Fox Moldy sat at his desk, his feet propped up on the lower left desk drawer. He flicked a spitwad at the poster of Elvis Presley – in his prime, of course – hitting the premiere icon just below his left eye. “Two hundred and thirty-four,” he whispered softly, and readied yet another missile.
Moldy had selected this poster for the wall of his office as it stood in his mind as testimony to the covert governmental conspiracy to hide from the American people just exactly what happened to this Pop-Icon. Was he really dead, as the media, with disinformation fed to it by secret agencies within the Pentagon, has led the populace to believe? Or is he actually living in seclusion in some mountain hideaway, prisoner of these same clandestine agencies seeking to discredit his dedicated following, alone and never again to behold his adoring fans from the stages of the world? Continue reading
In a land east of the sun, west of the moon, in a time very long ago, there lived a lonely cobbler and his faithful donkey. He loved to sit in the window of his shop and daydream memories from his childhood of the sunshine and flowers on the hillsides that followed the spring showers, and of the bubbling brooks as they wound their way to the sea. The animals of the land lived in 
Scene: the news desk of Continental News Network (CNN), anchor-person Tom Brokar covering the latest in news from the nation’s capitol. 
David sat at the end of the bar, nursing a drink he’d ordered some four hours earlier. It was near closing time, and there were only a few patrons left after the long hyped mega-fight ended two minutes seventeen seconds into the first round – that was three hours ago. It was all over but the spouting. Most of the people left shortly after that, everyone complaining of the abrupt ending to a poorly matched bout. 
There seems to be a large number of folks who have this curious take on what our flag means to us. It is definitely important in so many ways, and most individuals have a personal favorite thing about it that makes it so important, and that’s just fine, that’s how it should be. But here’s the thing, how each of us thinks about it doesn’t necessarily hold true in the minds of others. And that’s the rub. 
Harley lay on the couch totally dead to the world, the rectangle of sunlight playing slowly around him, moving across the room as the afternoon wore on. Sudden, he opened his eyes, and surveyed the room. “Damn!” he thought to himself, “Gotta move again.” He uncurled his lithe body, stood up and arched his back stretching his muscles, and took two steps toward the end of the couch, and curled up again in the middle of the sunspot. His eyelids closed, and he was gone in an instant. How does he do that? 
In the summer of 1961 Barbara and I went to Japan with a group of students from the Wesley Foundation Methodist Student Center at the University of California in Berkeley, California. This was a joint international work project with a similar companion group of Japanese Christian students from the Kansei Gakuin University in Tokyo. 
Shawn sat on the wooden bench outside the train station office. The single lamp above the station platform clinked lightly with every little breeze. She held her ticket tightly in one hand, and her small suitcase under her arm. Her dad had stepped inside the train station to pick up a schedule for the afternoon local between San Sebastian and the coastal town of Tranquility Sound. He said he would be right back. 
