Author: Rick Tobin
Look at your moon, or so you call it. So much the lie. It isn’t yours. It never was, and worse, it is the trap, detaining me against my will.
I am multi-dimensional. I traveled freely through the galaxy, using the unusual magnetic fields of this blue ball, your home, as a navigational aid, like a buoy. Then your predecessors came, claiming this wonder as theirs. Like bridge trolls, they demanded tolls for those voyaging past this marker. If refused, they changed its vibration, obstructing safe routes, leaving a resistant explorer floating in a swamp of twisting energies and plasmas for eternity.
Wars broke out as easily as a cold virus, as wars are apt to in all of space. Conflicts are nothing new. Your kind didn’t create violence. You merely absorbed it into your thin DNA. Your Ancient One built an orbiting station, managing the planet’s rotation, limiting its access at changing angles of rotation, which they controlled. They built this gigantic space megalithic you call the Moon and then taught you, cave dwellers, to worship it, its movement, with a single shining face, while hiding their activities on the dark side within their constructed sphere. Your governments know all of this. The facts of this truth are forbidden to you.
Many races resisted the toll takers, but with consequences. I know. I am one, stuck in a time-loop between this reality and my origins. My race has no physical form in your three-dimensional existence. I merely needed your magnetic fields as I projected my consciousness through this quadrant, just as you use GPS to plot a course. Your progenitors put a web of high-energy entrapment between these two spheres. I struggled, unable to warn others, watching them perish and vaporize, striking blindly into fatal vibrations. Eventually, a consortium of forces defeated these evil interlopers, but I, a victim of war, exist immortal, alone, and lost near the Earth in a timeless void.
On rare occasions, especially during a full moon, a winding snake of blue plasma flashes from the Moon toward Earth, invisible to your human eyes, striking my trapped consciousness, allowing me to transform, if only for a few hours, by entering lower physical life forms. Some of your investigators seek my entrapment, calling me a skinwalker. If I enter an animal, it is my only brief escape from the spectrum of electromagnetic mesh binding me helplessly isolated. I cause no harm, but you fear me, nonetheless, in your continuing ignorance.
You do not know your own history, but now you know mine. Be aware when a bat turns in an odd pattern, a barn owl flies low, or a solitary wolf howls too near your door…it is a victim of war savoring momentary freedom from battlefields lost millions of years before your race crawled from the oceans, driven by the tides from your counterfeit heaven.