A white hospital sheet covers Rachel’s unconscious body and belies the true extent of her injuries. Strands of wavy brown hair matted with blood peek from under a stained dressing wrapped around the skull. Long eyelashes rest on cheeks as white as snow. The scent of antiseptic from the hallway accompanies a cacophony of noise that streams unannounced through a partially open door.

The sounds from a mechanical ventilator pierce the air as the machine delivers a set amount of oxygen to Rachel's compromised lungs. Suddenly the ventilation cycle is interrupted when she takes a spontaneous breath. But it doesn’t deter the nurse who remains calm at the bedside as she adjusts the rate of a unit of packed cells that flows steadily into Rachel’s veins.

*
On the previous day, angry and shaking her head with confusion, Rachel pauses for a moment outside the investigator’s office clutching a handful of photos. After she stuffs them into an envelope, she climbs into the driver’s seat of her vehicle and immediately exits the parking lot. Minutes later, she presses her foot on the accelerator and pulls onto a nearby freeway. Suddenly a squeal of tires assaults her eardrums. The stink of burning rubber bombards her senses while the scrape of metal upon metal sends up a shower of sparks. The wail of sirens is soon heard as the ominous tones fill the countryside.

*
As Rachel’s body fights for a state of equilibrium, her episodic memories strive for a semblance of order as they slither like a snake through a quagmire of confusion. A bedside monitor displays her heart rate at one hundred and forty beats per minute while her blood pressure plummets to numbers requiring immediate attention.

*
Months later, Rachel lets out a bloodcurdling scream. Travis kisses her cheek once more and pulls her close. “Wake up, sweetheart,” he says. “You must have had another one of your nightmares.”
​

The New Year held such promises of joy and just when the holiday season was ending... 

Luke 21:10-17
"...there will be great earthquakes...and great signs from heaven..."
How prophetic!   

I Feel The Earth Move
Carole King described the situation perfectly.
January 7, 2020  8:24 UTC M6.3  

Barbara Ann
The Beach Boys knew the movement with "rockin and a rollin'".
January 7, 2020  8:34 UTC  M5.5 

Shake, Rattle and Roll
Big Joe Turner got that right.
January 10, 2020 22:24 UTC M5.2  

Rock Around The Clock
Bill Haley & His Comets really understood time
8:41, 10:10, 22:26 UTC whenever...they happen when they happen.

The Beat Goes On
Sonny & Cher how did they know?  289 tremblors in a seven-day period and are predicted to extend several years into this decade.

Good Vibrations
Nope!  The Beach Boys made a mistake with this one.  Not Good!  Not at all!  

Great Balls of Fire
Jerry Lee Lewis saw it coming
January 17, 2020 4:30 pm a meteorite passes over and lands in the Atlantic. 

For a few it may be the best of times, but for so many it is the worst of times.  Times which are trying men's souls.  For sure, we are living in interesting times. 

And we call our island, "La Isla del Encanto".  Really?  Really!

Jason was a natural born trader. It began when he was just a child. He started by trading his toys for baseball cards, went on to exchanging vehicles and eventually ended up to his presently doing tax free 1031 real estate exchanges. At thirty-two years of age he had amassed a fortune. Yet his greatest exchange was yet to happen.
Jason was not a religious man but he went to church occasionally to appease his wife. They always sat in the back for a quick getaway. However, this time they were a little late and there was no room for them to sit in the back. They ended up sitting about halfway down and near the outside aisle.
Jason knew his wife had been a Christian for many years but what he didn’t know was that she and her friends had been diligently praying for his salvation for years.
The church service started like any other service he had attended, but dramatically changed when the pastor began to preach. He spoke about forgiveness, redemption and God’s grace. He had heard sermons like that before but this time was different. This time it was like the pastor was speaking directly to him. Not only that, he felt a strange warming of his heart and a gentle tug on his spirit.
The pastor then gave people the opportunity to come forward to exchange their old sin-stained lives for one in which they could have a personal relationship with God now and continue to be with God even after death.
Jason knew he was not a bad person, in fact he considered himself a good one.He also knew That no matter how good he was, he still wouldn’t have that relationship with God he needed and now wanted.There was unconfessed sin in his life and he knew that would have to be dealt with.He went forward and had a private conversation, not with the pastor, but with God. He gave God his old life and God gave him a new one.
As Jason walked back to his seat with a massive smile on his face, he realized that this was the best exchange he had ever made. What he didn’t realize was that it was only going to get better.

​

What age was I when the words of Kenneth Slessor’s war poem Beach Burial no longer caused me tears?
What age when lyrics of songs ceased urging me to try and change the world?
What year was it when I stopped arguing for our future, when I started shaking my head, instead of shaking my fist?
When did emotion become exhausting and passion become passé?

Is there still time to reread those poems and let the few tears remaining soften something lost?
To replay that music and perhaps join Barry MCGuire in exposing the Eve of Destruction?
I remember that person with a future yet to be decided, endless possibilities.
When did I shed that future joy, replacing it with the heaviness of the past.
​
Perhaps when we age, become tired, when our voices become weak, it is our time once again to follow in the footsteps of those beloved poets, of those beloved songwriters, to feel those emotions. To take up our pens and write poems and anthems for the next generation.

“Standing before the mirror, Gordon Maxwell brushes off his lapel, then straightens his tie. It’s a ritual he follows with precision, as every morning he holds his meeting at 7:30 sharp, and there’s nothing he despises more than those who lack punctuality. Today, however, he will be the one who is late. In fact, he’ll not be making it at all, because in 4 minutes he’ll be dead.

“Halfway down the stairs, a burning in his left arm pulls him to a stop. There a wave of nausea overwhelms, and the burning becomes a stabbing pain cutting deep into his chest.

“The paramedics find him later that afternoon at the bottom of the stairs, someone at work having called 911 when he didn’t show up.”

Gordon shakes his head. “Okay, okay, Doc, you’ve made your point. Probably the third time.”

“Gordon, I’m just trying to impress some urgency here. You smoke. Your blood pressure is too high. Your cholesterol is 320. You’re 50 pounds overweight. And you’re 67 years old working a high stress job. If I Googled your name, I’d get a picture of a time bomb.”

“I know, I know. Look...just 2 ½ more years and I can retire. My divorce bled me dry, I have to work a little more to get my retirement back in shape.”

“But you may not have—“

Gordon raises a hand. “I have a meeting in 20 minutes. You can beat me up at our next appointment.”

With that, he tosses on his jacket and is out the door. In the car, he lights a cigarette, puffing his frustration. Their district came in second in sales again this quarter, and that new guy – Brian? – continues to show up late. He decides that once he’s back at the office, he’ll be firing that incompetent waste of space to set an example.

His return delayed by construction and heavy traffic, he roars into his parking space and hops from the car, catching his shin on a post. A stream of profanity vents from his mouth, but only for a moment, as a warm throbbing spreads down his left arm, stealing away his breath. He tries to call out, but the pain drops him to his knees, and everything goes black.

* * *

“Can you hear me, Mr. Maxwell?”

He opens foggy eyes to see a nurse standing over him, a beeping sound coming from behind.

“What happened?” he asks.

“You’ve had a heart attack. You were lucky, one of your employees, Brian McGee, was running late and saw you go down. He gave you CPR until the paramedics arrived.”

Gordon shakes his head. “He’s always late.”

The nurse bristles at his tone, but finds a smile. “His son’s here with brain cancer, so he stops by in the mornings when he’s having a treatment. While he’s waiting, Brian teaches First Aid to seniors. Which includes CPR. Had he been on time, you would have been the one who was late. Too late...”
​

Although the explosion was miles away, the flash of light seemed as though lightning had struck only yards away from Johnny’s foxhole. He softly recited prayers as he clutched his Infantry Rifle. Next to him, Gunner calmly chewed tobacco and looked through his binoculars as if he was bird-watching on his back patio.
“Relax, John Boy. That was nowhere near us,” Gunner softly said.
“Do you not care about dying?” Johnny asked with a mix of disbelief and annoyance.
“I have no plans of dying.” A grin spread across his face. He liked Johnny and didn’t want to be off-putting. He changed tone. “This, survival, makes sense to me. I can wrap my head around either kill or be killed. Insurances, interest rates, board meetings, smartphones...that, I just don’t get. Most of the time it just seems like a bunch of people inventing ways to entertain themselves.” Gunner had been turned down by the military twice for failure to pass the physical.
The Uprising was supposed to be quickly and quietly taken care of. A year later, panic had set in, and Gunner’s physical inefficiencies were now overlooked. He and Johnny, thought for dead, were on a three day march out of the rebel woodland. They had been in the foxhole for nearly a day now. Gunner’s watch never let up.
“All right. The other two left. I will take care of the one no problem and be back with what I can. Sit tight until I get back. We’re almost out of this.” Gunner quietly slipped away to the rebel shack.
Although he thought the man mad, Johnny had to admit, there was no one else he’d rather be stranded with. He was as sleek as a cat, and his strike was as dangerous as a cobra.
Gunner approached the shack and let out a clandestine whistle about twenty yards away. A young boy met him and ushered him inside. Without talking, Gunner took out a box of ammunition from his backpack. The boy gave him a bag of food in exchange, and Gunner exited.
As he trekked back to Johnny, he saw vultures circling overhead. The wet, sweltering heat covered him like a blanket. His mind returned to his mission. He vowed to get Johnny home safely, and he always kept a promise. He had no side in this fight; he simply felt free...and he didn’t want it to end.
​

The greenery on campus caught Bron, a new history instructor, by surprise. All the other colleges and universities where he had taught seemed like industrial complexes, maximizing on classroom space. At IVC, wisteria hung from rafters on the rooflines along the Admissions and Records and Science buildings. Bright flowers popped out of cement pots and small, manicured gardens materialized everywhere. As Bron walked down the stair case between structures, ivy grew up the sides of buildings. “What a perfect eco system,” he thought.

Half way down the stairs, Bron started, then laughed. A twenty-inch gopher snake lay stretched out before him, sunning itself on a warm, concrete step. Putting down his briefcase, he picked up the snake momentarily and then looked back towards the space between the parking lot and main campus. It had a field of ivy accentuated by an occasional manzanita bush—a perfect place for releasing the snake.

Turning back around, Bron noticed a woman in her mid-twenties walking up the steps, heading to the parking lot. “Excuse me,” he said. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Who? Me?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m Bron, a new history professor here at IVC. I need to find the Magnolia Building and meet the Evening Provost before my first class. However, I found this snake sunning itself in a dangerous place.”

“I doubt anybody’s gonna stomp on it,” Leslie countered.
“Still, I’d like to release it into a natural area between here and the parking lot. Would you do that for me?”

“Huh? I’ve never touched a snake before!”

“They’re cool; this is a gopher snake. It doesn’t bite and is rather smooth.”

“Does it always wrap around a person’s arm like it’s doing to you?”

“I guess,” Bron answered. “It might be seeking warmth….What’s your name?”

“Leslie. Can I hold the snake for a moment?”

“Sure,” Bron assured her, placing the snake gently in her hand. Immediately, it began to curl itself around her bare arm, and she giggled?”

“No problem. I’ll release the snake for you professor,” Leslie confirmed. “Have a great first class.”

“Thanks so much, Leslie.”

Two weeks later, Bron and Leslie met on the same stairway: He
headed towards his classroom and she walking to the parking lot. Bron almost walked right past her, but stopped. “Leslie?”

“Professor! Imagine meeting you here again. Actually, I was hoping we’d run into one another.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I wanted to thank-you for helping me get over my life-long fear of snakes; they really aren’t bad at all!”

“So, everything went okay when you released it back into the wild, eh?”

“Didn’t release it,” she smiled. “I took it home—it became the family pet!” she triumphantly replied .

“Imagine that! I bet a snake’s upkeep’s different than most pets.”

“Not really,” Leslie insisted. “Better yet, we’ve seen no mice in the house since D-con, our snake, escaped its cage.”
​

Mike Jones, an American doctoral student was already late for a lecture to be delivered by Prof. Herbert Booth, a Nobel Laureate from the Maximilian University, Vienna. Mike was spending a semester doing collaborative biological research in the labs of Prof. Joachim Sanders in Berlin’s Max Planck Institute. Now in a hurry, he would decide to take a short cut through a neighborhood street. And that’s when he noticed a street-food cart, operated by a young couple selling bratwursts, grilled German sausages served on rolls, layered with mustard as well as a heap of sauerkraut (fermented cabbage). From his German colleagues, Mike heard about this particular vendor couple and the great quality of their bratwursts. Mike, a health conscious foodie already missed out on his morning apple. Now feeling hungry, he would decide to try out this street bratwurst. He was pleasantly amazed to the item’s quality.

Soon, Mike became addicted to the item, consuming at least one every day, if not more. In addition, he started to feel a new kind of vigor allowing him to spend more time in the lab, carrying out additional experiments of his own curiosity. Even Prof. Sanders noticed the change and inquired about any change Mike recently made in his life style. Mike mentioned about his new daily affinity to bratwursts from this particular street vendor. Intrigued, Prof. Sanders requested Mike to go to the health center, associated with the institute to donate some blood in order to undergo a thorough analysis of the circulating chemical compounds.

Two days later, Prof. Sanders received the analysis report. As he was pouring through the data, Prof. Sanders noted the surprising presence of a chemical not known to be circulating in the blood of a normal person. Next day, Prof. Sanders stopped by the same vendor Mike mentioned. He would request a sample of their sauerkraut and bring back to the lab. At his request, one of his postdoctoral associates would analyze that sample of sauerkraut, reporting the presence of the same compound that was found to be circulating in Mike’s blood. Prof. Sanders realized that the particular fermentation process that imparted the vendor’s sauerkraut so tasteful was also creating that unique chemical. Prof Sanders theorized that in Mike’s case, he was genetically predisposed to this chemical to augment his immune system. Thus was his new found vigor. But what was the biological rationale for Mike getting addicted to this vendor’s bratwursts? Thus began a whole new line of research in Prof. Sanders’ labs.

After returning to US, Mike started to experience a bratwurst withdrawal syndrome (BWS). At the time of this writing, he checked himself into a rehabilitation program near the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, hoping to recover, just being surrounded by caring nature.
​