JJFBbennett

  The art of monetising fear Script Politicians have long mastered the art of monetising fear, transforming societal anxieties into powerful tools for garnering votes, donations, and loyalty. By amplifying threats, whether real or exaggerated, they create a sense of urgency that compels the public to rally behind them, funding campaigns and endorsing policies that promise protection. This strategy not only secures their power but also perpetuates a cycle where fear becomes a lucrative commodity, much like how alarmist narratives drive engagement and profits in broader discourse.  So why don't more contemporary artists leverage or expose this political platform, given that power and art have always been symbiotic?  Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via  Blogger , YouTube , Flicker , Facebook , Instagram and Deviant Art .  Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private...

  Vision I - The Violet Firestorm Cryo Chamber — The Silent Scream Psychological isolation A lone cryo pod floating inside a dim spacecraft bay . Inside, a male space tourist is cocooned tightly in glowing nanofiber restraints , frozen mid-thrash.  JB's mouth is open in a scream that makes no sound. Cryogenic mist swirls like incense around him. Violet light leaks into the chamber from an unseen cosmic force , casting long shadows across the pod’s curved surface. The mood is mournful, ritualistic, and terrifyingly calm. Ultra-cinematic sci-fi , photorealistic detail , volumetric lighting , deep shadows. Full Assault — Violet Firestorm Explosive, internal chaos A surreal psychological vision: a male pilot encased in a glowing cocoon of nanoweave , thrashing violently as violet fire erupts around him. Flames are not literal fire but energy — psychic, electric, and cosmic — exploding from behind his eyes. The background collapses into a massive black-violet anomaly with swirl...

  Breathless Strapped in an Alien Cocoon The air... where is the air? The room is sucking it out. It’s blue. It’s cold. It’s the color of drowning. No... no, no, no. Don't touch me! Get it off! The linen... it’s shrinking! It’s sewing my skin together! I can’t... I can’t expand my chest! WAKE UP! MOVE! DAMN IT, MOVE! My hands! They’ve cut off my hands! Why can’t I reach the glass?! SOMEBODY HELP ME! Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. It’s tight. It’s a snake. It’s crushing my ribs. Tastes like copper... tastes like blood. BREAK! SHATTER! Why is there no sound?! I’m screaming my throat raw but the silence is eating me alive! BK! KATCHA! No! Don’t sleep! The needle... the ice! It’s killing the pilot! If I close my eyes, I unspool! I fall apart! Stay awake, you coward! STAY AWAKE! Spinning. Everything is spinning. The floor is gone. The gravity is wrong. I’m falling up! I’m falling into the black hole! LIES! That’s not real! That’s a ghost! My mind is snapping! I’m looking a...

The Spoodle Chronicles When a psychic spoodle and his captain stumble upon an ancient signal from the depths of uncharted space, they're pulled into an adventure that will test their bond across galaxies. Join Katcha and Captain Renna as they navigate treacherous hyperspace lanes, outwit cosmic smugglers, and discover that a wagging tail might just unlock the universe's greatest mysteries. Subscribe and read: Facebook subscribers : https://www.facebook.com/share/g/16JHjhd5Tr/  Patreon subscribers :  https://www.patreon.com/posts/ Deviant subscribers:   https://www.deviantart.com/jjfbbennett/art/The-Spoodle-Chronicles-1275870003

  Piloting and despooling The reality of JB’s confinement is suffocating. The air inside is thin, hot, and heavy with the scent of his own fear. His flight suit, usually a second skin, feels like a lead weight. Through the visor, he sees the control panel—a blur of familiar red and green warnings pulsing just inches away. His fingers twitch, aching to override the sequence, but the shimmering silver nanoweave holds him in a vice grip.  He is a creature of action reduced to impotent stasis, staring at salvation he cannot touch. JB feels the phantom touch of ancient hands as they apply ceremonial linen over the nanoweave. The timeline collapses. He is no longer just a space tourist; he is a modern man drowning in the dust of the ancients, suspended in the liminal space between the cold silence of the cosmos and the heavy, golden air of the afterlife. As the pressure locks against his skull, the final thread snaps. It is the disintegration of the self. JB feels his history, his n...

  Obsidian static, the puppet master. (Verse 1) The crevice opens like a silent, dusty lung Air thick with minerals and a thousand forgotten years I'm rappelling down the sheer black into a chasm's memory My boots crunch on shattered polymer No sound but the suit's respiration But the stillness is a stage The jagged walls, they lean in now (Refrain) The Paraknowing a cold spike of dread at the base of the skull It’s not a thought, it’s a wave Static buzz. Who's the puppet and who is the master? High-tensile wires disappear into the light The tightening the silent pull above the gully (Verse 2) The godly face, brittle stone work It emerges, eyes blank and unseeing But it broadcasts a sharp spike of loss and profound love My logic stutters, snagging on the input An effigy , a sentinel or just a mirror I turn and see the audience waiting Small, white figures, balanced stone totems They are all part of it (Verse 3) The strings pass through my wrist Not from me, but through...

  Puppet Master The narrow, high-walled passage swallowed the sound of my boot scraping a broken cobblestone, the echo sharp in the dry air. Above, a sliver of unforgiving sunlight cut down, carving deep shadows where the damp, mossy scent of the gully was now replaced by the smell of dust and ancient stone. I paused, looking not just at my gloved hand—the leather scuffed from my descent, but at what was attached to it. Thin, nearly invisible lines, like high-tensile wires , stretched from the articulated cuff on my wrist and disappeared into the air above the path. I tracked them with my eyes until they converged on a small, stone figure standing motionless in the centre of the walkway. It was a crude marionette , barely a foot tall, carved from the same pale, cracked stone as the surrounding walls. Dressed in a simple tunic, its blank, oval face held a radiating sense of expectant waiting. Its arms were held out, palms up. I held the strings. Yet, the feeling was not one of cont...