MIDNIGHT SUNLIGHT By Tennessee Elijah

RADICAL DEMON-INSPIRED TERRORISTS COMING OUT OF THE MIDDLE EAST...

...are seeking revenge by planning to execute government officials
for the political crime of suppressing intelligence. Everyone can
see it on TV news!

Superstitious people on Planet Earth have developed terminal indifference to ignorance of the masses. Chinese leaders have been expanding communism by destroying birth control devices – while Radio Hanoi is broadcasting sexy Gospel Music. President George W. Bush placated the American electorate by bringing the minds of Prime Minister Ariel Sharon and Syria’s Bashar al-Assad from the edge of peace in the Middle East to the brink of a comprehensive war. And on one sad day, somewhere south of Washington, D.C., police arrested 39 Bible School students for antisocial behavior during a Tennessee
Capital Hill demonstration against the ACLU.

“Tell Governor Bredesen yourself,” a wild man was screaming in uncontrolled anger. “It was a typographical error on your release. Don’t blame us!” Silence from the other end of the line encouraged another verbal rebuke: “Next time, get out your dictionary and spell
it right if you want us to get the story straight.”

Dropping the phone hard enough to jiggle water in a glass gold fish bowl, Marlon Langford turned his attention back to the evening news.

The world of this eccentric reporter for the Nashville Daily Chronicle was, once again, shaking what was left of crumbling relationships. Divorced and dubious of lonely ladies, Marlon occupied waking hours by keeping abreast of changing events bombarding his consciousness from every direction – instead of seeking romance. On the other side of his hectic lifestyle, sleeping hours were spent alone. Isolating himself within a passionate forte of predictability, Marlon enjoyed burning the candle in the middle – along the illuminated infinity of his horizontal, gravity-dependent, mental apparatus floating motionless in fluid.

Marlon Langford has a reputation for living in extremes. Seldom was there a situation where trivial “things” were not presenting irritating problems. Life had always been very hectic for this survivor of countless hardships. Even his romantic affair with Libby Ferris had been a series of mistakes. She was always displaying a flair for egotism, even before inflated self-worth elevated her place within society beyond her capacity to that of Governor’s Press Secretary. There had always been antagonists like her on the fringes, provoking and agitating for no logical reason. Typical to human nature, Libby rarely had sufficient courage to admit deficiencies even though the credibility of others depended upon it. This had been only one out of many occasions
when she skillfully twisted facts to serve her ulterior motives.

“She can lie without a flutter or a flinch,” he mumbled to himself while making a baloney sandwich. “What gall! Let her lay. Let her lay,” he was whispering on the way back to his recliner. “Burned too many times to take a chance on that gender-independent female again,” he told himself while nodding his head – “Yes” – to confirm common sense.

State politics functioned to alter the control of Capitol Hill for more reasons than Marlon cared to enumerate. He had seen administrations come and go, being trimmed down to a realistic size by unpredictable forces. If it was bad, it was in the news. Experiencing sporadic mistakes had sharpened his journalistic skills. Thanks to trial and error, he had learned enough to stay cautious – “When they call you at home” – and to “Run for cover when they start introducing the family.”

The effrontery of “chase and escape” games being played in most political circles seemed to depict the paradoxical shenanigans of an adulteress when her husband is in town. In spite of frequent frivolity, there was always an important job to be done – and Marlon Langford was reluctantly fulfilling his responsibilities. Striving to provide citizens who could read an opportunity to saturate their collective brain with his explicable renditions of what's happening in the state of Andrew “Old Hickory” Jackson. Most newspaper readers were too busy to care.

Local news always ended too early for bed, and too late to solve major problems – currently threatening the survival of his status quo. Marlon, being a creature of habit, was starving for anything with a promise of hope, so he consulted the latest edition of his horoscope to gain a sense
of direction before casting himself upon roaring waters.

“You are intrigued by mystery,” he read with a bland expression.
Being a natural skeptic, he momentarily contemplated his lack of pretense in the face of reality. He had always known that a Scorpio would get about the same satisfaction out of anticipation for the mystical as a Libra. There had never been ramifications for him when he was speculating about what was unknown. A gifted psychic might be able
to offer a warning, but Marlon was too set in his ways to take any of
it seriously – even if the proverbial truck did happen to hit him right between the eyes.

The doorbell rang as he was scanning over the words in the newspaper, “...and you will have an unexpected visitor.”

Folding the paper neatly, placing it on a stack of soiled laundry next to muddy shoes by the door, Marlon buttoned his shirt, tucking it sloppily into beltless trousers, and then rambled, nonchalantly, down the hall. He swung the door open, expecting to be surprised.

“Oh! It’s you,” he said, knowing the soothsayer had gotten another
one wrong. “I was expecting someone else,” he moaned as though disappointed to see a familiar face – instead of the unexpected visitor
the soothsayer had promised.

“Well, thanks a lot,” she said with a smile and a kiss. “Who else would be visiting a grump like... you this time of night?”

Wanda Blankenship, a petite lady with a carefree, down-to-earth-reality disposition to match her vivacious personality was a frequent guest. Her apartment, a few steps away, made convenience the primary ingredient in their relationship. There was a wholesomeness in her demeanor that he admired in contrast to slothful females that he had experienced. She avoided becoming involved in other social functions, wanting only to preserve cherished privacy in his exclusive community. Wanda was an exception to rules governing conventional behavior. Closing the door, Marlon took her hand, leading her past the bedroom into the brightly
lit kitchen where the only temptation was the appeal of gluttony.

“Always nice to see you... my little neighbor lady,” he said in his most seductive voice. “Would you care to join me in a drink to celebrate our good health... to commemorate our friendship?”

“Would it be immodest for a woman of my dignity to say, I’m as thirsty as a camel in a hot Arabian desert?”

“As long as you don’t drink like one, I think I can accommodate you,” Marlon told her while clumsily rummaging through the fridge. “What’s your preference, Coke on ice... or Coke on ice?”

“I’ll have Coke in a glass, please,” she giggled.

“Smart choice,” he said. “Clean glasses are in the dishwasher... and ice is in the freezer. Help yourself.”

“Hold it, Mr. Hospitality,” she said, grabbing his arm to keep him from going back to his recliner. Faking a feminist reaction to his chauvinistic style, she said with a pout: “You’re expecting a debonair debutante
like as me to do menial labor in your kitchen? That would be very insulting!” Looking like a girl child with arms folded across dainty breasts, Wanda exclaimed: “I’m the guest! You’re the host... so, most high and mighty neighbor... with bad manners... try to be more polite.”

Marlon took the hint, deciding to play the game. Twitching her cheek while contorting like a tyrant, he proclaimed in a stern voice, “I’m a sadistic hillbilly from Hell.” Stepping closer, pressing his nose against hers, he was doing his best to appear even more menacing by using his most threatening nasal bass accent: “Fix-ma-drink... or-I’m-a-gonna ...fix-ya’all... really good.”

“You’ll fix me, really good?” she said, questioning him with a grin.

He pushed his face closer with a serious, mean-eyed stare intact and
his chin protruding abnormally, telling her, “Worse than good!”

“You don’t scare me, Bubba!”

“I don’t? Well, in that case, maybe I better back off,” he muttered, pretending to be dumfounded, and to be musing over a new strategy.

After getting his next move worked out in his mind, Marlon hunched
his shoulders, tightened his face into a wretched Johnny Cash snarl, and was about ready to begin a verbal attack when she grabbed his hand, saying. “Easy, my boy,” she whispered. “Why not entice me? A little snack with that drink might be nice,” she suggested, leading him to
the cupboard.

“You’re a winner... Sweet Thing,” he agreed, reluctantly. “You make the drinks... and I’ll get oatmeal cookies... out of the bag.”

Minutes later, they were cuddled close, sipping Coke, and dropping crumbs on the couch. Soft musical tones, flowing through the stereo, took their spirits dancing to the drum beat of companionship. Marlon was enjoying the warmth of her body next to his, wondering why he had never taken her to bed. They had become friends who knew how to give pleasure right up to the brink of their self-imposed limits. Their unique intimacy was basic and honest without the need for selfish obsessions. They respected each other too much to give credence to pretentious words or superficial behavior being practiced in other places.

“You project a sweet, virginal serenity,” he told her in a way that only she could appreciate. “You are so pure... compared to wicked women I’ve known in the past... before my libido was laid to rest.”

“That’s a compliment, I hope,” she said with a giggle. “You always say the nicest things in the strangest ways. You have a real talent for making me feel good about myself.”

“It’s not that I have a compunction to help build up your self-esteem, it’s just that, well, compared to all the bad news, bad people, bad luck, and bad crap... we get hit with in a normal day... you’re like a bright light shining in my dark nights.”

“Ummm... where do you get those poetic ideas?” she teased.

“I’m serious! You’re almost perfect.”

“Almost? Are you trying to upset me, Marlon?” she asked, pretending to be offended. “You’re treating me like a storybook princess. Seriously... what happens if I fall off that pedestal... you’ve got me on?”

“I’d pick you up... and brush you off, my lady,” he replied, doing an amateurish impersonation of his favorite cowboy actor John Wayne.

Silence filled the room and they drew closer together, listening intently to themselves breathing while thoughts were tossed between receptive minds. They were allowing their emotions to drain out every ounce of meaning before daring to speak words again.

“Life on this planet could be wonderful,” Marlon mumbled.

Wanda only smiled, letting him know she agreed. Taking a magazine off the coffee table, she began randomly turning pages, letting her thoughts carry her to other distant places. Marlon noticed her facial reactions. She seemed to be lost in a search for meaningful photographs, catchy slogans for ads, or maybe a fictional article written by a reclusive writer in some far away place. Finally, finding something that perked her interest, she nudged him with an elbow. She held up an artistic rendering to show a Garden of Eden setting where a young couple
could be seen embracing.

“Please read it for me,” she requested. “I’m in the mood for the soothing sound of your masculine voice.”

“That article is just a silly romance,” Marlon responded. “And besides, I’m not in the mood for giddy stuff.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing... nothing important,” he told her, realizing that nothing in his life was even close to the happiness he saw shining from the beautiful photograph of two young lovers on the page between them.

Wanda gave Marlon a motherly, compassionate glance, and then whined as though disappointed, making him reconsider.

“Here, give it to me,” he said.

She gave him the magazine and rested her head on his shoulder, waiting to be babied like a sweetheart found only in nursery rhymes. He was feeling awkward when reading sentences beyond the scope of personal dignity in his lowest baritone: “Emotions were merging like a rushing tide, blending with sand somewhere on a deserted beach. His hands were moving across her body like the easy flow of swirling water, bathing desires in the tenderness of their mutual encounter. Sensing a quickening pulse, yielding with passion, she pressed her open mouth on his, and their naked souls knew freedom where tenderness was natural. Guiding forces of the morning light carried them higher than they had ever been before. No power on Earth could deprive them of this moment where love was in control. Let those who will, choose to mock youth, decry their ecstasy, envy their joy, but may the God of Truth forbid them to interfere. Her magic was now in him, and his in her. They were being born anew, beyond the grasp of those who covet – or those who feel the torment of jealousy. Together, these procreators who desired
a baby, would soar to the outer reaches of destiny – far from the mundane things of Earth, where only mysterious invisible dreams
would dare follow.”

Marlon paused, thinking about the words he had been reading, and
then laid the magazine down on Wanda’s lap. She put it back on the table, saying, “Maybe you can read to me again... the next time I visit... unless you have a better idea?”

“I always have better ideas,” he said in a humorous way. “Besides,
my romantic part shriveled up years ago. I guess my ideas are too pragmatic if you compare me to the writer who wrote those words.”

“It’s sort of an Adam and Eve fantasy, I suppose, but I enjoy thinking
of lovers that way,” Wanda told him. “When it comes to relationships in this dog-eat-dog world, people behave more like animals than angels.”

“Many couples would probably think, being classified animalistic
in their sexual encounters would be a compliment,” Marlon moaned.
“I have married friends... who believe sexual relations with willing partners... anywhere or anytime is okay... with only one stipulation.”

“Oh? And what is that?”

“They never mess around with anyone who is poor, homely or crazy.”

“Well, that leaves me out,” she replied with a smile. “Are these immoral friends of yours... liberal elitists like you?”

“You’ve got that right!” Marlon said, shrugging his shoulder. “I suppose compassionate conservatives think Walter Mondale Democrats have lost their moral compass? Maybe a lack of normal sex... might explain why most of us are bouncing off walls.”

His words had come across like an unwitting confession. Wanda was laughing at him on her way to the door, saying, “Poor, homely or crazy, huh? You liberals are all alike!”

“Hey, stop generalizing! I'm not one of the typical, far-left, bleeding hearts... you keep saying I am,” Marlon said, defending himself.

“Is that so? Then stop thinking I’m an ordinary right-winger,” Wanda replied, gently closing the door behind her when leaving.

Marlon sat motionless for a few minutes, contemplating the absurdity
of the moment. Debating with friends was not his favorite thing to do.

THE SLEEPING HOURS...

...had quickly evolved into the waking hours of a new day. The usual mundane routine at the office was happening on schedule. Declining the use of used computers, like those surrounding him, Marlon was pecking keys on a manual typewriter that had been passed down from someone who had once met the famous author Ernest Hemingway.

Ribbons were wearing thin, something like skin, only to be rewound and used again and again – until too wrinkled or worn out to do the job. Incessant clacking, metal on metal, or dumb talk falling on tender ears had ruined the congeniality of more than one early-morning reporter – who valued style over substance. “Better get that revised copy down to production,” a busy-body said, startling Marlon out of complacency.

“Take it yourself,” he told the person giving advice that was not needed or wanted. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Marlon liked to give orders, but seldom took orders graciously. Shaking off nervous energy, he was cleaning the work area in a furious attempt to organize his personal disaster zone. It was the middle of another week, and he refused to buckle under the strain. His mental sense of balance was teetering over the edge, because of dirty coffee mugs, cigar butts, candy wrappers, and smelly ash trays filled with everything but ashes. It was time to earn himself a new reputation as a neat freak.

The midnight crew were college-graduated degenerates who carved their initials with sharp knives on office furniture, leaving artistic
marks in an attempt to document meaningless endeavors. Reams of paper trash with ink-smeared cartoons on crumpled burger wrappers marked their turf.

“Someone has a real fetish for cluttering my desk,” Marlon grumbled, wiping soggy fries with dried ketchup into a trash can. “It would take barnyard sophistication for most anyone to perceive this mess as being remotely civilized. This ancient warehouse... where we labor in pain... will never be recognized as a model for human cleanliness. Invisible germs breed in dirty places like these.”

Marlon shook his head in disbelief whenever reading – Nashville Daily Chronicle – brightly emblazoned over the front entrance in embossed, tarnished brass. The sign stirred up expectations of grandeur for visitors who were often subjected to gradual degradation upon entry. This was the largest newspaper conglomeration in southern America, functioning as a halfway house for “bad news” street addicts who eagerly worked to get paid for the privilege of experiencing mind torture under the guise of spreading media misinformation. Guaranteed to inflict infection on local pseudo-intellectuals, making society the ultimate victim, the Chronicle assured readers that bad news would be found on every page.

“This place enables masochists to suffer while hacking out a daily dose of diatribe,” according to Marlon. His opinions were never kept a secret from those who often heard him talk about “verbal garbage dumps” and “curious morons” who are starved for everything but knowledge.

“That cowboy was too good for us,” Marlon blurted out to anyone
who cared to listen. Through the years, he had reminded his colleagues of the humorous, down-to-earth, radical Independent who wanted to be governor in 1974. During one of his frequent visits to share thoughts on issues, the long-haired man brought a paper sack filled with packs of laxative. His suggestion to the staff had been right on target: “This
stuff might help you reporters see things more clearly.”

The former flower artist had been dressed in denim, a leather cowboy hat and boots – and always enjoyed being laughed at as much as laughing. He would leave just as unexpectedly as arriving, often making symbolic gestures that seemed relevant in retrospect. The mentality motivating the men and women who labored to spread news from that place was still needing to be flushed into a bottomless pit.

“Journalists are not the only people who have become constipated with preconceived notions... or misconceptions... thanks to people like us,” Marlon told the female reporter at the next desk. “Newspapers serve as the intestinal tract where assholes like us publicize the sludge of society. It's more than one idea, or one nation, that needs cleansing; it’s the entire scope of life on Earth... that has clogged human progress.”

“Israel would never attack Damascus without provocation,” a political novice declared in an attempt to start the daily argument.

“Egypt will never survive if they don’t stop sending weapons to the
PLO through tunnels,” a more refined reporter – who had once seen
the pyramids, interjected. And within seconds, the dingy room became
a battlefield between biased prognosticators.

“Jews and Muslims would rather die a martyr’s death than lose their religious shrines,” a quiet voice could be heard saying from somewhere down the hall.

“What about China? What about Africa? What about Turkey?” Marlon was asking in rapid fire without waiting for answers. “Speculation! That’s all any of us are doing. Speculating! Do you geniuses think
Bush will follow through on threats from Iran and Syria?”

Silence filled the room as Marlon paused before resuming. “The Persian Gulf is no place to resolve political conflicts. If Russia, Jordan and Iraq don’t cool down, the OPEC nations will sabotage the world economy. And don’t expect the European Confederation to rescue this world from terrorists... or debt collectors... to forgive late payments on credit cards when Wall Street is laying in shambles.”

“The United States will have no other option if that happens,” a novice reporter predicted. “It will be World War III if radical conservatives have their way.”

“Not with a million troops camped around the Temple in Jerusalem.”

“Ariel Sharon has already threatened to sever ties with America.”

“Bashar al-Assad has requested international support in Syria.”

“The way this conversation seems to be evolving is indicative of how intelligent we people of Earth have not become,” Marlon said, shaking his head from side to side as he slowly returned to his cluttered desk.

“Yes, we’re so informed, peace-loving and compassionate,” said the
man who seldom involved himself in office chatter.

Editor Harvey Douglas Kennedy was standing in the archway near the entrance. Of all present, Marlon was the one with enough fortitude to utter a response, telling the boss: “You’re absolutely right, Chief!”

“Of course, I’m right,” he snapped back, indulging his irritable nature.

“Of course, you are,” Marlon responded with a whispering snicker.
“I hope you’re feeling better today... than you did yesterday.”

“Better? I feel lousy! Double-rotten! What’s new around here?” Kennedy was asking, keeping Marlon off balance and on the defensive.

“Libby Ferris called last night. She refuses to accept blame for mistakes made in the press release from her office... concerning that situation at the Capitol... between police and Bible students.”

“It was a stupid thing... arresting those kids,” said Kennedy.

“I agree with your, sir,” Marlon told him. “The word in the release was menstruation. It should’ve been demonstration. It really made the ACLU sit up and take notice.”

“That was dumb!” Kennedy said, rubbing his elbow, appearing confused. “Libby? Isn’t she that sexy gal... at the Governor’s office?”

“You’ve got that right! Every Governor needs a Press Secretary like her, so they say.”

“Thought the name was familiar,” Kennedy moaned. “She’s been fired.”

“Fired?” Marlon was surprised. “When did that happen?”

“Bredesen let her go this morning,” the editor said with the arrogance of a young reporter scooping old timers. Spinning on flat feet with nostrils flaring, and an upward tilt to his nose, Kennedy made his exit, casually returning to his office, located behind a one-way mirror. Everyone knew somewhere behind that shiny glass window, beady
eyes were often peering out at those who were reluctantly performing their duties.

“She got what she deserved,” Marlon said under his breath, nodding in agreement with himself. He grabbed his assignment, crammed assorted notes into his cracked leather attache, and departing the building as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Darting into the street between passing cars, his feet were itching to carry his body anywhere far away. On the corner of Eighth and Union, he heard the cry of an angry woman who was screaming insults at the driver of a bus she had missed. Her outburst, shrill and piercing to his ears, startled three stray dogs, causing them to dash into congested traffic. It was not a unique occurrence in this place where Minnie Pearl had set the pace. Screaming people and barking dogs in the street, or on the stage of Grand Ole Opry, had become a way of life. “What you see is what you see,” Marlon was mumbling. “And what you hear is what you hear. Sights and sounds of Music City USA have made a few people more famous than they even dreamed they would be. Maybe I should
do a story about Ralph Emery or Skeeter Davis?” he mumbled.

“This city is getting too old,” he said to himself as he walked along the broken, grey sidewalks. Even the changing colors of out-dated traffic lights had been dimmed by Father Time.

Somehow, Nashville remained a fascinating place for natives as well as for tourists who spend more money on food and souvenirs than on stylish clothing. There were bumper-to-bumper cars, motor homes, Opry tour buses, vans, rodeo trucks and motorized bikes with out-of-state license plates – everywhere people tried to travel. Billboards, flickering neon signs, crowded motels and hotels, fast food hot spots, hordes of beautiful girls, musicians with guitars strapped to their backs, bus-stop benches and homeless wanderers were everywhere curious eyes were looking. Broadway and Music Row had become a haven for anyone singing a song, wiggling a butt, picking their nose, taking pictures of themselves
at the Country Music Hall of Fame or getting an autograph for their scrapbook from anyone who had made a record.

“It has become an enigma,” Marlon realized while continuing impulsive thought processes in reaction to the immediate environment. “People flock here from all over the world to see and be seen.”

One thought was following another, and then from out of a clear blue sky, an idea popped in: “Celebrity Cemetery! It might work if it’s done right. Why not? Some mercenary with more money than brains could immortalize the dust of departed stars, bringing them together for a final performance. Carved granite monuments could be placed on a patch of Tennessee soil where winding walkways and recorded musical messages could entertain fans for generations to come. People might think they had died and gone to Hillbilly Heaven if it's designed with Hank Williams in mind.” he was thinking instead of talking.

Marlon had learned not to tangle with “music biz insiders,” so he put the brilliant, slightly morose idea out of his things-to-do list. Big shots had threatened to railroad him out of town more than once whenever
he was complaining – face-to-face – about songs, slogans and business concepts they had plagiarized.

Getting rich and famous without giving recognition or compensation to those who come up with new ideas was a common practice. “Fame and fortune is a pie that can only be cut in a few pieces. Tell that to sons and daughters who innocently believe musical originality is respected in Nashville,” he was yelling in a silent whisper.

There was about as much glamour at the Grand Exhibition Hall for Marlon as a post card from Abraham Lincoln would have for Idi Amin or Yasser Arafat. Unless, of course, it was the rare sound of Mozart, Bach or Tchaikovsky being played by the famed MCUSA Philharmonic Orchestra. It was the only sound he would actually dig deep inside his pockets for money to buy. For him, Country Music could be classified
as more noise than melody.

Marlon felt superior to most good ole boys who take pride in being a redneck. For unsophisticated city slickers like him, buying the latest hit from Nashville would be the same as giving a blank check to a tramp. Buying bad music was just another form of charity, making cynical cheapskates, like him, feel kind and generous.

Five blocks later in a “Free Parking” lot provided by Happy’s Bait Shop, Marlon took the key out of his pocket to unlock the door. The chocolate brown. two-door Monte Carlo always started better when pumping the pedal twice before starting the engine. Backing up, he made a sharp right turn, and then spun away, leaving smoke pouring from the exhaust – with burnt rubber on the pavement as a tip.

He was racing up West End Avenue to Centennial Park, needing leisure moments to bring his aging, overactive mind into conformity with a lazy body. Big changes had to be made in the way he was perceiving reality. A change of pace was needed before his internal combustion caused a fatal explosion. The time was coming when he’d either have to flow
with the flow or start resisting the status quo to avoid a heart attack.

Finding a shady spot under a tree where he could park was easy enough, but the vigorous stroll around the Parthenon exterior was increasing his pulse. Veins were tingling with excitement – beyond normal endurance – as gallons of blood circulated through aching flesh. Instead of pretty girls laying on the grass under the sun getting a tan, all he could see
on that day were pigeons pecking at hidden things in the weeds.

Marlon admired the massive metal doors at the entrance, respectfully pushed them open, and then paused, instead, to scrape his shoes clean before entering, His steps were like irregular thoughts, seeming to echo with regularity. Soft thumping sounds reverberated from wall-to-wall, emphasizing his appreciation for symbolic replicas of a renowned Greek culture – in ways only a “Celebrity Cemetery” could hope to imitate.

He shrugged his shoulders, knowing dead people or defunct cultures were only reminders of his own mortality. Even so, he was enjoying a fleeting glance at reproductions of Dionysus from the East Pediment – along with Demeter, Persephone and Artemis, believed to be the Three Fates. “Sculptured figures have been immortalized because the artistic master of human anatomy, Phidias, fancied himself to be a tool in the hands of God,” Marlon took pride in believing.

“Civilizations slip away without warning,” he mumbled while caressing the base of Artemis with his fingertips. “Nobody cares about this stuff except for morose... grave diggers... who are a vital link... connecting contemporary life to what’s known as historic preservation. Why does anyone care about relics from the past? We humans should be focused on living one day at a time. We should turn loose of the past... and just let it fade away. Now is all that matters!”

“What did you say, young man?” an elderly woman asked as she came out from behind the statue, thinking Marlon had been talking to her.

He ignored her for a few seconds before uttering a terse response. “I could talk... talk... and talk... until the prophesied Armageddon... and not be understood by tourists... who had never set foot in the Parthenon.”

The lady remained silent. He slowly walked away. She followed and was waiting for more chatter: “Why are some people remembered while the majority of us are lost between the pages of history? This Greek myth has somehow manifested itself right here in the middle of Centennial Park... where graduates of Hume Fogg have trouble pronouncing words with more than three syllables. Are these works of art... sustained by appreciation for magnificence... or is there a spiritual reason? Statues in various places around the world have lasted longer than the decomposed life of creative human sculptors. Could we say that these stone faces... and body shapes... serve a useful purpose... or are we only idolizing earthly images made by long-gone artists who returned to dust?”

“Young man, do you always talk to yourself?” the lady was asking with a compassionate expression – mixed with consternation.

Marlon didn’t answer. He continued to wander about, oblivious to her presence, noticing how interestingly the statues contrasted with the vivid colors of oil painting hanging on grey walls. Thousands of brush strokes had brought forth dozens of masterpieces to be enjoyed. Talented artists from the past had made current reality seem like a leaky toilet – or a stomachache after eating too much at Taco Bell.

It was 11:00 AM, when he finished soul searching at Centennial Park, and it was 1:25 PM, when he sat down on a metal folding chair in the crowded Press Room at the State Capitol. It had always been evident to anyone who knew him, he did his job only because he despised himself if he didn’t rook the Nashville Daily Chronicle out of a paycheck at the end of every week – and every month of every year.

When observing the eagerness of younger, more dedicated associates, he reluctantly feigned mild interest. He was sitting, conspicuously, against the rear wall under a photo of President George W. Bush who had been photographed shaking hands with a local service station attendant.

NOTE: You have only read a few pages of a manuscript that has been made into a book with over 400 pages. Click the yellow links all the way to page 11 to read the message from God!

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