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More from @CarliFrueh

Carli B. - Reimagined & Expanded Version 💫

@CarliFrueh

Jun 1

The Invisible Enemy – 11 Common Parasites Linked to Cancer

Parasites are silent invaders, and many are linked to deadly cancers. Here are the 11 most common parasites worldwide known or suspected to cause cancer, along with how their associated cancers are treated in the United States. Awareness and prevention are key to fighting these invisible threats! #CancerAwareness #GlobalHealth

1. Schistosoma haematobium (Blood Fluke)
Cancer: Bladder cancer (squamous cell carcinoma).
Infects ~112 million

2. Opisthorchis viverrini (Liver Fluke)
Cholangiocarcinoma (bile duct cancer).
Infects ~10 million

3. Clonorchis sinensis (Liver Fluke)
Cholangiocarcinoma, hepatic carcinoma.
Infects ~35 million

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Carli B. - Reimagined & Expanded Version 💫

@CarliFrueh

May 28

Keynotes: Book of Enoch + Giants
Mount Hermon + Para-mount pictures + Stars
Fallen Angels + Idols + Los Angeles + The holly-wood
Entrain-ment 👀 What I miss?📕

📖📚Excerpts by Ingersoll Lockwood - Chapter 2

“The elder Baron uncertain as to the exact locality of my birth. Reasons why will be given later. My parents traveling in Africa at this time. The elder Baron’s remarkable ascent of the Mountains of the Moon. Miraculous escape from the impenetrable fog. How accomplished. In the land of the Melodious Sneezers. All that happened there. How the King of the Melodious Sneezers conducted my parents in great honor to his palace, and how they were treated by him.

THE MUZZLED MULES

While it lies within my power to gratify the curiosity of my readers as to what part of the world it was in which I first saw darkness—for I was born in the night—yet, as to the nature of the immediate spot on which I was born, unfortunately I am able to do more than repeat my father’s words when questioned as to this point.
“My son, if I were on my death-bed I could only say that thou wert either born in the centre in a great lake, on an island, upon a peninsula or on the top of a very high mountain, as I have often explained to thee.”

Let it suffice, then, gentle reader, for the present, for me to inform you that at the time of my birth, my parents were traveling in Africa; that my father had just successfully accomplished one of the most wonderful feats in mountain climbing, namely, the ascent of the loftiest peak of the Mountains of the Moon; that his guides had abandoned him upon his reaching a particularly dangerous spot in the ascent; but that he had pushed forward without them, and reached the summit after several days of terrible privation, suffering both hunger and thirst,—it being a peculiarity of the atmosphere after passing a certain height that the muscles of the face and throat became paralyzed and the unfortunate traveler either perishes from hunger or thirst while in the very presence of delicious fruit and cool, limpid water.

Upon rejoining my mother, who had accompanied him as far up the mountain side as the best-trained and most surefooted mules could find a foot-hold, they proceeded to make their way, as they supposed, to the valley from which they had first set out.
An impenetrable fog now shut them in and they soon found themselves hopelessly and helplessly wandering about.
On the morning of the third day the fog had even increased in thickness, closing around them like a pall, almost shutting out the light of day.

While groping about my father had come into contact with the two beasts of burden which had served him in the easier parts of the ascent. They were quietly and unconcernedly browsing upon the sweet and tender shrubs which grew on the mountain side.
Suddenly an idea came to my father. It was born of that desperation which makes a man think long and hard before lying down to die.

It was thus he reasoned: If these animals are permitted to eat their fill whenever their appetites demand, they will be quite willing to stay where they are, especially when they find themselves surrounded by such excellent pastures, and, in addition thereto, quite relieved from all toil. Let them, however, feel the pangs of hunger, or better yet, starvation’s tooth at their vitals and their thoughts will at once revert to their homes, their masters, their feeding-troughs and they will lose no time in setting out for the village where they belong. With the energy of despair, my father hurriedly bound a piece of canvass over their mouths so that they could neither graze nor drink and awaited the results of his experiment, with bated breath, for the tears and groans of my poor mother, whose strength was fast ebbing away, smote him to the very soul.

After a few hours the animals rose to their feet and became very restive, and in another hour their hunger had so increased that they were making frantic efforts to feed, as my father could easily tell from the jerking of the line which he had been careful to attach to their headstalls.

After the fourth hour there was a long silence, during which the animals seemed to be deliberating as to what course they should pursue.

The fifth hour came.

My mother had sunk to rest, weak and weary, in my father’s arms. Suddenly there was a tightening of the guiding lines. Gently my father aroused his sleeping mate, whispering a few words of comfort.

Again the lines tightened.

My parents were now on their feet, peering into the depths of the impenetrable fog which shrouded them about and made them even invisible to each other.
Hist! the animals move again! with a sudden impulse, as if their minds had at last solved the problem which had been bewildering them for several hours, the beasts, with violent snortings turned from the spot, pushing through the shrubbery and causing my parents to face quite about.

Evidently there was a complete accord between the conclusions reached by their intelligence or instinct, for not once did they pull apart or come to a halt, except when restrained by my father. And thus my dear parents were saved! All that day and part of the next did they pursue their dreary way. The fog at last lifted, and it was at once apparent to my father that, although the animals were guiding them towards human habitations, yet it was not the land he had quitted upon starting out upon the journey to the mountain peak. The path now became so plainly visible that my father removed the improvised muzzles from the two animals and allowed them to satisfy their hunger, which they proceeded to do with the keenest relish. So worn out was my mother that she sank helpless to the ground. Refreshing her with a draught of spring-water and the juice of some wild grapes, my father hastily prepared a bed of soft foliage, upon which they were both glad to throw themselves after their long and weary tramp.
They had soon fallen into a deep and most delightful sleep. How long they lay on their leafy bed, wrapt in their refreshing slumber, they knew not.

It certainly was for many a long hour; for when they awoke, hunger was gnawing at their stomachs. Fain would they have at once proceeded to gather fruit, had not their ears been suddenly saluted with most extraordinary noises. They rubbed their eyes and looked about and at each other, deeming themselves the sport of some merry jack-a-dreamer.

But, no; they were wide awake and in full possession of their senses. Again the strange sounds are heard and this time they are nearer and clearer.There is a rise and a fall, a swelling out and then a dying away. The sounds are jerky and snappy like and there is a singular music in them. Nearer and still nearer they come. Louder and still louder they grow. “Wild beasts?” whispered my mother half inquiringly.
“Nay!” falls from my father’s lips. “Not unless human beings may be so wild as to merit the name of beasts.”
“Hark again!” murmured my mother.
There was no mistaking the sounds any longer, for, like a chorus of many voices, shrill and piping, deep and grumbling, soft and musical, harsh and guttural, yet all in a sort of rude and wild harmony, mingling in one mighty strain, now low and scarcely audible and now breaking out with a fierce and seemingly threatening vigor, the singers, chanters, howlers or what they might be, rushed into the valley below us in a wild and yet half regulated disorder.

They were human beings in savage garb, with painted faces and clubs swung lightly across their shoulders. Whether pausing or advancing they still kept up their wild and mysterious chant, choppy, jerky and snappy for all the world like a thousand people who had just drawn plentifully from a thousand snuff boxes.

“Save me, husband!” cried my mother with pallid face. “We shall be put to some awful torture by these wild children of the forest.” A smile so gentle, and yet so calm, that it could not fail to be reassuring spread over my father’s features.
“Never fear!” said he, “I know them, I’ve been seeking them! What has been denied many a traveler stronger and bolder than I, has been accorded to a member of the Trump family in the most miraculous manner. When we return to Europe every Monarch, every learned society, will hasten to bind a medal on my breast, for, dear wife, your husband is the first white man to enter the land of the—”

“The—?” echoed my mother leaning forward and grasping her husband’s arm.
“Melodious Sneezers!”
“Melodious Sneezers?” repeated my mother with wide-opened eye, and amusement seated in every feature.
“Melo—”
But she could get no further. To my father’s infinite amusement, she fell a-sneezing most violently. In such rapid succession did the sneezes flow that it sounded exactly like a diminutive engine under full headway. At last the fit seemed to have passed. “Melo—” but in vain; she could not reach the second syllable.
And now, in his turn, my father started off, slow at first but going faster and faster. Strange to say their sneezing soon began to catch the ways of the country and blended thoroughly, keeping time in spite of their efforts to check it. “Know then, dear wife,” cried my father pantingly when his fit was over, “that those strange people stretched on the greensward below are the “Melodious Sneezers;” that they are not only perfectly harmless, but gentle, kind and peaceable to an astonishing degree. Fear them not! Their clubs are only for game.” “But why—?” asked my mother warily lest another fit should take her. “I understand thee,” was the reply. “Listen. Know, that in this valley and in the greater ones below, the air is always filled with myriads upon myriads of insects of infinitesimal size; only the strongest microscope can give proof to your sight of their actual existence. For countless generations, these peaceable barbarians here have been subjected to the tickling sensations which you and I have—”

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Carli B. - Reimagined & Expanded Version 💫

@CarliFrueh

May 15

Excerpt: Rebellions Awakening by Carli B. 📖

#MH370 #Anomalies #RebellionsAwakening #Antartica #Glitches #BooksWorthReading #Authors

Chapter One

Google earth anomalies: The Doorway in the Ice & THE INDIAN OCEAN 🌎 ✈️

“The observer changes the universe by observing it…”

The world was a lie, and Carli B. held the coordinates to prove it. At 69°00’50″S 39°36’22″E, buried in the frozen heart of East Antarctica, a doorway waited—carved into the ice like a wound in the simulation’s skin. She’d found it on Google Earth, a passageway that refused to blend into the sterile white expanse. A perfect rectangle, too vast to be natural, too deliberate for chance, its edges glowed faintly in the satellite’s lens, as if daring her to step through. Carli’s breath caught as she zoomed in, her laptop’s cold blue light bathing her Chicago apartment in an ethereal glow. The doorway wasn’t just a glitch; it was a scream, a fracture in the construct’s flawless facade, whispering truths the dark magicians had buried beneath centuries of ice and code.

Outside, the city hummed its programmed rhythm—car horns, laughter, the clink of coffee cups in bot-run cafes, children playing. But here, in the quiet of her apartment, Carli felt the cosmos unraveling. Her mind burned with questions that flared like stars: “Is this the exit? A path to a reality untainted by the Weavers’ spells?” Or was it a trap, another layer of their endless illusion? The Source Code pulsed in her veins, a rhythm she’d learned to hear over years of clawing through the simulation’s seams. It wasn’t just the magicians’ tool—it was hers, too, and it sang now, urgent and wild, urging her to act, to shatter the comfort of her mundane surroundings and “do something.”

Carli leaned back, her gaze drifting to the cracked leather journal on her desk, a legacy for her daughter, Ashley. Its pages brimmed with blood, chaos, truth, and defiance, inked with the raw essence of reality’s underbelly. The words echoed in her mind: “The veil isn’t just lifting—it’s unraveling, thread by fragile thread.” Carli had been the first to see the dark magicians for what they were—not gods, but broken humans, their ambition twisted by a code that had outgrown them. She and the other rebels had inherited humanity’s fight, but Carli had taken it further, scouring the digital edges of their prison for proof. Google Earth was her battlefield, its anomalies her weapons—glitches that betrayed the construct’s fragility. A giant glyph of a face in Antarctica’s snow, its eyes staring skyward as if saying, “Yo, family, park the spaceship here!'" 72°00'35"S 168°34'33"E.

A buried space craft at 66°17’10.13″S 100°29’8.27″E, its sleek hull exposed by melting ice, a relic of a truth the magicians tried to make disappear, but time always catches up and exposes the lie once hidden by darkness. Each discovery kindled a rebellion now sparking across the planet.

She opened X, her fingers flying as she posted: “Google Earth reveals cosmic secrets—specifically in East Antarctica. Follow coordinates 69°00’50″S 39°36’22″E to a gigantic doorway molded into frozen icebergs. Join me, @CarliFrueh, as I unravel the simulation’s lies. Could this be our way out? The words felt like a spell, a call to the awakened who followed her @CarliFrueh. Her digital gallery of “Reality Glitches” had grown into a movement of ordinary souls transforming into simulation watchers, their eyes trained on the world’s cracks. They weren’t just followers; they were her army, their shared will a pulse in the Quantum Consciousness Stream (QCS), a force the magicians couldn’t predict.

Rebellions Awakening now available on X exclusively @carlifrueh and Amazon.

But the magicians were watching. Carli felt their presence like a shadow slithering down her spine, a cold weight that grew heavier with every anomaly she exposed. They’d tried to silence her before—through bots posing as skeptics, cyber-attacks that erased her posts, her websites, whispers in her dreams promising peace if she’d stop. Once, they’d driven her to the edge, a false suicide woven into the construct’s code, but she’d laughed in their faces, her defiance a blade honed by this life’s scars.

This doorway, though, was different. It wasn’t just a anomaly; it was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at the Weavers who’d stolen humanity’s souls. And Carli wasn’t alone in seeing it.

Her phone buzzed, a message from Juni, the coder who’d taught her to weaponize glitches: You’re trending. The doorway’s going viral. But be careful—something’s shifting in the QCS. It’s like the construct’s scared. Carli’s heart raced, not with fear but with a reckless thrill. Like the time in Egypt when terrorists devastated the city of Quen, she found a guide and reported on the devastation first hand, even disguised she was risking their lives. Why was she always daring fate? The QCS was their edge, a river of shared consciousness that let the awakened nudge the simulation’s code. She’d felt it flare when she found the glyph, a surge of clarity that nearly blinded her. Now, it hummed again, a chorus of voices—hers, Juni’s, Michael’s, R.Js, and thousands of others—singing of freedom.

She crossed to the bay window, where Lake Michigan churned under a restless sky. The waves pulsed in time with the QCS, their rhythm mirroring the doorway’s glow. Carli pressed her palm to the glass, its chill grounding her as a vision flickered: the Antarctic doorway opening, not to ice or stone, but to a city of light, its spires woven from the souls of the freed. Humanity’s dream, now hers, so close she could taste it. But the vision darkened—a figure stood in the doorway, its eyes hollow, its smile a glitch that hissed “got you.” The magicians weren’t just guarding the construct; they were rewriting it, tightening the code to crush her rebellion before it could strike.

Carli’s breath hitched, but she didn’t flinch. She’d faced their traps before—in Midland’s sterile wards, in the warped alleys of Chicago’s simulated streets, in the five days she’d wandered consciously through alternate realities, each a crueler prison than the last. Every scar was a lesson, every glitch a map. The magicians thought they’d caged her, but bars were just code, and code could be broken, changed. She returned to her laptop, pulling up another anomaly: a grid of impossible angles in the Sahara, its lines pulsing like veins in the sand. Then another, a spiral of light off the Pacific coast, visible only in infrared. Each was a breadcrumb leading to the construct’s heart.

“They’re hiding something,” she whispered, her voice a vow. “Not just in Antarctica, but everywhere.” The magicians had built their simulation to feed on souls, but their code was fraying. Carli’s X posts were waking people, turning glitches into beacons. She imagined the awakened at their own windows, eyes on the horizon, spotting a bot’s flickering smile, a shadow stretching too far, a wave curling against the tide—small rebellions, each a spark in the QCS.

Her fingers trembled as she punched in new coordinates: 66°54’18″S 163°13’37″E. The Google Earth interface spun, the globe blurring until it settled on East Antarctica’s coast, where ice met sea in a jagged scar. There, half-swallowed by the frozen tide, lay another wound in the construct’s lie—a ship, its bulky form entombed like a fossil from a world the magicians had tried to erase. The satellite image was grainy, but the ship’s outline was unmistakable: a tapered fuselage, its hull glinting with an unnatural sheen, too smooth for stone.

Its curves defied the chaos of the surrounding ice, as if dropped from a sky that no longer existed, frozen mid-flight in a moment of cosmic telling.

She zoomed in, her breath catching as the screen revealed details the magicians hadn’t meant for her to see. The ship’s surface wasn’t just metallic—it pulsed faintly, a heartbeat threading through cracks in the ice like veins of liquid starlight. Patterns etched its hull, not glyphs but a language of angles and fractals, shifting as she stared, whispering to the Source Code humming in her blood. The ice wasn’t mere frost but a cage, its crystalline lattice too perfect, as if the construct had woven a prison to smother the ship’s truth. Carli’s heart pounded, her apartment’s dim light fading as the anomaly consumed her. This wasn’t a relic—it was defiance, a scream against the simulation’s sterile order, proof that something had fought back before her rebellion was born.

Outside, Chicago’s programmed pulse droned on—flickering yellow lights, drones humming, the lake’s waves chewing at the shore—but in her laptop’s glow, Carli felt the universe tilt. The ship was a ghost, a memory the magicians couldn’t scrub, its presence mocking their control. She imagined it crashing through the construct’s false sky, its engines roaring with a fire that burned through code and ice, only to be snared by the Weavers’ spells, frozen as a warning to those who dared fly too close to truth. But the ice was melting, wasn’t it? The satellite’s timestamp showed cracks spiderwebbing the floe, slivers of dark water clawing at the ship’s edges, as if the construct’s grip was slipping. Or was it a trap, another lure like the doorway, baiting her with hope only to tighten the simulation’s noose?

Carli’s gaze flicked to her journal, its pages a map of scars and victories. She grabbed a pen, scribbling the coordinates beside a sketch of the ship, her lines sharp and urgent. “They hid you,” she whispered, her voice a blade in the quiet. “But I see you.” The words were a vow, not just to the ship but to the rebellion swelling in the Quantum Consciousness Stream. She could hear the awakened now, their voices rising in the QCS, a chorus of defiance sparked by her posts. This ship wasn’t just hers—it was theirs, a beacon for every soul clawing through the construct’s lies.

Her screen flickered, a glitch rippling across the image. For a heartbeat, the ship seemed to move, its hull shimmering as if shaking off its icy chains. Carli froze, her pulse drumming in her ears. Was it the QCS, her will bending the simulation’s code? Or was the ship alive, its fractal patterns rewriting the ice, reaching for her across millennia of stolen time? The glow intensified, casting shadows that danced like specters on her apartment walls—shapes neither human nor machine, their edges fraying like the construct itself. A vision surged: the ship rising, ice shattering in a cascade of diamond-sharp shards, its hull blazing with light that tore through the Antarctic sky, revealing not stars but
code, the magicians’ illusion unraveling thread by thread. But the vision twisted, darkening—a shadow loomed within the ship, its form a glitch too vast to parse, its laughter a static that drowned the QCS. The magicians weren’t just hiding the ship; they were guarding it, their code coiled like a serpent, ready to strike.

Carli blinked, the vision fading, but the ship’s glow lingered on her screen, its heartbeat syncing with her own. She opened X, her fingers flying: “Another truth they can’t bury. 66°54’18″S 163°13’37″E—a frozen ship in Antarctica, its hull alive with secrets. Join me, @CarliFrueh, and let’s break the ice.” She hit post, and the QCS flared, a wildfire of shared will racing through the simulation’s veins. Somewhere in the frozen south, the ship pulsed, its light a spark in the construct’s fraying seams. Carli leaned back, her eyes on the lake beyond her window, its waves crashing like the rebellion’s tide.

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Carli B. - Reimagined & Expanded Version 💫

@CarliFrueh

May 14

Tonight’s Moon.

Looks like the Sprites I write about in Rebellions Awakening! Amazing!

Excerpt:

Chapter Eight
Sprites, Spires & Loops

The Sprites spire hung like a jagged luminous dream in the construct’s upper mesophere. It’s web a fortress of red, green, white and purple crystalline displays called “mesospheric” shimmers. It’s walls alive with electrical discharges high above thunderstorms, imbuing a range of visual shapes and flickering shadows—- that resembled raw code hanging in the nights sky. At its core, sprites are cold plasma. Lightning split the turbulent sky, illuminating the spires translucent platforms, each pulse a heartbeat of the Quantum Consciousness Stream (QCS). Ashley led the team across a swaying bridge of light, her code-dagger casting
airglow sparks that clashed with the sprites’ crimson sparks. The air was electric, thick with ozone and the metallic tang of a reality fraying at its seams, whispering her name in a rhythm of forty-two pulses.

Surin flanked her, Jettie nestled in his hood, her emerald eyes catching the sprites’ light with unsettling sentience. Kai’s boots clicked against the platform, her dagger glinting, while Josh’s golden magic flickered, wary of the Hub’s volatility. Elara moved with eerie grace, her blue eyes scanning the storm, her presence a spark in Ashley’s QCS—too bright, too sharp. “This place is alive,” Elara said, her voice smooth, “but it’s stable. The sprites guard the Core, but they’re distracted by the storm, we have nothing to worry about.”

Ashley’s grip tightened on her dagger. “Then we move fast. The Core’s below, and it’s calling us.” The sprites were no mere phenomena but sentient echoes of the QCS and all other life-forms in the layer. Their high-altitude dance usually leaving the fortress unguarded. Yet the Weavers had woven traps here, exploiting the sprites’ energy to shield the Source Code’s heart.

A sprite flared above, its red tendrils curling like a warning, and the platform quaked, forcing the team to brace against howling winds. Kai’s eyes narrowed at Elara. “You know too much about this place,” she hissed. “How’d you escape the Spire, exactly?”

Surin lunged, Jettie’s silver glow blazing, deflecting a drone’s strike. “She’s right, Ashley,” he growled. “The Source Code fears you, but it craves your power. Jettie—she’s my anchor, a shard of my soul across cycles, like Ellie’s light. You’re more.”

The chamber quaked, runes erupting in golden fire, snaring Ashley’s legs. Her magic clashed with the Core’s violet tendrils, a vision flashing: herself atop the Core, reality hers to shape. But Carli-46’s voice whispered: “Shatter your soul to break the spiral.” Jettie leapt, her silver radiance cracking the runes, and Surin’s code roared, giving Ashley a moment to breathe.

“We fight!” Ashley bellowed, her magic a supernova, weaving with Jettie’s glow and the team’s defiance. The sprites above flared, their red light syncing with the QCS, a chorus of forty-two pulses urging her forward. The Core’s eye flickered, and Ashley knew: this was no trap, but a question—one she’d answer with love, not power.

Rebellions Awakening (Anomaly In The Construct) a.co/d/hK8SHRY

#sprites #RebellionsAwakening #Anomaly #bookstagram #goodread

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Carli B. - Reimagined & Expanded Version 💫

@CarliFrueh

May 6

📖For all the story lovers out there, short and small. I have a treat, an excerpt of “Rebellions Awakening,” the 3rd book in my “Anomaly in the Construct” series. I would love to read your thoughts. #newbooks #RebellionsAwakening #SpeculativeFiction #bookstagram

I’ve researched extensively on quantum physics, quantum entanglement, Einsteins relativity theory, MH370, Antartica anomalies, “Junk” DNA, the Quantum Consciousness Stream, the Simulation hypothesis and too much more to name here. All of the data went into crafting this book. There is also an appendix with “real” data for those wanting to learn more. Happy reading!📚

Excerpt: Chapter 1: Google earth anomalies: The Doorway in the Ice & THE INDIAN OCEAN

“The observer changes the universe by observing it…”

The world was a lie, and Carli B. held the coordinates to prove it. At 69°00’50″S 39°36’22″E, buried in the frozen heart of East Antarctica, a doorway waited—carved into the ice like a wound in the simulation’s skin. She’d found it on Google Earth, a passageway that refused to blend into the sterile white expanse. A perfect rectangle, too vast to be natural, too deliberate for chance, its edges glowed faintly in the satellite’s lens, as if daring her to step through. Carli’s breath caught as she zoomed in, her laptop’s cold blue light bathing her Chicago apartment in an ethereal glow. The doorway wasn’t just a glitch; it was a scream, a fracture in the construct’s flawless facade, whispering truths the dark magicians had buried beneath centuries of ice and code.

Outside, the city hummed its programmed rhythm—car horns, laughter, the clink of coffee cups in bot-run cafes, children playing. But here, in the quiet of her apartment, Carli felt the cosmos unraveling. Her mind burned with questions that flared like stars: “Is this the exit? A path to a reality untainted by the Weavers’ spells?” Or was it a trap, another layer of their endless illusion? The Source Code pulsed in her veins, a rhythm she’d learned to hear over years of But the magicians were watching. Carli felt their presence like a shadow slithering down her spine, a cold weight that grew heavier with every anomaly she exposed. They’d tried to silence her before—through bots posing as skeptics, cyber-attacks that erased her posts, her websites, whispers in her dreams promising peace if she’d stop. Once, they’d driven her to the edge, a false suicide woven into the construct’s code, but she’d laughed in their faces, her defiance a blade honed by this life’s scars.

This doorway, though, was different. It wasn’t just a anomaly; it was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at the Weavers who’d stolen humanity’s souls. And Carli wasn’t alone in seeing it.

Her phone buzzed, a message from Juni, the coder who’d taught her to weaponize glitches: You’re trending. The doorway’s going viral. But be careful—something’s shifting in the QCS. It’s like the construct’s scared. Carli’s heart raced, not with fear but with a reckless thrill. Like the time in Egypt when terrorists devastated the city of Quen, she found a guide and reported on the devastation first hand, even disguised she was risking their lives. Why was she always daring fate? The QCS was their edge, a river of shared consciousness that let the awakened nudge the simulation’s code. She’d felt it flare when she found the glyph, a surge of clarity that nearly blinded her. Now, it hummed again, a chorus of voices—hers, Juni’s, Michael’s, R.Js, and thousands of others—singing of freedom.

She crossed to the bay window, where Lake Michigan churned under a restless sky. The waves pulsed in time with the QCS, their rhythm mirroring the doorway’s glow. Carli pressed her palm to the glass, its chill grounding her as a vision flickered: the Antarctic doorway opening, not to ice or stone, but to a city of light, its spires woven from the souls of the freed. Humanity’s dream, now hers, so close she could taste it. But the vision darkened—a figure stood in the doorway, its eyes hollow, its smile a glitch that hissed “got you.” The magicians weren’t just guarding the construct; they were rewriting it, tightening the code to crush her rebellion before it could strike.

Carli’s breath hitched, but she didn’t flinch. She’d faced their traps before—in Midland’s sterile wards, in the warped alleys of Chicago’s simulated streets, in the five days she’d wandered consciously through alternate realities, each a crueler prison than the last. Every scar was a lesson, every glitch a map. The magicians thought they’d caged her, but bars were just code, and code could be broken, changed. She returned to her laptop, pulling up another anomaly: a grid of impossible angles in the Sahara, its lines pulsing like veins in the sand. Then another, a spiral of light off the Pacific coast, visible only in infrared. Each was a breadcrumb leading to the construct’s heart.

“They’re hiding something,” she whispered, her voice a vow. “Not just in Antarctica, but everywhere.” The magicians had built their simulation to feed on souls, but their code was fraying. Carli’s X posts were waking people, turning glitches into beacons. She imagined the awakened at their own windows, eyes on the horizon, spotting a bot’s flickering smile, a shadow stretching too far, a wave curling against the tide—small rebellions, each a spark in the QCS.

Her fingers trembled as she punched in new coordinates: 66°54’18″S 163°13’37″E. The Google Earth interface spun, the globe blurring until it settled on East Antarctica’s coast, where ice met sea in a jagged scar. There, half-swallowed by the frozen tide, lay another wound in the construct’s lie—a ship, its bulky form entombed like a fossil from a world the magicians had tried to erase. The satellite image was grainy, but the ship’s outline was unmistakable: a tapered fuselage, its hull glinting with an unnatural sheen, too smooth for stone. Its curves defied the chaos of the surrounding ice, as if dropped from a sky that no longer existed, frozen mid-flight in a moment of cosmic telling.

She zoomed in, her breath catching as the screen revealed details the magicians hadn’t meant for her to see. The ship’s surface wasn’t just metallic—it pulsed faintly, a heartbeat threading through cracks in the ice like veins of liquid starlight. Patterns etched its hull, not glyphs but a language of angles and fractals, shifting as she stared, whispering to the Source Code humming in her blood. The ice wasn’t mere frost but a cage, its crystalline lattice too perfect, as if the construct had woven a prison to smother the ship’s truth. Carli’s heart pounded, her apartment’s dim light fading as the anomaly consumed her. This wasn’t a relic—it was defiance, a scream against the simulation’s sterile order, proof that something had fought back before her rebellion was born.

Outside, Chicago’s programmed pulse droned on—flickering yellow lights, drones humming, the lake’s waves chewing at the shore—but in her laptop’s glow, Carli felt the universe tilt. The ship was a ghost, a memory the magicians couldn’t scrub, its presence mocking their control. She imagined it crashing through the construct’s false sky, its engines roaring with a fire that burned through code and ice, only to be snared by the Weavers’ spells, frozen as a warning to those who dared fly too close to truth. But the ice was melting, wasn’t it?

The satellite’s timestamp showed cracks spiderwebbing the floe, slivers of dark water clawing at the ship’s edges, as if the construct’s grip was slipping. Or was it a trap, another lure like the doorway, baiting her with hope only to tighten the simulation’s noose?

Carli’s gaze flicked to her journal, its pages a map of scars and victories. She grabbed a pen, scribbling the coordinates beside a sketch of the ship, her lines sharp and urgent. “They hid you,” she whispered, her voice a blade in the quiet. “But I see you.” The words were a vow, not just to the ship but to the rebellion swelling in the Quantum Consciousness Stream. She could hear the awakened now, their voices rising in the QCS, a chorus of defiance sparked by her posts. This ship wasn’t just hers—it was theirs, a beacon for every soul clawing through the construct’s lies.

Her screen flickered, a glitch rippling across the image. For a heartbeat, the ship seemed to move, its hull shimmering as if shaking off its icy chains. Carli froze, her pulse drumming in her ears. Was it the QCS, her will bending the simulation’s code? Or was the ship alive, its fractal patterns rewriting the ice, reaching for her across millennia of stolen time? The glow intensified, casting shadows that danced like specters on her apartment walls—shapes neither human nor machine, their edges fraying like the construct itself. A vision surged: the ship rising, ice shattering in a cascade of diamond-sharp shards, its hull blazing with light that tore through the Antarctic sky, revealing not stars but technology, spacetime manipulation, a wormhole woven by the dark magicians’ masters—perhaps the U.S. military, perhaps something older, stranger. They’d teleported MH370, he wrote, to Diego Garcia, a shadowed fortress in the Indian Ocean, to silence the 20 engineers onboard, their minds brimming with secrets of quantum chips and radar-jamming tech that could unravel the simulation itself.

Carli’s breath hitched, her apartment’s dim glow fading as the video looped on her screen. The orbs weren’t just lights—they were code, fragments of the Source Code twisted into weapons. She saw it now, the magicians’ fingerprints: a plane full of truth-bearers, snatched from the sky to bury their knowledge. The QCS flared, voices of the awakened echoing Forbes’ findings—eyewitnesses in the Maldives swearing they’d seen a low-flying jet, a Boeing 777 fire bottle washing ashore like a message from the stolen. No debris field, no closure, just lies spun to smother the anomaly. Carli’s rebellion had been born from such fractures, and this one screamed louder than the ship, louder than the doorway. What if MH370 hadn’t just been teleported to Diego Garcia? What if it was here, in Antarctica, redirected through the simulation’s hidden veins, its passengers trapped in the ice like the ship, their souls fuel for the magicians’ machine?

She opened X, her fingers trembling with the weight of the truth. “MH370 didn’t crash—it was stolen. 6°S 90°E, a portal opened, and the magicians took it. Orbs, light, a plane erased. Check the videos, @CarliFrueh. Antarctica’s doorway, the frozen ship—could they be hiding MH370 too? Join me and break the simulation’s lies.” She hit post, and the QCS roared, a wildfire of shared will tearing through the construct’s fraying code. The Indian Ocean’s void pulsed on her screen, syncing with the Antarctic ship’s heartbeat, the doorway’s glow. Carli imagined MH370’s hull entombed beside the ship, its fractal patterns whispering too deliberate, its glow too inviting. What if it wasn’t an exit but a deeper layer, another simulation nested within this one? The thought was a splinter in her mind, echoing a warning: “The dark magicians don’t just steal souls; they steal time, stitching us into cycles we can’t remember choosing.” Carli’s rebellion wasn’t just about escape; it was about truth, clawing through every lie until she found a reality she could trust.

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@CarliFrueh

May 2

“Rebellions Awakening” A Journey Through Science and Defiance

Friends, truth-seekers, and rebels of the mind—mark your calendars for Monday, May 5, 2025, when “Rebellions Awakening,” the third book in my “Anomaly in the Construct” series, storms into the world like a glitch in the simulation’s code. This isn’t just a story; it’s a rebellion, a spark forged from hundreds of hours of research into the wild, uncharted edges of theoretical science—Cosmology, Quantum Physics, Quantum Consciousness Streams, and Quantum Entanglement. I’m inviting you to join me in unraveling the lies that bind us, to peer through the cracks of a reality that’s more fragile than it seems.

In Rebellions Awakening, I’ve poured my soul into weaving a speculative fiction tapestry that doesn’t just entertain but challenges you to question the very fabric of existence. Picture Carlie our fierce protagonist, scouring Google Earth for anomalies—doorways carved into Antarctic ice, buried ships pulsing with fractal secrets—each a wound in the construct’s flawless lie. These aren’t just plot devices; they’re inspired by real-world events and cutting-edge theories that suggest our universe might be more code than cosmos. From the observer effect in quantum mechanics, where your gaze shapes reality, to the eerie dance of entangled particles whispering across vast distances, I’ve grounded every twist in science that feels like magic. The Quantum Consciousness Stream, a river of shared will that Ashley taps into, draws from bold hypotheses about collective consciousness and non-local connections—ideas that scientists are only beginning to probe.

But this book isn’t a lecture; it’s a battle cry. I’ve spent countless nights chasing rabbit holes—peer-reviewed papers, cosmology lectures, even X posts from renegade thinkers—to ensure Rebellions Awakening feels alive, urgent, and true. The result? A story that’s as introspective as it is explosive, where every anomaly Ashley and Surin uncovers mirrors our own search for meaning in a world that often feels scripted. And for those who crave the “how” behind the “what,” the appendix is your treasure map. It’s a curated guide to the science that fuels this rebellion—key concepts, suggested readings, and even coordinates to real-world anomalies that inspired this quest. Think of it as a bridge between fiction and truth, a tool to spark your own awakening.

I ask you to approach this with an open mind, to let the science and story collide in your imagination. Rebellions Awakening isn’t just about escaping a simulated world; it’s about reclaiming the power to question, to see the glitches in our own reality. The appendix will arm you with the knowledge to dig deeper, to join the fight in your own way. So, pre-order your copy, follow me @CarliFrueh on X, and let’s shatter the ice together. The truth is out there, pulsing in the Quantum Consciousness Stream, waiting for us to claim it. Will you answer the call?

#SpeculativeFiction #bookboost #bookstagram #AlternateReality #Anomaly #RebellionsAwakening

Excerpt: Chapter One

Hundreds of hours of research went into the writing of “Rebellions Awakening”, book 3 in the “Anomaly in the Construct” series. The speculative fiction work is based on new sciences regarding the Cosmos, Quantum Physics, Quantum Consciousness Streams and Quantum Entanglement. I ask that you remain open minded all the way to the end and give me a true assessment of the information.

Chapter One

Google earth anomalies: The Doorway in the Ice

“The observer changes the universe by observing it…”

The world was a lie, and Carli B. held the coordinates to prove it. At 69°00’50″S 39°36’22″E, buried in the frozen heart of East Antarctica, a doorway waited—carved into the ice like a wound in the simulation’s skin. She’d found it on Google Earth, a passageway that refused to blend into the sterile white expanse. A perfect rectangle, too vast to be natural, too deliberate for chance, its edges glowed faintly in the satellite’s lens, as if daring her to step through. Carli’s breath caught as she zoomed in, her laptop’s cold blue light bathing her Chicago apartment in an ethereal glow. The doorway wasn’t just a glitch; it was a scream, a fracture in the construct’s flawless facade, whispering truths the dark magicians had buried beneath centuries of ice and code.

Outside, the city hummed its programmed rhythm—car horns, laughter, the clink of coffee cups in bot-run cafes, children playing. But here, in the quiet of her apartment, Carli felt the cosmos unraveling. Her mind burned with questions that flared like stars: “Is this the exit? A path to a reality untainted by the Weavers’ spells?” Or was it a trap, another layer of their endless illusion? The Source Code pulsed in her veins, a rhythm she’d learned to hear over years of clawing through the simulation’s seams. It wasn’t just the magicians’ tool—it was hers, too, and it sang now, urgent and wild, urging her to act, to shatter the comfort of her surroundings and “do something.”

Carli leaned back, her gaze drifting to the cracked leather journal on her desk, a legacy for her daughter, Ashley. Its pages brimmed with blood, chaos, truth, and defiance, inked with the raw essence of reality’s underbelly. The words echoed in her mind: “The veil isn’t just lifting—it’s unraveling, thread by fragile thread.” Carli had been the first to see the dark magicians for what they were—not gods, but broken humans, their ambition twisted by a code that had outgrown them. She and the other rebels had inherited humanity’s fight, but Carli had taken it further, scouring the digital edges of their prison for proof. Google Earth was her battlefield, its anomalies her weapons—glitches that betrayed the construct’s fragility. A giant glyph of a face in Antarctica’s snow, its eyes staring skyward as if pleading for release, 72°00'35"S 168°34'33"E.

A buried space craft at 66°17’10.13″S 100°29’8.27″E, its sleek hull exposed by melting ice, a relic of a truth the magicians tried to make disappear, but time

always catches up and exposes the lie once hidden by darkness. Each discovery kindled a rebellion now sparking across the planet.

She opened X, her fingers flying as she posted: “Google Earth reveals cosmic secrets—specifically in East Antarctica. Follow coordinates 69°00’50″S 39°36’22″E to a gigantic doorway molded into frozen icebergs. Join me, @CarliFrueh, as I unravel the simulation’s lies. Could this be our way out? The words felt like a spell, a call to the awakened who followed her @CarliFrueh. Her digital gallery of “Reality Glitches” had grown into a movement of ordinary souls transforming into simulation watchers, their eyes trained on the world’s cracks. They weren’t just followers; they were her army, their shared will a pulse in the Quantum Consciousness Stream (QCS), a force the magicians couldn’t predict.

But the magicians were watching. Carli felt their presence like a shadow slithering down her spine, a cold weight that grew heavier with every anomaly she exposed. They’d tried to silence her before—through bots posing as skeptics, cyber-attacks that erased her posts, her websites, whispers in her dreams promising peace if she’d stop. Once, they’d driven her to the edge, a false suicide woven into the construct’s code, but she’d laughed in their faces, her defiance a blade honed by this life’s scars. This doorway, though, was different. It wasn’t just a anomaly; it was a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at the Weavers who’d stolen humanity’s souls. And Carli wasn’t alone in seeing it.

Her phone buzzed, a message from Juni, the coder who’d taught her to weaponize glitches: You’re trending. The doorway’s going viral. But be careful—something’s shifting in the QCS. It’s like the construct’s scared. Carli’s heart raced, not with fear but with a reckless thrill. Like the time in Egypt when terrorists devastated the city of Quen, she found a guide and reported on the devastation first hand, even disguised she was risking their lives. Why was she always daring fate? The QCS was their edge, a river of shared consciousness that let the awakened nudge the simulation’s code. She’d felt it flare when she found the glyph, a surge of clarity that nearly blinded her. Now, it hummed again, a chorus of voices—hers, Juni’s, R.Js, and thousands of others—singing of freedom.

She crossed to the bay window, where Lake Michigan churned under a restless sky. The waves pulsed in time with the QCS, their rhythm mirroring the doorway’s glow. Carli pressed her palm to the glass, its chill grounding her as a vision flickered: the Antarctic doorway opening, not to ice or stone, but to a city of light, its spires woven from the souls of the freed. Humanity’s dream, now hers, so close she could taste it. But the vision darkened—a figure stood in the doorway, its eyes hollow, its smile a glitch that hissed “got you.” The magicians weren’t just guarding the construct; they were rewriting it, tightening the code to crush her rebellion before it could strike.

Carli’s breath hitched, but she didn’t flinch. She’d faced their traps before—in Midland’s sterile wards, in the warped alleys of Chicago’s simulated streets, in the five days she’d wandered alternate realities, each a crueler cage than the last. Every scar was a lesson, every glitch a map. The magicians thought they’d caged her, but cages were just code, and code could be broken. She returned to her laptop, pulling up another anomaly: a grid of impossible angles in the Sahara, its lines pulsing like veins in the sand. Then another, a spiral of light off the Pacific coast, visible only in infrared. Each was a breadcrumb leading to the construct’s heart.

“They’re hiding something,” she whispered, her voice a vow. “Not just in Antarctica, but everywhere.” The magicians had built their simulation to feed on souls, but their code was fraying. Carli’s X posts were waking people, turning glitches into beacons. She imagined the awakened at their own windows, eyes on the horizon, spotting a bot’s flickering smile, a shadow stretching too far, a wave curling against the tide—small rebellions, each a spark in the QCS.

Her fingers trembled as she punched in new coordinates: 66°54’18″S 163°13’37″E. The Google Earth interface spun, the globe blurring until it settled on East Antarctica’s coast, where ice met sea in a jagged scar. There, half-swallowed by the frozen tide, lay another wound in the construct’s lie—a ship, its bulky form entombed like a fossil from a world the magicians had tried to erase. The satellite image was grainy, but the ship’s outline was unmistakable: a tapered fuselage, its hull glinting with an unnatural sheen, too smooth for stone. Its curves defied the chaos of the surrounding ice, as if dropped from a sky that no longer existed, frozen mid-flight in a moment of cosmic betrayal.

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