Name: Mara Vance
Network: Veritas 7 News
Tagline: “Truth. Unfiltered.”
Name: Mara Vance
“What did I tell you?” Roy Dawson, Earth Angel, Master Magical Healer, didn't whisper. He warned. But they laughed—thought it was a joke. They said he was broken, poor, lost. But Roy? Roy outlasted the wolves. And now God’s tired. Which means Roy’s already been there.
And when Roy’s had enough—God knows it’s bad.
They thought they were better. They mocked the one God chose, the one who never asked for the spotlight, only the truth. Roy didn't beg for titles. He was born with purpose. While they plotted to break him, strip him of joy, love, and dignity, they didn’t realize who was watching.
God was watching.
They left Roy in the gutter and called it divine justice. But heaven never abandons its own. When they stole, when they lied, when they sat in their circles and pulled from the sacred, they believed they were gods themselves. They forgot the First Law: The gift is not yours. It’s borrowed.
Now, the debt’s due.
Roy Dawson didn’t come with vengeance in his fists. He came with warning in his voice. “Return it all,” he said. “What you stole—return it. With interest. For the damage you did to me and my tribe. And do it on your knees.”
Not because Roy needed the apology.
Because God demanded it.
They called themselves "chosen" while cloaked in incense and soaked in arrogance. They whispered to the winds, claimed to hear the voice of the Divine, but they were only listening to themselves. The divine did speak—but not to them.
It spoke to Roy.
He was the blessing they spit on. The miracle they ignored. They wanted him homeless. And yet every night he slept beneath stars his Father hung in the sky. They wanted him miserable, but they only made him strong. And now, they’re not laughing anymore.
The ones who once claimed power now sit in silence. Their altars collect dust. Their prayers don’t leave the room. Their spells don’t stick. Their voices echo into here nothing.
The lights are off. The connection’s gone.
Because the Divine said enough.
Those who had the gift abused it. They made deals with shadows, offered up souls like poker chips, cloaked themselves in rituals they couldn’t even explain. They were obsessed with power, status, illusion. And now the mirror's broken, and they’re seeing themselves for what they really are.
Not prophets. Not seers. Just frauds.
The high priestess? Burnt out.
The psychic? Mute.
The magician? Powerless.
The masculine? Fallen.
They’ve been cut off from the Source. Not by accident. By order.
God gave them rope—and they made a noose.
Meanwhile, Roy stands where they fell. Still rising. Still walking. No cloak, no gold rings, no lies. Just the truth. And it burns brighter than any candle they ever lit.
He doesn’t want applause. Doesn’t want revenge.
He wants peace.
But when peace won’t come, he wants God to take him home.
Because even Roy has his limits. And Roy’s tired.
They thought they knew who Roy was. But then God woke him up and said:
“Son, you’re mine. You always have been.”
The tables have turned.
The gifts have returned to the rightful hands. The silence? It’s not just punishment—it’s prophecy.
The wolves sit where kings used to stand.
And the lamb? He's roaring now.
So if you're listening—if you're one of them—you better pray. Loud. Real loud.
Because Heaven more info is done whispering.
And Roy? He’s not joking.
Not this time.
“They Underestimate an Empathy Like Me”
by Roy Dawson Earth Angel Master Magical Healer (The Different One)
They underestimate an empathy like me.
They see softness, not strength —
quiet eyes, not the storm behind them.
They think feeling deeply is weakness.
They have no idea.
I do not break because I feel.
I bend to hold the wounded,
to carry sorrow not my own,
to bleed with the broken
and still stand tall.
I don’t flinch at pain —
I walk into it,
barefoot and burning
because I know how it feels
to be left behind.
But what they don't understand
is that I hate cruelty
the way fire hates the cold.
I hate injustice like the body hates poison.
I cannot look away. I will not.
I was built to feel —
but not to fold.
Not when the innocent suffer.
Not when the wicked grin.
Not when they make misery a sport.
I have sat in silence too long.
I have swallowed too much.
I have cried for strangers
and carried burdens they never knew I bore.
But I am not weak.
I am a weapon
for the ones who have no voice.
I am the line between
what hurts and what survives.
And I will fight to my last breath
to defend the light in this world.
I am sick of the cruelty.
Sick of the mockery.
Sick of watching those with power
pretend they are gods
while they crush what is good.
You underestimate me.
You think empathy is an open wound.
But this is a blade forged in love.
And I will not let it rust
while the innocent bleed.
So come.
Mock if you must.
But understand this —
the heart you laugh at
is the one that will stop you.
And I will not be moved.