I spent the last two years researching and writing my new novel Of Stars and Clay (Science Fiction & Fantasy, Dystopian). I read Zecharia Sitchin’s seven volumes in the Earth Chronicles set, translations from Sumerian tablets and numerous books, such as those by Stewart Swerdlow and David Icke.
Within a few months of my research, I saw orbs in the sky (you can read more about this in my blog post). The orbs’ presence confirmed for me there is an alien/extraterrestrial presence here on earth—meaning that some of the conspiracy theories were true. But which ones? Were the elite (royalty/Rothchilds) really part reptilian? Were our governments being ruled by a secret force behind the scenes? And if they were, who or what was this secret force? And what was their agenda?
In Of Stars and Clay, I imagined how those conspiracies might play out. So, once again, the Earth Sentinel characters come together under the guidance of Bechard the fallen angel—only this time it’s to save mankind from a dark force that not only threatens our bodies, but our souls.
On a sunny August morning, the Thompson family was busy harvesting their organic crops. Marilyn and her husband, Larry, had retired early from their stressful jobs in New York City and bought this quaint farm in Pennsylvania to get back to nature, pouring half of their life savings into the venture.
Marilyn rested while wiping the sweat from her face with a handkerchief. She stuffed it back in her pocket while looking out over the rolling hills, admiring the fertile farm beds filled with tomatoes, radishes, green beans and squash. All of this organic produce would be sold at a local farmers’ market. Bees buzzed and butterflies floated over the late blooms. She watched her 17-year-old son, Zachary, select ripe tomatoes, setting them in a wagon. He had grown a few inches taller than his father, but he had her sandy-blond hair and fine features.
Car tires scrunched over the crushed limestone driveway, coming to a stop. Dust floated around the tires. An older couple got out of the vehicle, standing side by side looking solemn.
Marilyn, Larry and Zachary waved at their neighbors, Burt and Nancy Wheeler, who returned the greeting, but remained where they stood. Something was wrong.
Larry said to his wife, “This can’t be good…looks like their best milk cow died.”
Marilyn replied, “Shhh…this might be serious. Come on.”
The Thompsons walked out of the field, passing the red barn that housed the milk cow. The chickens scratching in the yard scurried away clucking.
The neighbors met them halfway.
Larry shook the man’s hand. “Good morning.”
Burt said, “Morning. Sorry we didn’t call first, but we’ve got something important to tell you.”
“This would be better sitting down.”
The Thompson family suddenly felt a sense of dread. Larry responded, “Sure, this way.” He led his neighbors through the back door of the centennial farmhouse. They entered the kitchen, taking their seats at the long plank table. Marilyn asked the neighbors if they would like something to drink, but they shook their heads.
Burt started the conversation, “We’ve been having problems with our cows, one died, and a few had stillborn calves. We heard other farmers had the same thing, so we tested our well and lake. And well…” Bert found it difficult to say the words, “The results showed toxic chemicals and methane gas.” The dairy farmer became visibly upset, his voice wavering as he said, “We’ve lived here for four generations and never had a problem with our water before they started fracking.”
“How can that be?” Marilyn asked, “They aren’t even drilling close to us!”
“Yeah…well,” answered Burt, “we did some research and found out that Pennsylvania allows horizontal drilling, so a rig can be a mile or more away, but drill right under your house without your permission, if you don’t own the mineral rights.” He rubbed his forehead, noticeably stressed. “We own ours, and told them, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ We didn’t want their money. The farm’s enough for us. But obviously someone near us either took the money or didn’t own the rights.”
“But where’d the chemicals come from?” Larry asked.
“The fracking water. They pump millions of gallons of water, laced with chemicals, so they can extract more gas out of the shoal. Then they have the nerve to tell us it’s all suctioned up, but common sense tells ’ya it can’t be, not all of it. And if they hit an underground stream or aquifer, the contaminated water can flow for miles.”
His wife confided, “We plan on moving our cows to my cousin’s place in Dauphin County. We can’t in good conscience sell the milk. But what’ll we do? Farming’s all we know.” She bit her bottom lip, trying not to cry.
Burt changed the subject, delicately asking the Thompsons, “Have you tested your water? I only ask because our land butts up to yours.”
The awareness that the organic farm might be ruined settled over Marilyn like a dark fog. How can we claim the produce is organic if there are chemicals in the water? How can we sell it at all? She contemplated these troubling questions before quietly saying, “We didn’t give in. We refused to let them test our land and still…” she trailed off. Zachary put his arm around his mother to comfort her.
Mahakanta Suresh stood at the edge of his field staring at the withered cotton crop. His farm had been handed down through many generations, providing not only a living, but a good way of life in India’s Cotton Belt. He leaned heavily on his hoe, reminiscing of a time long ago when his father had danced with his mother after a bountiful harvest. The entire village had prospered that year, celebrating late into the night with food, spirits and music. His father had stepped away from the festivities and sauntered over to him, holding out a velvety fig he had picked fresh from a banyan branch. Mahakanta plucked the sweet, earthy tasting treat from his father’s weathered hand, watching him laugh heartily, drunk from the free-flowing wine.
Mahakanta savored his childhood memory before it faded, leaving him to face the devastation in front of him. He could have survived the misfortune of one bad season, but alas, last year’s crop had also failed. Now there was no money left to buy new seeds. He would lose his farm and house to the moneylenders who had extended him credit.
He could no longer face his wife and three children, who silently ate their dinner each night while hopelessness filled the air. His family once had a future, but without property, they would be burdened with a husband and father who couldn’t support or provide for them. They would become the lowest of the low.
A sacred cow wandered past him. The bells on its collar clinked as it headed toward his neighbor’s field, which was filled with thriving cotton grown from traditional seeds. Mahakanta remembered the purveyor arriving at his doorstep two years earlier, catching him as he returned home after a hard day’s work. The salesman opened his satchel, showing Mahakanta charts and photos of other customers’ cotton fields that yielded 10 times the average using his new magic seeds. In addition, he touted that the magic seeds resisted pests, eliminating the need to purchase expensive pesticides. The purveyor promised the magic seeds would make Mahakanta a very wealthy man, but what the salesman did not tell him was that these seeds were not drought tolerant like the traditional ones that had been used for generations in India. And the man did not share the fact that the seeds were genetically structured to self-destruct, ensuring that Mahakanta would have to buy new seeds the following year.
So with hope for a better future, Mahakanta naively bought and planted the magic seeds, watching the green shoots emerge in the spring. However, it was not long before the plants withered in the scorching sun and succumbed to the hungry bollworms.
How Mahakanta wished he had switched back to the traditional seeds after the first failed crop, but the purveyor assured him that the dismal harvest was caused by the drought, not the magic seeds, and the next bountiful crop would more than make up for his losses. Mahakanta’s misplaced trust had been a deadly mistake. His only comfort was that he wasn’t the only one who had fallen under the spell of the magic seeds. Dozens of other farmers in his village had done the same thing.
Knowing he could not survive this second disaster, Mahakanta unscrewed the cap on a pesticide bottle, took one last look at the land of his ancestors, then gulped the toxic fluid. The acid scorched his throat as he swallowed, and the noxious fumes made him gag and cough violently. He thought it was a fitting punishment for his failure, expecting to be dead before his family came back from working in the fields.
Instead, his son found him writhing on the ground in agonizing pain. His wife ran over screaming for help. A neighbor who had found Mahakanta not long after he drank the pesticide explained what had happened. There was nothing anyone could do—the poison always took its victim.
The wife held Mahakanta’s head in her lap and wailed, tears streaking down her cheeks, “I told you the money wasn’t important! Why didn’t you listen!?”
Mahakanta did not respond. The pain made him oblivious to his surroundings. He convulsed violently, spewing red-speckled vomit all over the front of his shirt.
His wife continued to sob, rocking back and forth in utter grief.
Mahakanta was overcome with pain. Everything went dark. He felt his body become weightless. A blue mist appeared, forming into shapes that turned into human forms. He recognized a neighbor who had committed suicide a few weeks earlier. Countless numbers of spirits came forward, one after another, each a victim of crop failure caused by the magic seeds. Before Mahakanta could ask why they came, they escorted him away.
Sometimes Our Greatest Tragedies Offer Our Greatest Lessons
Savannah Watkins is haunted by a dream of losing her family in a tragic car accident, which causes her to vacillate between two lives — before and after the car accident. As she struggles between realities, Jesus Christ suddenly appears to offer her unorthodox guidance. He accompanies her to the grocery store and for walks on the beach while answering some of life’s toughest questions.
Dreams of Heaven takes you on a fantastical journey with Jesus, who leads the way through an alternate interpretation of his ancient teachings and applies them to one of our worst nightmares—being separate from the ones we love.
“Dreams of Heaven compels you to examine your beliefs about life and death. You will be drawn to read every page.” — Reverend Emile Gauvreau, Center for Spiritual Living Cape Coral
“The book is like an epiphanous dream probing the mysteries of birth, life, and death. It is one of those gems of spiritual literature that becomes a permanent fixture in our lives, always remembered as a gift for that special friend with whom we wish to share our most deeply felt beliefs.” — Hal Zina Bennett, Ph.D., best-selling author of Write From the Heart and Follow Your Bliss
“A great read for anyone ready to heal and wake up.” — Alex Marchand, author of The Universe Is a Dream: The Secrets of Existence Revealed
“The love just radiates from the story. The love of a mother for her family and her love for Jesus. This love extends to the reader. Dreams of Heaven is simply beautiful. It will soothe your soul. It will speak to your heart. It will fill you with hope. I loved it.” — Julia Wilson, Christian Bookaholic
“Dreams of Heaven is soul food that gives rise to questions about our definitions of reality, time and love. A beautifully told, elegantly spun story of the soul, as well as a master teacher and guide through changes.” — Veronica O’Grady, Light Leaders International
“A truly memorable read.” — Viking Reviews
“Reading this book made me feel light and free. I highly recommend it.” — Pat Luboff, Underrated Reads
“One of the most wonderful stories that I have ever read. I highly recommend this book to everyone!” — Bonnie Cehovet, book reviewer
“Dreams of Heaven by Elizabeth M. Herrera is a beautiful heartfelt book on trusting inner guidance, the power of dreams, the reality of spirit, true love and the eternal gift of life that lives beyond our physical connections and beyond our physical existence. Herrera’s book profoundly reminds us that ‘what is immortal can never die.’” — Andrea R. Garrison, host/producer of Online With Andrea, and author of The Crossing Over of Mattie Pearl
“Elizabeth M. Herrera has created an amazing work — one that should be in the hands of every human on Earth who cares about this planet.” — Dr. Stewart A. Swerdlow, Grand Prior of New Templar Order
An engineered virus kills most of mankind. Those who survive are controlled from behind the scenes by a dark force that has waited millenniums for global domination. Gone are our scientists, leaders, military commanders, teachers, engineers, parents and children—the only ones left standing are those useful to the agenda.
To maintain order, the United Nations organization dutifully steps in, but its leaders are not what they appear to be. The trusted UN uniform causes each country’s army to hand over its leash. All of the world’s soldiers follow the commands of the New World Order without a single shot being fired. The devious plan unfolds perfectly—with one exception.
The virus brings about an unexpected DNA mutation among a handful of Earth Sentinels, causing them to develop supernatural abilities. Those impacted are: Zachary Thompson, a young American adapting to the Amazon Jungle alongside his indigenous wife and children; Haruto, a Miko in Japan, who lives with her lover, Billy White Smoke; and Tom Running Deer and Cecile Two Feathers, rebellious Native Americans who reside on a reservation in Canada. While their transformative changes unfold, Bechard the fallen angel tries to regroup his fellow Earth Sentinels so they can save mankind.
During their perilous mission, the Earth Sentinels uncover secrets about mankind’s origins, ancient astronauts, genetic engineering, the Illuminati, and the lies that have been woven throughout religion and history.
“Elizabeth M. Herrera has written a masterpiece that reflects the state the world is currently in.” — T. Ferrell, Readers’ Favorite