Pocket Full of Tales is a pocket book about tales. It is a collection of stories ranging from the realistic to the fantastic, from the mysterious to the merely curious, and from the allegorical to the symbolic. It is a compilation of tales that finds its origins in everyday life, elevated, at times, to the sublime. Some of the tales probe hidden areas of the soul, while others simply tickle the imagination.

As the readers meet the characters and encounter circumstances found in the tales, they may rediscover acquaintances, recall places, remember dreams, and even reinvent themselves.

Living and writing in upstate New York, "Ernie" or "Gio" is a retired community college professor. In his examining of the human condition, he has developed and taught courses in modern existential literature and psychological investigation in literature. In addition, he has edited Broome Community College's literary magazine for nearly two decades. From his underpinnings of Jean-Paul Sartre to C. G. Jung, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Hermann Hesse, the author delves into the dynamics of being in this collection of short writings.

As a member of the United State Army in Germany in the early sixties, Ernie is a veteran of the Cuban Crisis and the impact of the Berlin Wall. Originally assigned to Germany as a linguist to interrogate Lithuanians fleeing the yoke of Soviet oppression, the author also served as a member of the 12th Military Historical Detachment in its mission to compile and document the unfolding history of the Seventh Army in Europe.

In the mid-sixties, Ernie worked as a technical writer for Singer Link, contributing cover stories for the Connecting Link magazine and writing releases about Lunar Landing Module simulation which Singer Link was engineering to train astronauts to land on the moon.

In 1969, now married and the father of two daughters, Ernie became a member of the faculty of Broome Community College in Binghamton, New York, where during his tenure he taught English composition, English as a second language, numerous literature courses, creative writing, and German. He retired from full-time teaching in 1994 and was awarded the status of Professor Emeritus in 1997.

I must say, these stories were indeed unusual. Their veiled meanings bewildered me, although they fascinated me up to their bizarre and haunting conclusions. Much like his paintings, I would say. I do not think that I could have made any sort of constructive statement, then, concerning their worth. 0h it was not that they were worthless. On the contrary, it was I who lacked insight to asses their value. Frankly, I could not conceive of Jon having written them. Evidently the years had drawn us further apart than I had imagined. Only after talking with Margie after she had finally read the stories, did I begin to sense their meanings for Jon, for Margie, and even for me, as well as for you, too, reader. Only then did I grasp the interwoven pattern implicit not only in the stories, but in my friend's life, and in his mysterious departure. Shortly after arriving at the airport, I was picked out of the crowd by a tall, slender woman whose family's Spanish ancestry majestically complimented her graceful form. Her dark eyes and California-almond complexion contrasted considerably with her almost cool composure. The effect was enchanting and I liked her immediately. She reminded me of a swan. "Mr. Jorgens, I'm so pleased to meet you. Jon spoke so often of you," she said quietly. "The pleasure is all mine," I answered. "I only wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances." When I began to express my remorse at so tragic an event, Margie interrupted me with a slight gesture, indicating that she had heard much too much already. Right to the point, Margie remarked almost matter-of-factly, "I must tell you, Mr. Jorgens, there will be no funeral really. Perhaps a brief ceremony on the beach, but no funeral as such. I should have been more explicit in my wire, but I knew that Jon would have wanted you here." I really did not have the slightest idea what to say. I could not even think of an intelligent question. I do, however, remember thinking to myself, "Maybe after the ceremony on the beach, they will have a barbecue." Somehow I felt cheated. No coffin, no cemetery, no introductions, no crying, no consoling, just a small ceremony on the beach. Might as well have a barbecue. I did finally manage to stammer, "I take it that you are going to bury Jon on the beach." "No, Mr. Jorgens, as a matter of fact, we're not going to bury Jon." A bier. A flaming bier. That is all I could envision and around the blaze I imagined a small group of close acquaintances roasting hot dogs, as my friend's soul, well fed, flew with the west wind into the setting sun to the sound of the chattering surf.