“I’m sorry,” the lumberjack whispered sweetly to his axe, “but you just aren’t all that useful. Sure, you can cut down trees, but you can only cut down so many, and then you need sharpening. It really is a hassle. So I’m throwing you away and waiting for one that’s always sharp.”

The axe said nothing.

“You won’t defend yourself?” said the lumberjack. “How can you? My logic is unassailable.”

The axe said nothing.

“You cannot cut my meat like a knife, and you cannot warm my house in the winter, either,” said the lumberjack. “Can you do anything at all?”

“This is disgusting!” Gerald said pretending to be musing to himself but straining to be heard by everyone. “Look at the trash can. It doesn’t look like it’s been emptied all day. You people live like disgusting pigs!”

Jim and Ted swiveled around in their chairs in unison with puzzled faces.

“This is an office, Gerald,” Jim said. “There’s only paper in the trash.”

“It’s not exactly unsanitary,” Ted added.

“Is it in the trash? Is trash filthy?” They were more statements than questions. “Is this a farm or an office?”

Ted sighed, “It’s an office.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Gerald snarled.

Jack was the unluckiest man alive. He had done it all: made millions through sleazy backroom trades, bribed government officials, financially supported violent radical revolutionary groups in South and Central America, had multiple steamy affairs, and it had all come out on television to be scrutinized by millions of people all across the country.

How did it get this bad? He asked himself in his darkened room. It should have ended differently.

“Time for the inauguration,” an aide slipped in and said, and then with an added flourish, “Mister President.”

Jack sighed. This is going to be a long four years.

“You should be thinking about your life, your goals,” Theresa was saying.

Sam pondered over his sheet of paper with the words “BUCKET LIST” at the top underlined twice for emphasis. He tapped his pencil in frustration.

“What do you want to accomplish with your life, Sam? You only have a limited amount of time on this planet.”

Sam penciled a bullet point and scribbled “write a Bucket List.”

“Without a purpose, life is aimless and meaningless,” Theresa was in her own world now.

Sam crossed out his only item. “Done,” he said. “I have now lived life to the fullest.”

My very first memory is of the Pacific Ocean. I can still remember the clumps of long green grass lining the twisting sandy path to the beach. It’s that path that I actually remember. It was from there that you could first see the ocean and its wide expanse.

I remember seeing it walking down the path. I remember seeing it returning up that same path as the day was ending. The ocean was a deep purple. The sky was pink.

It has been nearly twenty-five years since I last beheld the Pacific with my own eyes. Someday I will again.

“It’s cursed,” we were warned. Tragic death tends to curse a place, I guess.

Half a century ago the path among the trees was lined with lights and attractions. Now it was like a shrine to simpler times, a grove dedicated to a distant past, a graveyard of happiness.

The skeletal remains of The Red Cyclone still remained, though most of it was rusted and rotten. We walked along the tracks as far as we could go. In the crisp morning air, among the mists clinging to the damp ground, ghosts from 1964 still were weeping for lives cut disastrously short.

“It’s not safe to cross,” he said with unwavering rigidity. “You will need to wait a minute.” His face was cold, uncaring.

“You can’t tell me what to do!” Heather said with lips pursed, head bobbing, and finger pointed to the sky. “I do what I want, and no man will tell me otherwise.” Heather proceeded into the street, the palm of her hand outstretched toward the rude man. “I do what I want,” she repeated.

Heather was hit by an oncoming city bus.

Moral of the story: Always follow high authority figures, like crossing guards. It could save your life.