On a long stretch of Indonesian highway between the cities of Surabaya and Paiton, Omar Bradley Jordan finally found the third world. He sang to himself, the words escaping his lips softly, “how did I get here?”
“Sorry?” the driver of his taxi limo answered.
“Nothing, nothing. I was talking to myself.”
Two compañeros, a pig and a chicken, sat under the reaching arms of an ancient guabba tree. "Which would you rather be a pig or a chicken?" said the chicken to the pig. "I never thought about it before. Which would you rather be?" sad the pig to the chicken.
My new American coach Aengus picked me up from the airport last night, and Wendy will be the first teammate that I’ll meet.
“You’ll like her. Wendy is nice,” Aengus says.
I nod.
“She’s from southern Arkansas. She’s a typical southern, friendly girl,” Aengus says.
The holding tank was already crowded with other messiahs when Jesus was tossed in by the Temple Guards. The others made room for the newcomer without looking at him; everyone was focused on a vision only visible to him, somewhere beyond the cinderblock walls, the steel door, the concrete ceiling and floor. They only looked up to glance at Jesus when shortly afterwards the guards came back for him, to be interrogated out of his turn.