tomas and Lila—the crew’s born, and the fight’s just starting. Don’t miss it.

 

Dig Deeper: Peek at “Ten Commandments” in Exodus 20—old stuff, but it’s got bite.

The Unites States of America was made for a moral people. The Ten matter.
https://www.prageru.com/video/the-ten-commandments-what-you-should-know

Outfront on Communist World news

2 - The Spark That Stays

 The Spark That Stays

A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok

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Week 2 – Chapter 2: The Gray Grind

Jake Tanner woke to the 5 a.m. ration buzzer slicing through the dark, a sound like a rusty saw on his nerves.  He rolled off the lumpy cot in his family’s cramped New Boise flat, the concrete floor cold under his patched socks. It was 2045, and this was life—gray, managed, a grind that chewed you up and spat you out tasting like soy paste.  He stumbled into the kitchen, where Mom hunched over a 2015 coffee maker she’d jury-rigged with duct tape and a scavenged heating coil from some trashed drone.  “Power’s at 20%,” she sighed, pouring a watery brew into a chipped mug.  No new appliances had hit the shelves since the “Green Lock” of 2030—imports banned, factories shuttered under the UN’s “sustainability” rules. Like those old Cubans keeping ‘50s Chevys wheezing on spit and wire, folks in New Boise patched relics to limp along.  Ingenuity was all they had left, but it was a slog that weighed a ton.

He grabbed his jacket—the one with the elbow stitched up from an old shirt—and trudged two blocks to the ration line, 50 gray coats blending into the fog.  The line snaked slow, boots squishing mud; new ones were a city-kid perk, not for outskirts grunts like him.  A drone hovered overhead, its speaker crackling: “No meat until 2050—for the planet’s sake.” Jake’s stomach growled as he collected his soy paste brick and a chalky vitamin pill—breakfast, lunch, dinner, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow.  Back home, Dad was already under the hood of their 2020 pickup, its bald tires patched with glue and prayers, the engine coughing on homemade biofuel siphoned from a junked lawnmower.  “Used to drive clear to Idaho Falls,” Dad muttered, wiping grease on his patched overalls.  “Now? Carbon quotas say stay put—or pay credits we don’t got.”

School was no escape. Jake slouched into New Boise High by 7, dodging a drone that buzzed him for “excess walking”—five credits docked from his family’s ration account before he even hit the door.  The classroom smelled like damp concrete, his desk wobbling on a leg he’d fixed with wire from a busted holoscreen. Those screens blared “Equity Day” propaganda—UN slogans about fairness—but the soy slop at lunch still leaked from his patched thermos, a relic Mom had kept running since the power grid started flickering.  He slumped into his seat, the journal from Grandpa itching under his jacket, its leather warm against his ribs from last night’s close call with the drone.  He couldn’t shake it—those words about elites, cages, and a spark he didn’t understand yet.

Mia Cruz slid in next to him, her wiry frame barely filling the chair, hacked goggles perched on her nose like a badge.  She was 14, sharp as a tack, with a knack for cracking systems the Net Monitors couldn’t touch.  “You look like you swallowed a glitch,” she said, twirling a spork she’d bent into a tiny wrench—her latest basement fix. Jake slipped her the journal under the table, keeping it low as Ms. Kerr droned about “global unity” up front.  “Grandpa’s,” he whispered, voice tight. “Says we’re losing something—freedom, maybe. Ever hear of Sadducees?”

Mia’s eyes lit up—she loved a puzzle. “Old Jewish bigwigs,” she said, voice low. “Ran the Temple back in Roman days, kissed boots to keep power. What’s the hook?”

“Elites,” Jake said, glancing at the holoscreen flashing “Global Unity—2030 and Beyond.” “Then and now—crushing us, he says. Like this.”  He tapped the journal, heart thumping. Mia flipped it open, her fingers quick, and froze at the next bit.  Grandpa’s scrawl jumped: “Kamala Harris won 2024—kicked off the New World Order. Suits took over—UN, WEF, the works.  Cage snapped shut.”

Mia’s goggles slipped down her nose. “Harris? That’s wild—fiction, right?” She grinned, but her eyes narrowed, like she wasn’t so sure. Jake shrugged—it sounded like a story, sure, but it hit too close.  The drones, the quotas, the gray—it felt real enough to choke on.  “My rig’s off-grid,” Mia said, snapping the journal shut. “Basement, tonight. Monitors can’t sniff us there—we’ll crack this open.”

Jake nodded, a jolt running through him.  Maybe he wasn’t alone in this mess. The bell buzzed—another drone patrol circled outside, red eyes glinting through the fogged windows.  Ms. Kerr barked, “Line up—ration check!” Jake stuffed the journal deeper, his mind racing. Soy lines, patched trucks, drones on his tail—Grandpa’s “cage” was here, now.  But Mia’s grin, sharp and alive, was a crack in it.  Tonight, they’d dig. What had Harris’s win—if it even happened—unleashed? And who were these suits pulling strings?

The drone’s hum grew louder, hovering just past the school gate. Jake’s gut twisted—close calls were piling up.  But that spark Grandpa wrote about? It was flickering, and he wasn’t letting it die.

 To be continued...

Next Week: Jake and Mia crack into the journal—history’s got secrets, and they’re about to spill. Don’t miss it.

Dig Deeper: Check out “Sadducees” online or peek at “Kamala Harris 2024” chatter on X—speculation’s free. Only takes a moment, Do you know about Sadducees vs. Pharisees in the Bible?  Mark 15:11 states, "But the chief priests stirred up the crowd to have him release Barabbas for them instead." 

1 - The Spark That Stays

The Spark That Stays

A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the Gray Hive

By Keith Lambert & Grok

 

Week 1 – Chapter 1: The Journal in the Dust

Jake Tanner kicked the rusted toolbox under Grandpa’s workbench, half-expecting a shower of old screws to scatter across the shed’s cracked concrete floor.  Instead, a leather notebook thudded out, its edges worn like a beat-up baseball glove, the cover stamped in faded ink: April 9, 2025. Jake blinked. It was 2045 now, and he was 15, stuck in New Boise—a sprawl of gray towers where drones buzzed like angry hornets and the air tasted like recycled plastic bags.  The Net was a chokehold, censored tighter than a locked diary, and his dad’s grumble from the other night stuck in his head: “Freedom’s a ghost, kid.”

He flipped the journal open, fingers brushing the yellowed pages.  Grandpa’s handwriting jumped out, jagged and loud, like he was shouting across time:
“They’re selling us a cage painted like a palace. Love, beauty, freedom—the West’s heartbeat, built on God’s law and fair rules.  Don’t let the elites steal it, Jake. Not the Sadducees then, not the Reds, not the suits now.  Fight for the spark.”

Jake squinted, his brow furrowing.  Sadducees?  Reds?  Suits?  What was Grandpa on about?  The old man had died when Jake was six, leaving behind wild stories of real hamburgers sizzling on a grill, highways stretching free under a big sky, and a world without “carbon quotas” strangling every breath.  Now, Jake’s mornings started with a trudge to the ration line for a brick of soy paste, his afternoons spent patching a 2020 pickup that coughed more than it ran, and his nights dodging the UN’s drones enforcing their “2030 Agenda”—all sweet words on the holoscreens but a sour kick in real life.  His pulse kicked up a notch.  This wasn’t the dull history junk they fed him at New Boise High.  This was something else—a map, maybe, or a warning.

Outside, a drone whirred past the shed, its red eye sweeping the dirt yard like a searchlight hunting trouble.  Jake shoved the journal under his patched jacket, the one he’d mended with wire and an old shirt last month when the elbow blew out.  Net Monitors were itchy for “subversive text”—catch one, and you’d be eating a fine you couldn’t pay, or worse, hauled off to a re-education block where they’d gray out your brain to match the towers.  He held his breath until the hum faded, then let it out slow. No way he could stop now.  Grandpa’s next line was a torch in the dark: “It’s always the same—elites who’d burn the world to rule the ashes.”

Jake’s mind raced.  What world was Grandpa talking about?  The one he lived in—towers, drones, and soy—or something bigger, something lost?  And what was this “spark” he kept yammering about?  He traced the words with a grimy finger, the shed’s dim bulb flickering overhead.  Grandpa used to sit him on a stool right here, spinning tales of a West that ran on guts and God, not quotas and screens.  Back then, Jake thought they were just stories to dodge bedtime.  Now, they felt like a lifeline—or a dare.

The ration buzzer would scream at 5 a.m. tomorrow, dragging him into another gray day—line up, eat slop, patch the truck, duck the drones.  But tonight, that journal was a crack in the concrete, a whisper of something alive under all this dead weight.  He tucked it deeper under his jacket, the leather cool against his ribs.  Whatever Grandpa meant—Sadducees, Reds, suits—Jake had to know more.  Who were these elites?  And how do you fight a cage you’re already locked inside?

The drone looped back, its hum creeping closer. Jake froze, heart thumping.  If he got caught with this, it’d be game over before he even started.  But the fire in those words—fight for the spark—was already lit.  He wasn’t letting it go out.  Not yet.

 To be continued... 

Next Week: Jake’s gray grind gets real—and a friend with a knack for cracking secrets steps in.  Don’t miss it.

 

Dig Deeper: Curious about the “2030 Agenda”? Search it up on UN.org—see what they say for yourself.