Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
I’m driven to write. If I didn’t, at some point I would feel like I must burst. Been that way since I was a teenager. I write as self-expression. However the themes of my writing are in the defense and for the promulgation of my values. They represent “The Right.” Hence, I write Rightly.
“Dear Sean, yesterday’s column disappointed me. You cannot be a true believer and believe in ghosts at the same time. God simply doesn’t work that way.
We make men without chests and expect from them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honor and are shocked to find traitors in our midst.
Does your mind wander when you pray? Do you have trouble staying focused? Maybe you have PADD–Prayer Attention Deficit Disorder. Here’s some help!
Gettysburg is a place of ghosts. That’s what they say. This town is known to historians and ghost hunters as the promised land for paranormal activity. There’s the phantom regiment, sometimes heard marching through the streets. There’s the specter of a little girl at the Tillie Pierce House, often heard playing in the other room, …
There are so many sad, depressed and lonely people in our world today. They’re not just pessimistic about the future, they’re frightened of the present and overwhelmed with deep depression that they live with every day.
As our rental car eased into Gettysburg, past the brick-and-plank storefronts selling tourist trinkets, women’s fashion, artisan tacos, funnel cakes, and free CBD samples, my imagination was running amok.
Nobody understood how to navigate the endless battle to control what and how we think better than COL James N. “Nick” Rowe, who spent five years as a prisoner of the Viet Cong.
Bobby and I played music before a theater of people at the Vista Retirement Community in Wyckoff, New Jersey. The Vista is a giant cruise ship on land, minus the lifeboats, slot machines, and go-go dancers.
Nobody understood how to navigate the endless battle to control what and how we think better than COL James N. “Nick” Rowe, who spent five years as a prisoner of the Viet Cong.
She shall remain anonymous. Because that’s how she wants it. She doesn’t want attention. She waits tables for a living. She’s on her feet for long hours. And when she’s finished, she goes home and takes care of three kids.
The great philosopher Yogi Bearra said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” Indeed, so. This August 2025, I’m keenly aware of big forks in the road of life and history.
God still loves us, and He wants us to live up to his standards. How? Read on!
She was 10 years old. She got kicked in the leg, during P.E. class. No big deal. Happens all the time. But her leg started doing weird things. Something was definitely wrong. “My leg started swelling, almost the size of a baseball,” she remembers.
She never fired a shot at Camp Perry, but her fingerprints are on a thousand targets. She never wore a medal, but she helped hang hundreds around the necks of others. In every generation of American rifle shooting, there are traces of Mary Kay Wigger—the quiet force who kept the team on time, in line, and always believing they could win.
The news reporter said the dog was from Rustburg, Virginia. The dog is named Sweet Sienna. She has become a celebrity in this state. It all happened a few days ago in Campbell County.
Seldovia, Alaska, sits somewhere near the top of the world. It’s a nanoscopic village on the North Pacific. Population 225. Tons of fishing boats. A lot of cold, icy, Kachemak Bay water. A few days ago, a local spotted something huge stranded on the beach. It was a minke whale. About the same length as a mid-size Toyota.
I want to tell you a story. In February of 1979, a 7-year-old named Chris Grecius, of Scottsdale, Arizona, found out he had leukemia. It was the end of the world. No, it was worse than that. It felt like the end of a family.
It was the third time my flight had been delayed on the same day. I was alone. I had been trapped inside the Fayetteville airport since the dawn of the Industrial Revolution.
My plane hovered over Fayetteville, Arkansas, preparing for landing. The elderly lady in the seat next to me was gripping the armrest. She had been using aggressive armrest etiquette throughout our flight.