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<title>Dennis Siluk Ed.D. - EzineArticles Expert Author</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/expert/Dennis_Siluk_Ed.D.</link>
<pubDate>Wed, 15 Feb 2012 06:34:04 -0600</pubDate>
<image><title>Dennis Siluk Ed.D. - EzineArticles Expert Author</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/expert/Dennis_Siluk_Ed.D.</link>
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<language>en-us</language>
<copyright>Copyright 2012 EzineArticles.com - All Rights Reserved.</copyright>
<description><![CDATA[Writing is more than a hobby for me. It's a passion, one of the ways I capture and celebrate life. Author of 40-books. Awarded the National Prize of Peru, "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture. Awarded the Poet - Writer of the year 2006 (of the Mantaro Valley of, Per?) by Corporation of Autonomous Press of Junin, Department of Peru Lic. Dennis L. Siluk, awarded a medal of merit, and diploma from the Journalist College of Peru, in August of 2007, for his international attainment "Union" Mathematic School (Huancayo, Peru), Honor to the Merit to: Lic. (Ed.D.) ... ]]></description>
<lastBuildDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 16:16:32 -0600</lastBuildDate>
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<title>The World Was Blackened and Race of the Old Yonah</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6859088</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6859088</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 16:16:32 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[The World Was Blackened   We were nothing but little bugs on the earth-back then, thinking we were much, much more -when it all ended...]]></description>
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<title>Marble Cold</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6859060</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6859060</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 16:15:11 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Grandpa Anton, he took a match and he looked at me (I was sitting on the coach, parallel to his sofa chair, eleven years old) and he looked me, then turning away struck the match on his shoe with a quick pompous gesture, drew heavily on his wooden pipe, then at last-shot a puff of smoke into the air- and then another and another until the tobacco was red hot inside the chimney of the pipe. Satisfied, he continued on, his right hand gasping the pipe, between his index and second finger, resting the side of his palm on the sofa chair, his legs now halfway crossed, his small body pressed backward into the softness of the chair, a wee unshaven. He mumbles in a confidential tone of one who relates to an unbelievable moment of quiet-the television in front of him, no more than four feet away, he's watching 'Gunsmoke' (he loves cowboy movies); it's nine o'clock in the evening. At this moment his thumb moves, he's checking the stuffed burning tobacco in his pipe, so do I-but from a distance.]]></description>
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<title>The Arms of Heaven</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6859053</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6859053</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 16:14:13 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It is said by Enoch and Methuselah that men came into the world in the time of the shadow of the serpent, and they fell swiftly under his dominion; for he sent his emissaries among them: Azaz'el (Angelic Watcher), Lilith & Asmodeus (Lilith married Asmodeus, the king of Demons), Agaliarept (The Henchman of Hell or Sheol) Naamah (the angelic whore of heaven conceived while Adam was married to Lilith), Nephilim (decedents of the Watchers, the Giants of Old), King Og (King of the Nephilim).The Nachash...]]></description>
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<title>The Granulate Hotel Episode</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6859094</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6859094</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 11:12:22 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[He had listened to the voice without interrupting. He was speaking to him slowly, and as his voice faded, his body seemed thicker than a wall, and the man's voice sent back an occasional echo. He regarded himself as frozen in place; thus, the young man was forced to listen...]]></description>
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<title>New Year's Day and Revenge of the Canchayllo Puma</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6857573</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6857573</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 10:36:30 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[This year walks in this city, fair As women are veiled in their hair - Men dressed in suits, everywhere! Their hearts beating live and bold, Within the city walls, where people Walk and talk, share with me Dark eyed, bright teeth, along noisy Narrow streets, -feeling the winter breeze.]]></description>
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<title>The Legend of Gruta De Huagapo (in English and Spanish)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6857569</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6857569</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 10:00:43 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[In the Valley of Palcamayo, in the city of Tarma, Region Junin of Peru, there is the biggest grotto in South America. It has many legends, one of them, I am going to tell you.]]></description>
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<title>The Spirits of Tunanmarca (Archaeological Site) and Female Tramp (in English and Spanish)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6857565</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6857565</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 10:00:08 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Tunanmarca is an archaeological site, ruins from the Wanka Culture, located in the Province of Jauja, Region Junin, of Peru, near to Huancayo, Peru. Very interesting ruins made of stones.]]></description>
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<title>Legend of: The Ancient Huacrapuquio Tiger (in English and Spanish)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6857559</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6857559</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 09:58:25 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[I wonder If he was afraid of dying-found Deep in a stone crevice (bones complete) In what one day would become the Village of Huacrapuquio - But now, All day long, I have been walking among Their dirt and stone streets. Trying to keep still, silently Listening, To old residue-echoes that linger in The shifting dust and sand-patiently I am Gathering, the slow, the empty Echoes of the past...]]></description>
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<title>&quot;The Biochemist&quot; (A Five Part Story)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6859080</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6859080</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 09:54:01 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[A Five Part Story "The Biochemist"... The Uninviting Envenomed, The Unknown Creature, The Third Canister, Jeff Daniels Micro Prey...The Uninviting, Part One,  A story out of Peru and the Amazon Jungle of the Microscopic World at its most terrifying point, one no one can ignore...]]></description>
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<title>About-Turn (A Vietnam War Story, 1971)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6859075</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6859075</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 09:51:01 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[At seven o'clock the South China Sea, and the 611th Ordnance Company area at Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam, was in front of him. Lightly lit, the moon drifted down dimming the dirt road in front of the Company area's office -as if it was under a shadow-(the office shelter, often referred to as a Quentin hut); Corporal Evens enduring the peninsula's evening heat, slightly intoxicated-sipping on a can of beer, gently walking towards the front road, and past the Captain's office, on a metal platform, in the center of the Company, used for morning and evening formations. His face was warm, somewhat tired, yet engaged, interested in the commotion taking place there.]]></description>
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<title>The Offer (1968-San Francisco)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6859071</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6859071</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 09:46:46 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Here is a story based on fact, something that happened in San Francisco in 1968..."Chick Evens," said the short man. "Yaw," said Evens...]]></description>
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<title>Through the Eyes of the Dead</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6859067</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6859067</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 09:44:04 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Opening: "I've held this story back somewhat, had put it into limbo for the most part, for most people do not know of my experiences in the way of Second Sight, or indeed of the phenomenon itself. Neither in Europe nor America does such a belief prevail (although they believe in a God they cannot see, and miracles of long ago, and the devil made me do it axiom). Most folk's think, something has turned the brain, when someone shares such an experience. Therefore, I shall not try to convince the reader one way or another, let it rest under science fiction if indeed it gets better reception. But nonetheless, I shall place it under fiction, for my own journals. I shall try to write it in a form of poetic prose, thus allowing the reader to feel the depth of the story." Dlsiluk]]></description>
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<title>Through Old Spectacles: The Jail - Secret Writings and Dead End</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6859064</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6859064</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 09:38:29 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[There is a common compulsion (duress) to a floor of a jail (perhaps a prison). A tang or aftertaste, of the herded, and their smell: a craze caused by a drumming against a door, a crazed drumming: the compulsion of abandonment. There is an occasional and stylistic strangeness about a jail cell, its iron doors, and its clang.]]></description>
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<title>The Puya De Raimondi of Canchayllo, Jauja, Peru (English and Spanish)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6857536</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6857536</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 09:01:19 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[No: 3104 (October 1, 2011). Note: the Puya de Raimondi of Canchayllo, Jauja, Peru, high up in the Andes, is a most wondrous sight to see...  classic, that is: one of a kind. Canchayllo is a district of Jauja, Region of Junin, Peru, with about 1800 inhabitants.]]></description>
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<title>The Dying Puya of Raimondi and Red Ants in Satipo (in English and Spanish)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6857556</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6857556</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 02 Feb 2012 19:08:06 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[2nd poem of this year (2012) The Puya de Raimondi is a rare and beautiful flower, it grows up only in Peru and Bolivia. Satipo is a city in the Jungle of Peru, very beautiful and with many interesting natural things to see.]]></description>
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<title>The Great March to Babylon</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6744926</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6744926</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 09 Dec 2011 08:17:20 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA["To Babylon, to Babylon!" The French Knights shouted. (While disembarking, Some 1800-ships) Vessels great and small; On Saint Nicholas's day-And thus, Started the Great March!]]></description>
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<title>The Chalice of Acopalca</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6744935</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6744935</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 09 Dec 2011 08:11:59 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[He hadn't expected to find so many townsfolk's in the church-he had turned about and there they were. He knew morning services had already been held, and evening services would not be for hours yet; it was the dry season of this small Andean city of Peru, and early and late were the services, weddings on Saturdays only, and three services on Sundays.]]></description>
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<title>Sense or Nonsense (A Set of Poems)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6684831</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6684831</guid>
<pubDate>Mon, 14 Nov 2011 07:30:57 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Sense or Nonsense Making sense is the other side of making nonsense "What is what?" that is the question. (Moreover, who knows?) My advice to the reader of these poems is not to be too quick to label them either way, unless you can understand both sides of the coin without any preconceived notions...]]></description>
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<title>Escape (A Short Play in One Act, and Two Scenes) (Act One, Scene One)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6684785</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6684785</guid>
<pubDate>Sat, 12 Nov 2011 14:32:11 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[The story "Escape" is much like the Author's other works, biographical in many respects; it presents a version of his own life. In this case, an imaginative speculation about what might have taken place prior to his leaving Minnesota to go to San Francisco and what might have happened otherwise, had he not. That is, had he not chosen to go to San Francisco, in 1968, as indicated in his previous book "Romancing San Francisco"? Moreover, had he not gone to Vietnam, as indicated in his book, "Where the Birds Don't Sing."]]></description>
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<title>Escape (A Short Play in One Act, and Two Scenes) (Act One, Scene Two)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6684789</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6684789</guid>
<pubDate>Sat, 12 Nov 2011 14:09:24 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Behind the jukebox, where the two bathrooms are, alongside the bathrooms is a corridor, that leads to the back door of the bar, you can leave by that way, but you can't come in that way, it leads to the street. The walls are plain, no paintings or anything. It is near closing of the same evening, now night. The bar is light lightly, softer music is being played, people are drunker up what they have left, gulping it down, resting their elbows on the bar, the bar closes at 1:00 p.m., the last call for drinks has been called already, and it is twenty-minutes to one. Chick inhales his 57th cigarette for the day, slowly and then puts it out in a nearby ashtray. Then whipping his hands onto his trousers, he leans back, stretches his legs, and waits.]]></description>
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<title>Mayhem at the Turkish Guesthouse</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6684804</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6684804</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 11 Nov 2011 08:28:49 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[The woman, German waitress in a Bavarian outfit, dress and all, left the bar area with a smile. Her shoulders were very thin, her face and hands lightly tanned, and she was taller than most of the men in the bar, apparently so, who were Turkish. A few of the dark-eyed Turkish men strolled about from the bar to the tables in the next room where I had walked into.]]></description>
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<title>Judas' Plight</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6684815</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6684815</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 10 Nov 2011 18:52:17 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Judas Iscariot's account, or legend behind the man has been oversimplified in that his act of treason by those who have written his story, have disrupted it to look as if it was sabotage (preordained). Although consensus would prove me more wrong than right, yet I feel he wasn't that cleaver to have outwitted all the apostles, and Jesus Christ himself; consequently, Judas has been given way too much credit for his treachery; oh well, it did occurred, did it not?]]></description>
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<title>Theme of a World Traitor</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6684822</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6684822</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 10 Nov 2011 18:45:49 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Under the influence of the highest offices of America: FBI, CIA, Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Oval Office, and conglomerate of other offices and individuals, America, since the late 1950s, has become the world manufacture, contriver and embellisher of what might be pleasing to the eye, if not graceful with its mysteries. In this small brief, details, adjustments are lacking, but the history is there, perhaps not all revealed, but dimly perceived, if you look for it. The actions of America transpire in oil rich countries, oppressed and stubborn countries, in countries that are united with America, such as NATO countries, etcetera; we even deal with our enemies. We are the executioner, the inventor, the dramatist. Let us say for purposes, since the middle half of the 20th Century, we've been this and more-the best actors in the world. I will be the narrator.]]></description>
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<title>Bear Under the Snow</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6657056</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6657056</guid>
<pubDate>Tue, 01 Nov 2011 13:29:33 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[The Vietnam War was a ten-year rainstorm, one I experienced for one tenth of it (and got a decoration for). It carried us, as if to the moon, as if the moon had dropped on us. It infected the community, everyday life; it also gave some of us, excitement (as it had for me), but many funerals, 56,000-American funerals, over 5,000 a month. It gave us new and daily sounds over the radio, and television, and the full actual sounds of war, I would get to hear, in 1971.]]></description>
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<title>Poems to Ponder On</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6616926</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6616926</guid>
<pubDate>Mon, 31 Oct 2011 09:19:12 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Here are over fifteen poems to ponder on. Like a bird with long wings... the Lord God, came flying through the dust- He had flown over the darkening waves. He had flown around the planet...]]></description>
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<title>The Hidden Haven ((Poetic Images) (El Refugio Escondido) (BILINGUAL: English and Spanish))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6616915</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6616915</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 26 Oct 2011 15:39:13 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[What is so strange about these trees clustered around an open field? They are eucalyptus trees!]]></description>
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<title>Seventeen Haiku's for Living (Special Note on Poetic Imagery)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6616875</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6616875</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 12 Oct 2011 16:18:12 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[1) Success - If you want to be Successful, live in one place. And visit others! No: 3090 (9-24-2011) 2) A Mayor - It's hard to be a mayor, to please or appease one and all to make the right call! For the sake of order one must give to Cesar, the Lord what belongs to each.]]></description>
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<title>Outside the Attic Window</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6616884</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6616884</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 12 Oct 2011 16:08:44 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Lifting my head up, to take a hold of my coffee cup, then taking a sip, thoughts likened to caterpillars start crawling over the top of my brainstem, my cerebellum, it's not an unusual happening for me. It's hard nowadays to hold onto thoughts-if I don't write them down, they're dead in only a few hours-that's a quiver in the brain that says: by gosh, he's...]]></description>
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<title>Poems: Islamic Form, Haiku, Poetic Prose (and Imagery)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6616869</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6616869</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 12 Oct 2011 07:33:43 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[So many times this month I've felt the alienation within the city's lost children. It's normal, like the the cry of a weeping penguin, who calls to another over a lost and darkening sorrow. In many of my poems I praised so much of the culture, the fine elements and way of life, carried out, in the Andean cities of Peru!]]></description>
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<title>Midnight Poems V</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6534698</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6534698</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 Sep 2011 12:37:00 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Brief commentary:  like all wars, the war in Vietnam was costly for its time, $220-billion dollars. The U.S. Military dropped 6.5 million tons of bombs on Vietnam. It killed two-million Asians, and we lost 58,000 men and women (and it created neurological issues for soldiers for the following half century, not to mention maimed soldiers). ]]></description>
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<title>The Prose Poem</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6534680</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6534680</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 Sep 2011 11:48:09 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[What is Poetic Prose? The prose poem (poetic prose)is as old as the hills-well at least as old as poetry itself; that is to say, it is not a new invention as many would have you believe. ]]></description>
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<title>Two Poems of Vividness and Force</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6534688</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6534688</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 Sep 2011 11:46:44 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[An ode is a lyric poem in essence, usually celebrating someone or something, often addressed to its subject. In this case exalting the grape, to keep love and hate, busy, avoiding its destructive powers.  ]]></description>
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<title>16-New Poems and Two Short Stories</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6506336</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6506336</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 19 Aug 2011 14:52:30 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[For here in truth do we belong-in the yawning tomb? To let our youth tell our tales not as we have told them-Not at a glance, but the pale truth; our earthly wormy circumstance... At last, at last! Death who rides a pale horse, fills out our earthly score, puts his hand onto the horrid scroll, and hands it to us-cold dead! Dismal at sight, pity runs deep to the core-he murmurs for earth and breath, which is no more: "At last he feels the dirt of the grave (says the man on the pale horse)-the dead who once raved upon the earth, he raves no more. He is with his immortal kind, the demons and ten-winged Lord, the dragon. Dethroned from earth and no one...]]></description>
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<title>Four New Stories!</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6436302</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6436302</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 20 Jul 2011 10:40:02 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Americans are like rats living in houses built by workers of their industrial cities that don't belong to them, and perhaps never will. The street lights penetrate the windows and walls of those warm houses. Among the neighbors there is much squealing and chattering. Sometimes one noble and bold neighbor stands out, address the others, he's called an activist (he's actually looking forward, not backward, there's few left of them in this new 21st Century). He has conquered the gods of industry; he actually owns his own home, not the banks of America. He says, "I will not be a slave to industry, the bankers, I will rule myself."]]></description>
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<title>Puppet to the Little Gods and Poems on Huancayo</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6436292</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6436292</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 20 Jul 2011 10:11:47 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[When it's cold in Huancayo. The spiders know. They crawl on the walls... ]]></description>
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<title>Battles of Concepcion (in English and Spanish)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6436275</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6436275</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 20 Jul 2011 08:40:49 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[
The Peruvian Army was defeated in San Juan de Miraflores, January, 1881; nevertheless the battles in the Andes went on between the Peruvians and Chileans. A portion of the Chilean Army was in the vicinity and within the city of Concepcion, for about six months, the battle, and clashes between both armies were on July 9 and the 10, 1882: the city of Comas joined in with the guerrillas of San Jeronimo, and other nearby cities to fight the Chileans. On July 10, more Peruvians reinforcements arrived, and this lead to the defeat of the Chileans, leaving no survivors.]]></description>
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<title>A Good Son (Parts Two to Five)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6436260</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6436260</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 20 Jul 2011 08:01:09 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[As years passed, Elise Teresa Lee, now in old age (1997), sitting in her rooms, in a large house her son now owned, she began to get new satisfaction off of the reflection of herself as a mother with a son who owned much property in the city, proper. In the evenings she sat on her wobbly thin legged chair knitting, watching old movies on the television a few feet away, she thought of her son among the men and women of the business class, with her bent heavy small fingers, old and wrinkled, no longer able to straighten them out, with pride. She recalled how her heart had jumped when he finished college, and now he had written three books. It seemed to her unbelievably astonishing...]]></description>
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<title>A Good Son (Part One of Five)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6424635</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6424635</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 14 Jul 2011 12:06:20 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[The good son, writing the good story... a story of a road we will all have to travel down some day... When Christopher Lee had secured a job at the stockyards and went home to his apartment on the East Side of town, with his first weeks paycheck, of one-hundred and forty-dollars in his pocket ((1967)(at nineteen-years old)), he thought of his mother, Elsie Teresa Lee (born 1920, died 2003), also working at the stockyards, in the slice bacon department, boxing up bacon-now going on twenty-two years-as Christopher folded a fifty dollar bill sent it to her in an empty envelope, with only a blank piece of paper folded around it. ]]></description>
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<title>Building of a Statue</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6424633</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6424633</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 14 Jul 2011 12:04:18 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Things kept on the swirl in the City of Concepcion (2003), and the new mayor, Jesus Chipana Hurtado, and the gods of chance played into his hands. Mayor Chipana's wife standing with him on the road to Piedra Parada ((otherwise known as Standing Stone Hill) (a road that winds up to Marron Hill, to where below, one can see the whole city of Concepcion, high up in the Andes of Peru)) his wife invented an idea-right then and there-for building a statue of the Virgin Mary. The new Mayor thought for a moment: 'How's one to lift and load, carry all the material into the air and dump its contents on top of this hill- top?' There shortly after, with a roaring small vehicle, they reached to the top. Thus, '...it could be done!' thought the Mayor, and a model of the new invented thought of a statue of the Virgin Mary was secured.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Potluck (Short Stories and Poetry)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6424623</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6424623</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 14 Jul 2011 11:57:15 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Short Stories and Poetry Jade and Ebony Days Blow, wind blow! Strip the years from my youth; I will keep a few, made of jade, and ebony. Blow, wind blow!]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Haagentis's Mutiny ((The Hidden Ancient World) (450, 0000 to 300,000 BC))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6223262</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6223262</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 29 Apr 2011 14:50:06 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Rabel was a short, slightly bearded man who's legs looked as if they had been broken, who worked with this two sons, mining gold on the Nacza plateau, which stretches some fifty miles in the Nacza desert (South of present day Lima, Peru) sometime near the middle of the Pleistocene Epoch, the Old Stone Age period. He had fought with a puma like wildcat, of a large sort, and his wounds never mended properly, he could do little work, and limped painfully about. To the alien force he was known as something of an elder of the group, a tribe, witless but needful as a slave labor leader amongst his kind, of which numbered within his cell group, perhaps near one-hundred and thirty Homo erectus like beings (within this period the Homo sapiens neanderthalensis would be created or born). Haagentis, being the restless tyrant he was, and captain of the spacecraft, made the sons and daughters of the Rebel tribe work the mineral fields, hills and mines of the region to near the point of exhaustion, likened to racing a horse until it dropped dead.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>The Great Roof of Villa Rica (A Short Story and One Haiku Poem)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6203592</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6203592</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 22 Apr 2011 09:31:52 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[The coffee plantations (or farms) lying close to the township of Villa Rica, raised coffee beans (when red, they looked like berries) which commanded top prices in Lima, and elsewhere throughout Peru, reached by bus or car only, from La Merced, mostly dirt roads. And those folks in town not engaged in the coffee business, were in the trades-carpentry, mechanic, or the restaurant business, house painting or building or the like. The few small grocery stores, bars and one main hotel, were all in walking distance and on the Main Street, which had just been paved with concrete, otherwise it was for eons, a dirt road. A city of ten-thousand or less, nestled within a green and luscious valley, cuddled by the Andes.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Piety Hollow (Three Poems)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6192362</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6192362</guid>
<pubDate>Tue, 19 Apr 2011 14:37:56 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Among the streets, in small framed houses. Stumbled an old bent man, far gone in drink. In Piety Hollow. ]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Erwin Van Buren's Son (A Real Love Story)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6177193</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6177193</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 15 Apr 2011 08:16:46 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Sherwood Van Buren the son of Erwin Van Buren a drunk and loafer whom everyone said Sherwood would someday end up being just like-meaning, ending up on skid road, that stigma was branded on young Sherwood like the "A" that was worn by Hester Prynne, in Nathanial Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter" as if imprinted in the flesh, surely in the mind. I say had been, it no longer was-he had become a man of means. The more he thought of Mary Peters, the more persistently he built so confidently his dream...]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Amanda (A Ghost Story)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6176852</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6176852</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 14 Apr 2011 12:56:08 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Amanda, a slight woman of twenty, with a small round expressive face, at a young age met allegedly the Ghost of Simon Magus (I say allegedly, because he could have been a demon incognito), with his quick nervous fingers, black piercing eyes, long black hair, and the way he could become absorbed in his victim, consequently drawing energy of his victim to him, the ghost-for he had told young Amanda he was such-with this energy source (perhaps a mischievous sprite in disguise, in a charade, of this first century magic sorcerer), clutched the arm of the young girl, her...]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Brainstorming ((Dying in the Hospital for No Reason) (2009))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6169452</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6169452</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 13 Apr 2011 08:59:47 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It may seem obvious but for the most part, it isn't, and fevers are produced by infections. And in many ongoing cases unidentified infections. In some cases, the infection hides in one part of the body, and the body never can or will identify it willingly, at first anyhow; like a tick hidden some place on the body, the problem comes when the infection seeps into the bloodstream, now we may encounter bacteria, and a fever with a rise in temperature throughout the body.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Jack Daniel's Revenge (1972, a Story Out of Minnesota)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6169472</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6169472</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 13 Apr 2011 08:33:38 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[He had drank a full bottle of Jack Daniel's empty, he had it in a paper sack, he liked the best, if he was to drink at all, he drank the best, and he drank that liquor in particular, because his name matched. He said to himself: "I'm glad they're dead! They had a death coming-both of them. When he got married he married a Catholic woman, in a Catholic Church, never went out on his wife, never thought to do it. He let her raise the child in her faith, and he hated the church for not baptizing his child, because he was of no denomination, thus, because of this, they refused to baptize the child. That started it all. Kulin Schultz, was muscular, with a most pleasant face, ten years younger than Jack Daniel, and five years older than his wife, Anna Lee Daniel, and Kulin, was forty. She was of a light brown race, and Kulin was a black German-Jew, Jack was Caucasian.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>The Old Folks Home ((The Vulnerable Miss Rice) (1957-1986))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6161639</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6161639</guid>
<pubDate>Tue, 12 Apr 2011 10:24:32 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA["What am I going to do?" She demanded, sitting in wheelchair with her legs spread lightly apart supporting her elbows while holding onto a magazine, and frowning at the faces passing by her, "What am I going to do?" she murmured again, not to anyone in particular at the old Folks Farm, off White Bear Avenue, in St. Paul, Minnesota, in the early days of the winter of '86; a newspaper on the floor beside her, a grieving tone to her voice, and slow moving dark brown eyes. Sherwood Van Buren, humming to himself, standing in the hallway had just put out a cigarette and watched the middle aged woman in the wheelchair and the many faces that passed her... She sat in the wheelchair with her white nightgown on, re-read something in the magazine, she read it over and over, then laying it face down on her lap, lit a corncob pipe, only to have a nurse insist she put it out.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>With Burning Cheeks (Funeral for a Mother)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6161626</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6161626</guid>
<pubDate>Tue, 12 Apr 2011 09:24:28 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA["There is nothing cheerful or comforting in the death of a mother," thought Evens, "people only distract from the grieving process. Most whom come to funerals," he thought, "are deeply lacking in the sense of sacredness of privacy." He had respected and loved his mother while she lived, and wanted to be alone with her now that she was dead, to keep her urn, in his living room.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Old Man on the Wharf (-Tel Aviv)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6161621</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6161621</guid>
<pubDate>Tue, 12 Apr 2011 09:22:56 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA["We'll surely have rain sometime this morning," said the grey-haired old man leaning over the railing at the front of the pier, fishing rod and reel in hand-bait bucket by his side-ready to recast, looking up at the sky and then turned after looking at the fellow he was talking to-turned and without waiting for an answer went back to winding up his fly rod, and untangling the last of the fishing line from the reel ((one of those fast action, stiff looking rods, bendable more so at the tip, thus generating higher line speed and longer casts, which was good because the old man was casting into the wind) (it was a nylon line tied between the fly line and the reel, used to act as an additional line)); the old manthen cast his line back out into the Mediterranean Sea; the city of Tel Aviv behind him. "Getting a nibble?" asked Evens. The old man didn't say a word, pulled in his line; he had lost the bait and the fish, as they say: the goat and the rope.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Dead-Light (Parts Two and Three: The Doctor/the Nurse)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6150342</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6150342</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 07 Apr 2011 09:00:47 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[I like his bolt upright walk, especially when he is taking notes, or having me take them. I like his hair on his head, his arms, his chest, he looks like an ape, and I like staring back into his confident eyes. When he looks at me, stares at me, it makes me stand on the edge, which gives him an even more imposing and powerful look, one has to recognize this kind of posture-Godlike. He's so calm and assured. He reached out the other day, touched me on the shoulder, and told me to take a break. I felt like hugging and kissing him. My body begged for contact with him that day.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Dead-Light (A Short Story About the Second-Self - The YOU)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6139238</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6139238</guid>
<pubDate>Mon, 04 Apr 2011 15:47:14 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[This darkness is starting to bother me, some, but not all that much. I've seen it once before, after a car accident when I was dead for a moment, at the age of fifteen years old. You know when you're dead, or in death's realm. Yes, I suppose if you get right down to it, it troubles me some. It is as if nothing should be here but here we are. When I was born, when I was ten-years old, the magnifications of the second-self was present, I know that, always knew that, the voice, I call it the YOU, it was always there, for whatever intentions...]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Mirrors of Real Street (A Short Story)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6139250</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6139250</guid>
<pubDate>Mon, 04 Apr 2011 15:39:03 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[A man sat on the sidewalk back against a building. In his hands he had a hard brown looking mate-beurilado (a pumpkin like hard shelled vegetable), he had it placed between his two legs, groves were cut in the shell's back and from the comb in which the old man used as a bow there arose a sound as he rubbed those groves hard to light, a resonant ringing and singing came from it, as the old man hummed, half booming, and half drone, which silenced the very atmosphere around him, so it appeared. Strange to find him there day after day after day - the comb seldom ceased with his erythematic fingers, as the pulse of the city passed him by, with a cadence puzzlingly unreceptive. ]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>A Strange Ending (The Case of Hermon Hamilton Hunter - A Drunk!)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6132459</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6132459</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 01 Apr 2011 19:16:56 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Mr. Herman Hamilton Hunter, of Enterprise, Alabama, 1978, had waited until his wife had died, and his children had grown up and left home, before he started drinking again. He had stopped drinking twenty-seven years prior, to save his marriage and his job and to raise his two children. He had told his neighbor, that he had not gone to bars and lounges and grills of the same clubs but he knew someday he'd end up drinking again. That had he not wanted to save his marriage he would have went straight into long term drinking long ago. He had been forced to stop. He had buried his wife a week to the day, which is today, still standing in his yard, talking to his young neighbor, a soldier from Fort Rucker, Alabama, and a heavy drinker. His elbows on the fence, reflecting those old days he used to drink to get drunk and very drunk he got, and wanting to implement the new ones sooner than later.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Triumph of a Quail (A Short Story)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6123880</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6123880</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 31 Mar 2011 16:30:50 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Inasmuch as I have put to myself the task of trying to tell you an inquisitive story in which I am myself apprehensive-I shall begin by leaving you with some notion of me. Very well then, I am a man of sixty-three, rather robust in size and with auburn hair, what's left of it. I wear glasses. Until five years ago, I lived in St. Paul, Minnesota, where I had a few different positions, a psychologist for the Federal Government Prison system, and an entrepreneur-of a small sort, and a poet and writer of a small stature. I am married to a Peruvian woman, and have moved to Lima-although I am still a resident of Minnesota for the most part. And have adopted an abandoned Quail. We named her after the preacher that brought her to us, homeless, and have since put her in our house garden, her name being, Marcelina. She has in a way of speaking, a quiet form of smiling at one, as though to say...we may go into that later.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>At Santa Eulalia Rio (Fiesta and Dance of the Yunsa Murder!)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6119249</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6119249</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 31 Mar 2011 09:29:25 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[The Strange thing was, was that the morning had been so quiet and sedate, not like the afternoon; I do not know why they all didn't scream at the time. We were in the dance area of 'Paradise Recreo,' likened to a countryside restaurant, alongside the Santa Eulalia Rio of Peru (an hour's drive from Lima it was 11:11 a.m.), all fifty-two of us, within the group, and there were other folks at this outside restaurant (we all had ordered Pachamanca, a food dish, that is cooked in a fire underground, covered with dirt and hot stones: potatoes, sweet potatoes, beans, chicken, pork, lamb, and Humita or smashed corn). We were all on the dance area, after having eaten Pachamanca, drank some wine, the sun was hot, and the Rio was high and the rapids were wild, rushing by-you could hear the sound of the white water rush, it was no more than a hundred feet from where we were. There was a stage to the front of us, a man was singing to background music, and no one started screaming...]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Demonic Fury Off Cape Horn (A Short Story)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6107972</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6107972</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 30 Mar 2011 15:22:58 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It was a frightfully chilled morning (October, 17, 2010), the blustery weather was fearsome. The morning winds around Cape Horn rocked the ship-shaking its futtlock (rib of the ship), the Via Australis, with its ninety-passengers.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Day of the Corrida De Toros (A Short Story)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6107979</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6107979</guid>
<pubDate>Mon, 28 Mar 2011 14:26:40 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[The bull was bright eyed fast as a mouse, cleaver as a cat, strong in the legs, if anything, the young matador was a sleepwalker, and the bull was very interested, never forgetting for a moment what his great horns were for. He was a small bull, but a real bull, with unaltered horns. For me, bullfighting was just a spectator sport, no more, but a dangerous and attention-grabbing sport. In those days (now a decade in the past), it would have been nice to have a bullfighter for a friend, I could have learned much more of the bullfight, the corrida-meaning, the Spanish bullfight, or the corrida de toros...]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Log Wood of the Miskito Coast and the Ship, Munster (Part of the Book, The Cotton Belt)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6102133</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6102133</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 25 Mar 2011 14:00:46 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[In the middle of the day, Wooden-leg Joe confronted the barrel maker with an interesting proposition, along with providing him some interesting news, "The same man with whom once owned the sloop, Captain Peron, a week ago is now long gone, therefore, I wish to organize an expedition, with your permission. We have some provisions for a quick sea voyage already onboard the ship (the Peron)." "Perhaps, I'm listening," said the Barrel Maker-Pablo, a middle-aged man somewhat robust, showing some interest, "what's your plan?"]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Mr Alejandro Toledo (The Gander Is on the Run)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6098164</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6098164</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 24 Mar 2011 16:07:34 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Why is ex-president Toledo losing the Presidency at this very minute? I could also ask: How many times will it takes to a Peruvian Citizen to wise up, and the answer might be six or seven... First Toledo should know: calling names isn't good especially to the person who was your right hand man during your previous presidency. Anytime you cut down a person you befriended, and done you good, you don't look good. Pablo is a gringo, but so is your wife. How dumb can you be? Especially saying Pedero Padro Kuczynski has a disease, how uncouth for an educated man, it makes you look like a bar-drunk.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Delia's Inn ((1868) (Part of: &quot;The Cotton Belt&quot;))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6088094</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6088094</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 23 Mar 2011 14:57:43 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Havana, "The Heartless City," the birthplace of the Rough Riders, and the destruction of the Battleship Maine, 1898, the destructive floods of the 1920s, when oil drilling was reduced... And where Ashley Walsh made her home, and where she died-1867-1929.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Fallen on the Hearth (From: &quot;The Cotton Belt&quot;)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6088076</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6088076</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 23 Mar 2011 14:53:44 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[A good part of the lives of southern people, I mean, those old southern folks, particularly, down in Ozark, Alabama, in and around the turn of the century-bear in mind, some women too, and especially the male negroes loved their whiskey, moonshine, that old so called, corn whiskey, with an alligator bite. That is to say they loved their whiskey and of course southern women, southern style women.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>The Barchans ((Of Ozark, Alabama) (In Two Chapters))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6088059</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6088059</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 23 Mar 2011 14:50:18 -0500</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[We really didn't need anymore proof of his level of recklessness, although we figured a man ought to be able to do what he wants to do on his own property, like it or not, but White Creek, was just a tinge to the side of his property, and that made it the Sheriff's business. He died in that sanitarium in 1930, I hear tell: kind of poetic justice, in that, someone poisoned him with rat poison.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>The River Inside the Ocean ((Betty Lee Demuth's Condition)( 1975 (or, &quot;The Bee&quot;)) Part One of Two</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6023258</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6023258</guid>
<pubDate>Tue, 08 Mar 2011 16:33:14 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[They walked down into the back of the housing project in Babenhausen West, Germany, carrying the bag of chicken and several coke cans, and their twin boys, three years old. Anyone passing might have thought, they had unfrequented the picnic area, which they had, she kept herself in the house pretty much; Glenn Demuth was a Sergeant in the U.S. Army, stationed at Babenhausen. The afternoon was hotter than expected, in the nineties. They walked around several of the apartment buildings, sat down by where a band was getting ready to play, it was the 4th of July, 1975, and there were perhaps two hundred other soldiers with their wives and kids. They put their blanket down, and rested a bit, the twins were sitting upright, waiting for the chicken. As Glenn looked into the basket, pulled out a dish full of chicken, he saw it was scorched black.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>Black Poetry Undercover (Notes On: Today's World of Poetry)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6016791</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6016791</guid>
<pubDate>Mon, 07 Mar 2011 16:17:25 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[In today's world, poets are alive, a now and new fundamental attempt to create our own spiritual balance is in the air, many poets out there encouraging others to link their music and lives and dance with solitude, nature, mix it all together into poetry, to tell how it is to be alive, today, now, in the 21st Century. And let it grow, it is a young world full of ambition. ]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>The Nothing Concept</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6016694</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6016694</guid>
<pubDate>Mon, 07 Mar 2011 13:54:15 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[I haven't done this in a long while, it is called spontaneous prose; just write what is on your mind as it develops without-looking at the dictionary, or research books, or anything, throw all the garbage away and clear the mind, and just write. And the first thing that comes to mind is a conversation (don't look for anything scholarly here). Somebody read something on one of the internet magazines, told me "They have this concept, of something coming from nothing." And I nodded my head as if to say, "Okay," and I don't like making a question out of a statement so I just looked dumb at him, and he finally said "Is this possible?" As if I was Carl Sagan, or Will Durant, or Stephen Hawking. I mean, they think so. But Shakespeare wouldn't agree with them, he'd say: "Nothing comes from nothing," something like that. So I said, "Well, yes and no."]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>An Odor of Revenge ((1874, Ozark, Alabama) (The Life of Austin Hood))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6005946</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6005946</guid>
<pubDate>Tue, 01 Mar 2011 17:43:33 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It is now 1874; Sergeant Austin Hood had escaped prior to entering Andersonville, prison, back in 1864, when Captain Rosenbaum had sent him there to be hanged. Emma Hightower is in her mid-thirties now, and Scip Josh Mason is four years old, Emma has seen him playing around his yard in Shantytown, three miles away from Ozark, Alabama, and fourteen miles from the Hightower Plantation, off and on those four years. Lulu Mason is doing well, fetching a few dollars here and there for odd jobs, mostly seamstress work. The Ghost, he still lives on the Hightower Plantation, his son comes to visit him occasionally, in the backwoods behind his shack. Ten-years have passed since Austin Hood, old Sergeant Hood, has seen Rosenbaum; he is 48-years old now. He has thought little, and very little until now, about the killing of Sarah Franklin, the woman he killed back in 1864, who had dressed up like a Union Soldier, and he used her for practice shooting, and then turned about and killed Corporal Dennis Smiley, from the Smiley Plantation, and Private Richmond.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>The Rogue Files (File Two) Unnatural Selection</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6001905</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6001905</guid>
<pubDate>Mon, 28 Feb 2011 16:33:08 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[There is a difference between "The Origins of Species," or "Natural Selection" meaning, nature selects who should and shouldn't survive based on traits and so forth, and what we call it nowadays, Genetic Engineering, or cumulative selection. We do this to plants and animals; in other words, breeding by control. In the old days, this was called planting and harvesting, similar to Bible. Darwin took it a step further by pointing out the obvious, as the number of organisms increase, and when they do, all will not be able to survive, just the selected few, or many, depending-but let's look at it from a different angle.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>The Rogue Files (God, Man, the Devil and the Scientist) File One</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/6000457</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/6000457</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 25 Feb 2011 18:45:51 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It flows naturally, the evidence that surrounds us, we did not appear by chance and then simply become the dominate species of the planet, we are profoundly molded in every detail down to the blinking of our eyes; orphans we may be in this vast Universe, but not forgotten. Why are we so favored as a species? Or are we? Let's take a look at it. What we are here describing, or trying to define, or at least look at with an objective eye-in an over simplification-is the first and last incarnation-scientists call it the Big Bang-I call it, the Clap of God's Eye. We differ you see, and the Devil don't like that- Also, mixed with this Big Bang, is Evolution.]]></description>
</item>
<item>
<title>The Christian Gay Marriage</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5979326</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/5979326</guid>
<pubDate>Thu, 24 Feb 2011 09:50:26 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[We now are getting more and more renegade priests, and so called self made, scholarly Christians, proclaiming, or using-might be the better term, or even justifying gay marriages on the grounds of social stability: they imply 'Let's leave God out of this.' Christians telling Christians to accept homosexual marriages; let me rephrase that, proclaimed Christians telling real Christians, if this be God's will or not, that all this self-obsessed biblical thinking is paralyzing ones reality, that we Christians should be more concerned with social stability-than God's written laws, that children are really not affected by...]]></description>
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<item>
<title>The Account of: Mollie Fray (Independent Missing Chapter Story, to: &quot;Colored and White&quot;)</title>
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<pubDate>Wed, 23 Feb 2011 21:44:25 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[During a cool spring morning near Montgomery, Alabama (April 7, 1865), two days before the war between the states would officially be over, Captain Rosenboum, son of the infamous personage known as The Ghost, who lives at the Hightower Plantation, near Ozark, Alabama, was charged with "Conduct unbecoming an officer and gentleman," in that "on the morning of the seventh day of April, 1865, he did take a negro wench by the name of Mollie Fray, into his tent, took her to bed with him and lay with her until late afternoon with his tent doors open." The judge advocate was slow in understanding the fullness and impact of this scenario and inquired, "Exactly what did the Captain do when he was lying on top of you?"]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Men and Other Men (In Four Parts - 1870-1922)</title>
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<pubDate>Wed, 23 Feb 2011 13:52:28 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[The Civil War in 1885 was surely over, but still quite familiar to the South. In some places men still wore their uniforms, or at least parts of them. It had been a time when women stayed at home, worked, cried for their husbands, and sent sentimental letters. And most of all relationships were between men and women-that is to say, a romance. There were a few women, white and black who were the exception, dressed like men, or disguised themselves like men so they could participate in the war, Lulu had been one, it was only for a year, 1863, when she joined the Confederacy; she could testify to ardent encounters during war between men and other men, and women and other women. She was as large if not larger, than a man; she looked like a man without a dress.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>How Some People Are ((The Fillmore West, and 'The Who')(a Short Story))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5959260</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/5959260</guid>
<pubDate>Mon, 21 Feb 2011 16:03:52 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Lee Christopher Wright awoke to the soft noise of someone going through his pockets, insistent tumbling of clothes being tossed aside some ten-feet of his bedside, he was lightly alarmed-he felt a tinge of annoyance. She was a barfly he had picked up down across the street from the famous concert hall as it was also known, 'The Fillmore West' also recognized as 'The Carousel Ballroom,' and prior to that, 'El Patio' on the corner of Market Street and Van Ness Avenue...]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Room 103 (San Francisco, Job Hunting, 1968)</title>
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<pubDate>Mon, 21 Feb 2011 11:37:44 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[He went to the accounting department on the second floor, room 103, arriving just before four o'clock, quitting time. He found Harvey Golf, getting ready to go home. "Mr. Golf!" The young man, from the Midwestern said, "I was told to see you, the lady in Personnel Resources has gone home for the day. I'm looking for employment."]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Ballad of a GI ((or, 'The Wine of Sydney') (August, 1971))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5940999</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/5940999</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 18 Feb 2011 13:11:59 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It was a warm evening in Sydney; the war in Vietnam was a long way away, and you could see lights in many of the city's buildings, it made for many shadows, the streets were dusty with cars passing alongside our bus. The street corners were lit up by stoplights, and the moon, cast a rippling glow across the bay. In the park by my hotel there were boats tied to a dock, and as I sat in the bus with a young sixteen-year old girl to my side, I thought of a cold beer. The bus had stopped beside my hotel, had picked me up to go onto a night tour of the city, with some of the local city girls, we were American GI's, on leave from Vietnam.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>The Stone Box (An Egyptian Sorcerer's Magic Coffer)</title>
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<pubDate>Tue, 15 Feb 2011 06:18:02 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[When I was in Egypt, back in 1998, I bought a stone box in the backroom of a gallery, it had come out of a tomb, where a mummy lay for some 4700-years, -a sorceress's magic coffer was taken from the tomb, and it was amongst the treasurers there within, it almost appeared to be alive. I'm not sure why I purchased it, perhaps because it sat tucked away in a corner on a shelf, with dust and cobwebs all over it, alone and mysterious, and plus the clue to its mystery interested me-seemingly, buying it was more of an adventure, than the magic it held, was suppose to embrace, only to find out later on, it became addicting, and the legend was true.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Devouress of the Dead (The Ammut Murders - Out of Egypt)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5893087</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/5893087</guid>
<pubDate>Fri, 11 Feb 2011 11:41:19 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[After thinking it over, Bill and I agreed, which meant that her body could become transformed at her command. Unwrapped, we found a piece of writing, which contained a number of gods; this raiment lay at the end of her fingers on her right hand. It was no surprise at this point, she could transform herself at will, into the form of a Manticore, and she needed no sleep, somehow the dead once woken, don't required it, perhaps some astral thing. We had kept part of the wrapping-linen to test date it, it dated to 1700 BC. The hieroglyphic symbols, Professor Bill Cogan, made them out to be, once awaked, she would be immortal, and at her will, transferable to a Manticore. Her treasure chest had been taken out from her sarcophagus (or, tomb), and the stele we had found with its hieroglyphics, indicated she was a temple goddess; she was carved on the stele as wearing a dress, and was awaiting her resurrection. We had discovered her tomb, Bill and I, under the paw of Sphinx, evidently, she knew some real magic, black magic. But I must backtrack, before I get too far ahead of myself.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>The Poet From Hydra ((Or, 'Feast of the Dogs') (547 BC - 490 BC))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5861442</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/5861442</guid>
<pubDate>Tue, 08 Feb 2011 13:42:14 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It was the year his father died; he had all his poems in his head. There he was-no, he wasn't there, mentally, his sister, Axothea, he saw in the morning. He had recited his poems of course; some to himself, a few now to his sister. Myron, son of Kritias of Hydra (an island in the Aegean Sea, dating back to the 12th Century BC, no more than twenty-five square miles, depopulated, then in the 8th Century somehow resurrected, with farmers, and herders, and sailors from Ermioni, who took ownership of the island, then sold it to Samos in the 6th Century, and ceded it to Tizina, then and there), Myron had finished with an Ode to the Crow, fifteen-years old now. A group of people could hear him also; his molars just ripping throughout his gums.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Sealed in a Jar (2006-Saddam Hussein's Kill File)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5866129</link>
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<pubDate>Mon, 07 Feb 2011 15:13:43 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It was a strange, and ear-chilly winter the last days of December, 2006, so everybody told me in Minnesota, the winter they executed Saddam Hussein, hung him by the neck, I had moved from Minnesota, to Lima, Peru, March 9, of that year with my wife. And I wasn't too sure what I was going to do in Peru, other than write. I'm crazy about strange happenings, and I suppose Hussein's hanging was as strange as they go. The idea of being hung made me wary, I had only seen them on cowboy shows, or read about them, now they had live videos on the internet of the hanging. And that was all there was to him-goggle-eyed as his executioners put the noose around his neck, staring at each and every one of those fellows with black masks on. It had nothing to do with me for the most part, but it made me think what it would be like to be hung, once alive then a jerk and thump, and that's all she wrote, it made my nerves jitter a bit. I thought it must be one of the worse ways to die man has come up with.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>The Lost Tale of: Victoria the Mad (A Non Fiction Short Story)</title>
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<pubDate>Thu, 03 Feb 2011 07:37:36 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[This is about Victoria the Mad; fortune's un-favored, cursed by the gods. For a quarter century a clotting of old spontaneous compulsions and erratic bellowing, yelping and undesirable behavior, she met walking the streets of the Peruvian City of Huancayo, her image, the very image of a mad, indifferent woman, whom neither friend or foe, man or woman, or stranger ever turned to look at twice, walking with tin cup in hand, repetitively looking into shop-windows; alone walking the side streets, around the Plaza de Arms. The mind would soar, glancing and glaring, with inferno long stares into nothingness. Then she'd walk down one side street after another, from one boulevard to another, across the longest stretch of the sky above her head, then down, she cast her eyes down, lost in the crust of the earth, like Moses carrying the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments, down Mount Sinai, only to end up casting them upon the forsaking lot, who abandon the one and true God (Jehovah-Elohim-El Shaddai).]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Aldebaran Over the Amazon (A Short Story)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5820774</link>
<guid>http://EzineArticles.com/5820774</guid>
<pubDate>Wed, 02 Feb 2011 14:19:39 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It was just after dinner, late dinner and they were sitting at one of the lodge's tables, talking, fiddling on a guitar that was kept in one of the corners of the recreational room and lounge, for those who wished to play, drinking as if everything was, and had been hunky-dory all day. An orange giant star was overhead-Aldebaran, it was twilight, and it was as if the star had waited for evening to come. The moon looked drowsy, but enchanting, shadows crossed the moon as if they were eagles; in the Amazon, it seems twilight hesitates, the sunset waits reluctantly, silently, and tonight, this very night was no different in that respect.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Lady Ogre (Part Two, To: Night Train to San Francisco)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5820748</link>
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<pubDate>Wed, 02 Feb 2011 14:06:18 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[L.C. E. Adams, had seen no one since he had gotten off and back onto the train, outside of Chicago, drank his beer and then fallen to sleep, and smelling now the breakfast seeping from the kitchen to his car, although riding along the tracks through the open countryside, he could feel the heat wave coming on, the sun was hitting the metal on the train baking it, seemingly that took his appetite away. Now the train went on through another town, surprised to find it didn't stop, and then it rode alongside a river, leaving the town, the sun still baking the side of the train. The countryside was all lush and over-green, with tints of yellow, dotted here and there.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>A Case of Doubt (The Fall of 1967, a Story Out of Minnesota)</title>
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<pubDate>Tue, 01 Feb 2011 13:27:41 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It is one of those odd or peculiar moments in life, views you have, like a dream (later on turning into a heavy weight), a half-sleep where everything is distorted, so, once you get focused, you must try to keep focused. The evening was bleak; the cold sky looked very high. It was late fall (the end of November I believe). As I tell this story, it seems even at this early point it seems to be collapsing in on me, no, threatening to collapse, as it unfolds around me. Thus I should try to write this out in one quick afternoon, and rewrite it in the evening, before it does; it took place forty-four years ago, 1967, and I remember it as if it was yesterday.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>The Endless Hour ((Part Four of Six)(The Younger World))</title>
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<pubDate>Wed, 26 Jan 2011 14:45:01 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[(Sacred Treat: deep in thought) I had crossed the immensities of space in my dreams-broken out of time-perhaps like my cousin, Nagas, some fifty years since he has died, like him, I also can merge with the distant figure. For what purpose I'm not sure. I had inherited this gift, and sharpened it, taking it a little further, although God knows, I can't explain how. We now call the invisible one who sent the Bright One-with eagle wings down to help him-God, it was how Nagas implied the being should be referred to.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Regions of Darkness (Part Three of Six) - The Younger World</title>
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<pubDate>Wed, 26 Jan 2011 14:37:33 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Forward (and conclusion): "When dreams developed so did the demons, perhaps it was better to be blind and stupid-before my dreams, I didn't understand the difference between the old way of thinking, and a suggestion of the New Age upon us. So what did I discover? Perhaps regions of darkness, or fear of things invisible; and what would all this come to? I asked myself: are these beings gods, and do they watch over us? I mean, friends of a God that are little gods that watch over us. Real or imaginary it became in time, fanciful to my people, not quite figuring it out if they were natural or supernatural, I think my sleep state was now part of my awaking state. But let me tell you in a move vivid form, how this came about!" By Nagas of White Island, somewhere between 100,000 BC to 8000 BC (?)]]></description>
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<item>
<title>White Island (Part Two, of Six Parts) - The Younger World</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5780492</link>
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<pubDate>Wed, 26 Jan 2011 14:18:54 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Blanca Island is a mountain island, in the Pacific, off the coast of Peru, some 16.5 square km, about two-miles long, and close to one mile wide, with a stone forest upon it. Conceivable this period we are talking about is in the Pleistocene Epoch, 100,000 to 8000 BC.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Beforetime (Part One of Six Parts) - The Younger World</title>
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<pubDate>Wed, 26 Jan 2011 14:15:02 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Beforetime, what they called in the future, the Younger World, we called those who saw the future, seers, but in the new world that world we looked into through dreams, and visions-the future, they now call them prophets. Time is of the past and future, the present is not time per se, it is the gulf, this is where we live, and sometimes we are allowed to have glimpses into time, this was the case of the few select of White Island, in those far-off prehistoric days, of yesteryear-my days. The question never arose: if we were living in the past, even those of us who saw into the future, but what about the present? Maybe this part of the equation does not exist? Only time will tell. Nodnon the Last Seer of White Island.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>&quot;Yaaay!&quot; (1957, Downtown, St. Paul, Minnesota) (A Chick Evens Story)</title>
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<pubDate>Wed, 26 Jan 2011 11:48:45 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[On the middle of the street next to the park that summer, Mike Rosette and I had our first and only fight. Downtown, near the State Capital Building was just a handful of aging dwellings, one long gray painted building that looked more like a woodpile (where Mike lived), and a park across the street like a trench scraped to the bone, just packed earth (further down, was the Mississippi River, and the levees); St. Paul, back then was a dull, conservative city, possessing little to nothing, not even loud noises. To Mike and me, it was alive though, if only because of the fact that the city was our stomping grounds, we rode our bikes throughout the city like the Lone Ranger and Tonto. ]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Somebody Should Have Died (1975, 545th Ordnance Company, Nuclear Site, West Germany)</title>
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<pubDate>Wed, 26 Jan 2011 10:09:39 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[(Interlude: It is hard to express the makeup of a nuclear bomb and its destructive capacity in a simple paragraph, and I have seen the insides of them, but let me express it in the most fundamental, if not, oversimplified manner: there are two parts to the nuclear bomb I am talking about, some have three parts, the secondary part of the nuclear bomb-about a half dozen of them were stored at the site, this is the part I saw, of a cylinder type design. Those bombs were 9 to 50-megatons-plus, some were Titan II (ICBM), the Titan fleet was retired in 1988; the fireball of one of those Titan missiles, were three-miles in diameter, its destructive forces would most likely destroy all structures in a ten-mile range, or three-hundred square miles. One kiloton is equal to 1000-tons of TNT, kilotons are measured in thousands of tons; Hiroshima witnessed a 15-kiloton bomb; called 'Little Boy,' and Nagasaki witnessed a 20-kiloton nuclear bomb called 'Fat boy'-thereabouts; whereas, megatons are measured by millions of tons of TNT. The secondary part of the bomb is the bottom part; the primary is at the top.)]]></description>
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<item>
<title>The River Change (A Short Story Out of West Germany, 1975)</title>
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<pubDate>Fri, 21 Jan 2011 21:45:34 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[It was early evening, and there was no one in the Enlisted Men's Night Club on base at the 545th Ordnance Company, in West Germany, Munster by Dieburg. No one but I. I was a Corporal back in 1975, and the bartender was a Buck Sergeant, and two black men were playing pool, two privates I believe. It was midsummer and it was hot, and the two Sergeants, one ahead of the Military Police Detachment, SFC Blackwell, and the other SSG CTH, ahead of the Nuclear Surety Program, had been drinking, and were pretty soused, sitting on those two stools, they looked out of place. The waitress wore a thin see-through blouse, and a short skirt, her skin was soft and pure white to her bones, her hair, blonde, was cut as a sparrow, and as she put her slender hand through her golden hair to move it away from her forehead, she avoided listening to the conversation of the two sergeants, that they were having. Both had looked at her a little strangely.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>A Grain of Salt (Finality of the Saga &quot;The Vanquished Plantations&quot;)</title>
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<pubDate>Fri, 21 Jan 2011 16:37:32 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[When she was brought to court for hiring the killer, whom was apprehended for the slaying of Ming, evidence was needed. Namely a confession would do, the slayer confronted was said to have said, "It was Si, who hired me, and she should be in jail too."]]></description>
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<item>
<title>The Old Lion ((End Chapter Story to: &quot;The Vanquished Plantations) (2002))</title>
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<pubDate>Fri, 21 Jan 2011 15:13:06 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Ly, now is a very old lady, 102-years old, she survived through the war years, as she had told her friends, now and again: "Wars are won in the will, and lost that way also, you find the root and strike the will." She has an old stiff upper lip, from hating that nephew of hers, the one that died back some thirty years now, Danh, she even out lived him, she says "Some battles are won by just out waiting the other person, not outwitting him, they can see that coming." She knows she wasn't named Ly for nothing...]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Sergeant Conway (A Short Chapter Story)</title>
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<pubDate>Wed, 19 Jan 2011 16:14:02 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[An Interlude: Buck Sergeant Conway, he was the arch-demon for the Company, at the 611-surely for his platoon-to most everyone at the company he wasn't worth shit, as a soldier he was mediocre, and in a firefight, or just on routine missions in the bush, he'd always seem to end up getting someone killed or maimed: young soldiers, strong soldiers, Charlie, the enemy had him pigged. And he was mean as hell. He put his own men through all sorts of crap, keeping them miserable from sunup to sundown. He had a lot of good young soldiers working under him, even Langdon Abernathy for awhile-until he was assigned to the ammunition battery, in support, under Staff Sergeant Carter.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>The Smart Scientists</title>
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<pubDate>Tue, 18 Jan 2011 19:20:29 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA["Ninety percent of the world for ten-thousand years has been off their rocker," says the smart scientist. "There really, truly, isn't any God!" We've been fooled, they say. Somewhere along life's long line, we've been hooked like a fish, brought to believe this fairytale story; perhaps someone, somewhere, had a delusion-I don't know, the Neanderthal maybe, and everybody fell for it, you know, kind of fell into that black hole, the scientist created out of nothing or perhaps out of gravity-not figuring out how gravity works yet, or how it was created, but gravity nonetheless: everyone but them smart guys got sucked in. Well, since there is no God, there mustn't be any devil either.]]></description>
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<title>Sons of Death (Part 5 and 6: The Younger World)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5719097</link>
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<pubDate>Mon, 17 Jan 2011 12:57:51 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[(Testimony of Nodnon:) For untold ages, we have wandered around this little rock island, no more than a mountain sticking out of the ocean, two miles long one mile wide. Snake and wolf infested, a little wilderness, roaring sounds around us.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Scip and Big Lulu of Shantytown (A Chapter Story)</title>
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<pubDate>Wed, 12 Jan 2011 13:29:54 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[In the late spring of 1870, a boy was born at the Hightower Plantation, it was Emma Hightower's child, it was a mulatto, she had had an affair with Hark Jackson, whom was killed by a stranger at Turkey Creek, the child was taken by Dr. Edmonds, who dropped the child off at Big Lula and Tom Mason's shanty, in shantytown. They never could have children, and big Lula was happy to take Little Josh in, not knowing who the parents was, just assuming, someone in Shantytown left the child in some trash, as Dr. Edmonds said, and that was that. But it was not to the liking of her husband, who did more drinking and carousing, than anything else. He wasn't the size of Lulu of course, but he was no creampuff either, and this was simply another mouth to feed.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>The Banker's Husband ((A Heavy Mysterious Silence) (Based on Fact, 1989))</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5695941</link>
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<pubDate>Wed, 12 Jan 2011 13:10:25 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Forty years. Well, he had bought a new car and a small, but comfortable live-in mobile home-one you pulled from place to place-an expensive house on wheels. He was well clad, a rather well built man for his age-retirement age, sixty-seven, a fine looking well preserved man, not too heavy or too thin. He lived in the Midwestern city of St. Paul, Minnesota, his wife Dorothy worked for Midway National Bank, she was fifty-seven now, and she had returned back to work after having quite her job to go on an extended trip throughout the United States, with her now retired husband, Art, they had planned it for years on end.]]></description>
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<item>
<title>Something Had Ended (A Side Street Saga)</title>
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<pubDate>Sat, 08 Jan 2011 09:56:58 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[In the old days Cayuga Street was a notorious neighborhood-known as 'Donkeyland,' by the St. Paul Minnesota Police Department. No one who lived in it was unaware of the gripping sounds of Structural Steel Company (where most of the neighborhood kids worked at one time or another), and the Railroad behind it - with its squealing steel on steel, and whistle blowing, and the screeching of cars that raced up and down the street like a drag-strip, the fires going on in the empty lot, and the drunken behavior of the boys going on pert near every night of the week.]]></description>
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<title>Old Man at Cape Horn (A Short Story)</title>
<link>http://EzineArticles.com/5666720</link>
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<pubDate>Fri, 07 Jan 2011 21:37:31 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[An old man with brace rimmed glasses and very wet clothes sat stone-still on the backside of the Zodiac, along with thirteen others from the ship they had just left. There was a wooden stairway, perhaps, some fifteen-hundred feet from bottom to top at the edge of Cape Horn, they were in the waters of the north boundary of the Drake Passage, and they were crossing over from the ship to the island.]]></description>
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<title>Down-Hill Snow (Flash Fiction)</title>
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<pubDate>Wed, 05 Jan 2011 14:32:01 -0600</pubDate>
<description><![CDATA[Shawn stood a few feet to the side of his father, Chick Evens, knocking the snow off from his skies, brushing off his jacket, he had taken a tumble. "That was a good one, Shawn," his father said, "The snows real sticky today." "I know, it's seems to slow me down some too; let's try over there."]]></description>
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