Jack Swenson has yet to be nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and his submissions are snubbed by many prestigious journals, which in his opinion is shocking and disgraceful and smacks of bias against old, straight, white men. Legal action is pending. Meanwhile, he carries on, scribbling his stories on scraps of paper and the sides of barns. His fiction has been described as bold, wise, funny, courageous, and aware. He is the author of five self-published books of short fiction. (He plans to sue the major publishing houses, too.) In spite of the lack of demand for his voluminous output, he labors on, for he loves to write, and he loves flash fiction, and also because if he didn't write (and preach to his small flock of loyal parishioners at the local Senior Center), what in the world would he do?