When you're just fourteen years old, you don't have sense enough to realize what you are doing and often tremble, get so mad you can't think, and overreact, or at least I did.

It is eleven-thirty in the evening, it is dark out except for a few lit torches scattered sporadically along the corridor which leads to the library at Ephesus, which is made out of marble. There is a large marble engraved sign on the archway next to the library, dedicated to the Emperor of Rome, Augustus (spelled improperly on the arch), that reads his name, but they are not there, they are all walking down the corridor; two girls with two Roman Soldiers, walking down the passageway to the library; the four are a little cock-eyed.

The building had been purchased by a private university in the city. The second floor, and only floor, of my recollection that the building had, reached out to its stairway, no outside balconies about; it served as an entry way to look down upon the theater-it was a bulky built looking building, larger looking outside than it was actually inside.

The feeling of having the other person at hand of something or for something, of managing such affairs-and someone to tell them to, is comfortable, and nice, especially on a cold and rainy outside (night or day, any season will do). Both he and I, feel this, it makes us warm and cozy. I don't know, but most likely, the death of so, so many draws us closer. Both he and I have felt this, possibly Mike more consciously than I because he is the one doing the calling, and telling, going to the wakes, and funerals, receiving the death phone calls from the beloved and grieving-I'm six-thousand miles away (thank goodness).

Throughout the bloody and frightfully sixteen-hundreds, the so called Colonists (Colonos), with their slave ships, sought out the Ashaninka natives, for slaves, sold them to the highest bidder, in the Lima, and Huancayo markets, and in other parts of Peru, along with other cities of South America. The Colonists jammed an absolutely peaceful people into the guts of the ship; it was absolutely body to body. The officers were very cold and dehumanizing.

They were quiet in the café. The morning sun had been penetrating, and the cool air had been brisk, and refreshing, the wind had been perfect, just enough to lift up and push back their hair. There they were in the café, as quiet as sleeping mice. There were several customers sitting at tables, and at the counter. Old man playing cards, solitary at one table, and two men at another smoking and drinking coffee they had the paper laying to the side of them on the table.

Princess Fatemeh, the daughter of King Thesas III, and her mother, the Queen, Ellen sat by her side as they told Sinned the story you are about to hear:

It was just as dark as an empty barrel, looking down into it, we couldn't even recognize our hotel, the driver had to shine his headlights on the sigh, and point to it, and when we got out, he was gone like a flash.

The young man had turned to see where the policeman was and ran, the policeman ran after him, then stopped to aim and fire, firing three shots, two in the air, one at the black lean and slanted lad running, the thief, as Chick stood by the window looking in the car saying, "Damn, he must of robbed the gas station. Man, what can we do?"

The instant the Henchman of Hell appeared, the whole "Psycho Drama Section" seemed to stand still. The clamour of tongues, the laughter and noise of the crowd were for that moment arrested, and every man, woman, beast, creature, actor, devil, demon, who stood on the stage, couched, lay, stood at attention and faced the imperial Henchman, the general of several legions of hell.

(Narrator) Mr. Ernest Hem, had met Mr. Richard Shape, the psychologist, by accident, it was not meat to be. He had died on March 1, 1965, when Hem was eighteen, on November 5, 1966; Ernest Hem was nineteen-years old. How could this be, thought Ernest now standing shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Sharpe.

I turned about noticed a male waiter mopping, my waiter standing next to me, he looked familiar, another waiter was sweeping out the café, there was one man sitting to my right, it was 11:00 a.m., still morning in Paris, the outside café near empty, "Will there be anything else sir?" asked my short, stocky, waiter, short crew-cut head of hair, perhaps in his late thirty's.

It was a great bullfight in Seville, Spain, in a way. Rosa and I were excited about being introduced to the young good looking matador, he must had been no older than twenty-one. A young couple was sitting about ten-feet away from us in the arena, Americans like us.

As I look back now, I suppose I could say, my grandpa was never cut out to look young, one of those guys that looked to me, all my life-in all the twenty-seven years of knowing him-he never got older, he just stayed old from day one, always looking the same; except a little towards the last months of his life, and then it wasn't his fault, he was tiring over those long 83-years of life and work, he worked up to about three months prior to his death. I called him the Old Russian Bear; he came from Russia, in 1916 (born in 1891) and fought in WWI, in 1918, as an American Soldier.

From the balcony, he stood looking down the street, it was mid April, 1915, winter snow was being sucked up by the ground, and melted by the sunlight, the sun was high, and the streets slippery the Russians had invaded the city, of Przemysl, (Ukraine).

His back was to the white outer door that had a big and long window, the stone building was painted deep-purple red, and he almost blended into the building. The Caretaker was behind the second door, listening to the Russian soldiers below, an officer, he held the door open an inch or two,

Decision making when you are young can be hard, you really got to count the cost. This is what Chick Evens does in his first three months at a military base in Augsburg, Germany.

No children ever looked so scornful, so undignified-than Yulie and Anatolee, the little Russian twins, gossiped the neighbors as they passed through Prince Lane, a rich neighborhood, on their way to Pleasant Elementary school each morning. But no matter who peered from their windows, porches or lawns-they would have to admit, Yulie and Anatolee walked splendidly together: chatting along the way, and showing very much interest in what one another had to say, not noticing the onlookers...

Then one day, Hank Gardiner, whom really had very little to say, I had met him the summer before, a relative of one of the gang members (The Cayuga Street Gang, also called 'Donkeyland,' by the local police who combed the neighborhood daily), who lived near our neighborhood, knew most of the guys, six-years older than I, said something in an almost whisper, after we had walked from the small neighborhood 'Pitman,' grocery store, near Granite Street, heading down towards the church steps, off Jackson and Sycamore Streets. He had parked his 1956 green Oldsmobile across the street from the church steps, by my friend, Bill Kapaun's house (by twilight the whole gang would be there.)

With his foot drawn up against the other chair, the one across on the other side of the table, he leaned back and drank down his beer. Cody next to him, Shawn off at the other end of the almost, near empty guesthouse in Babenhausen Germany.

Here is a death diary, and a short story to boot, of what took place for a man named Troy Burroughs after death. Being dead is going to take some getting used to. According to earth time this would be day three of my so called, death. I keep looking down on North America, I guess it's still home to me for the moment anyway.

Katita whose Christian family name will not be mentioned here, for it would at once, draw attention, unneeded and uncalled-for attention to the family, her father had abandoned her mother at a very young age; the period of his death, which forms the initial subject of my heretofore, narrative to be. At this exact point, Katita's mother received a pension-for the most part, on behalf of her daughter, to care for her and her education, until she would turn twenty-five years of age. At the age of twelve years old, her mother died, in a like manner of her husband, drowned, and found along the hard rock and cemented shores of London's Tames River, and so we see the inheritance of Katita's father goes to her, and her guardian (whom is of little significance in this narrative, but nonetheless, I shall mention her name, Claudia Belmont, a small structured woman, of a very old age, a relative, Godmother, to the child).

There are many stories surrounding the celebration of Halloween. It’s obviously a day of fun and mischief for children around the world, but just how did it start? Why is it that we dress our children up in strange costumes and send them out to beg for candy from the neighbors? It’s a strange tradition and one that needs and deserves an explanation.

The execution of Jose Sebastian, a Peruvian Soldier of the Pacific War, 1879, in the Mantaro Valley of Peru, was to commence immediately for disobeying an order from his commanding officer. Sergeant Sebastian stood accused by this bright-eyed, young officer; Jose being in his 40s, the young officer in his early twenties, with small thin wrists, and ankles, slumped shoulders, and slightly balled. Jose, wide-eyed, broad shoulders, thick fingers, and a dark shadow, even after he shaved upon his face.

The first part of the battle was over, only ghosts, and the dead remained silent. The stretcher-bearers stopped looking for the dying, the wounded, the ones that had shown some life were all abandoned, a few officers in the far distance disputed this, but a new battle was ensuing, and the dead and dying, the unusable were considered a less priority (unable to walk, fight or shoot), thus, they were abandoned, and would get their due respect, if the battle was won. Hence, I repeat, the unusable soldiers, were left where they lay to be buried or cared for another day.

It was early afternoon, they, Joseito, his eleven year old son, Lee and his wife Rosa, they arrived in a taxi, to the old dirt, and dusty road that led down a shadowy lane to Jose's mother's adobe premises: along this walk were tall adobe thick walls used for fences, and inside these walls were folks getting ready to plant for the season, and would harvest sometime in April through May, in this rural Peruvian landscape outside of the city of Huancayo, Peru. Jose like the writer and poet Lee, had quiet drinking, Lee twenty-four years ago, Jose, had about one year of sobriety, but in that short time he had turned his life around most dramatically.