dreamszilla

Hart builds a toboggan run for his son’s first ride; by Mitchell Toews. Hart's breath hangs in the air around his head and the sunshine makes splinters of floating ice into glinting flashes, gone in an instant. His long woollen scarf, creased canvas parka and red toque are all hoary with frost. Heavy leather work mitts, wet and steaming, cover his hands. After first laying out a winding trail in the snow and marking its course with twigs, he sets to stamping and packing the snow into a shallow concave chute about two feet wide. With the course laid and the top layer of snow warmed by the sun, he drops to all fours to shape with palm and balled fist. The toboggan run begins on the steps of his tiny house, continues over the yard, across a rutted, ice-filled road and down into the nearby creek bed. Following two afternoons of work, Hart is satisfied with his effort. A new garden hose uncoils reluctantly, its rubber memory stubbornly retaining a corkscrew pattern in the raw col

Adam Dorsheimer's character falls in love at first sight with a woman sitting on the boardwalk, but there is more than one obstacle between them. On days like this, when the sun is lazily tucked away behind a sheet of dull, unmoving clouds and the voice of the sea is little more than a hushed whisper, I can't help but reminisce. I used to hate this kind of weather. I didn't think about God so much back then, but I couldn't shake the feeling that these days were some kind of punishment - He was ruining my day before it even began, condemning me to waste my precious youth indoors! But see, I've gotten to know Him much better in my old age, and I've come to realize that gray skies are His way of stopping time, of forcing us to reflect, to meditate, to overcome. And if He wants to go around stopping and starting time, who am I to argue? Yes, I suppose I was impatient then, too much so for my own good. But time has a funny way of fixing that, even for me. I can

Patrick's lack of ambition means he ends up as a furniture salesman, with a pig, being played like a pawn by the women in his life; by Mark Williams. All the gods, all the Heavens, all the Hells are within you. - from The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell I was napping in my Lazy World with Helen, my fingers laced across her bristles, when I heard the sound of crickets down the hall. "Text," Mel yelled, as if I couldn't hear the chirping or I didn't recognize my text tone. Or she feared I might think that we had crickets. "Text," Mel insisted above the chirping and the hum of my Lazy World ZenX Vibrating Power Recliner. Did I feel like switching the vibrations off, powering my footrest down, lifting Helen from my lap, walking down the hall and back, lifting Helen to my lap, powering my footrest up, and switching the vibrations on? Plus, it took six seconds for my footrest to power either way. The text could wait. "Patrick, text ." &

School rebel Mark Stenrud is threatened with suspension and sent home, so he joins some friends on a road trip across the Mexican border that will change his life, in Paul Justison's coming-of-age tale.  My inner clock had beaten the alarm by almost four minutes. Not sure why I even set the thing. Safety maybe. Dressed and opened the door of my sanctuary. Quiet in the rest of the trailer, and I kept it that way eating a bowl of Rice Chex. Avoided Mother's heels and a pair of boots in the living room, shut the door behind me, and strode out of the Oasis for Mobile Living. Often on the way to school, I'd glimpse the mountains ringing the town and remember peaceful walks in their shelter. Sometimes I'd picture what else surrounded Tucson - Titan intercontinental ballistic missiles. We could destroy 18 Soviet cities with the 9-megaton nuclear warhead on each Titan. Our annihilation would occur with the initial Soviet strike or from the resulting fallout. I never worrie