dreamszilla

In 1980s Manhattan, veterinarian Faye Simpson visits her friend in hospital, and reflects on their relationship; by Millicent Eidson. The brain cyst glows on the radiologic film hanging from metal clips over the light box. No one, even without medical training, can miss that foreign aberration, an invasion. Like an ostrich egg - fleshy insides encapsulated by a shell. My skin prickles - everything within the sterile room is clammy, including your fingers, cradled in my bare right hand. Holding the discarded plastic glove in my left, I glance back to the ICU window - no one catches me breaking personal protection procedure. They require a full mask, gown, and gloves since finding the three-centimeter purple lesion - like raisin road-kill - on your back. Your outrageous Halloween costume last month didn't expose its ugly threat. I can't ask you about it - you've been unconscious since I raced to Mount Sinai. An hour earlier, I was on my way to cheer as you marched in t

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Gentleman thief John Dearborn can break into any safe, but the terms of his latest job offer are rather unusual; by Foster Trecost. John Dearborn wore a tailored suit. His jacket allowed an ideal amount of starched white sleeve to extend from beneath the cuff, his trousers flowed like windblown wheat. He was polished like his shoes and his hair as black. No one would have guessed he was a thief. He left bank counters to those with more immediate needs. He no longer stole for himself, but was paid nicely to steal for others. Legitimate circles of wealth accepted him and, perhaps an attempt at balance, his charitable offerings were generous. His residence reflected his worth, but only in address. Inside, a minimalist approach pervaded; his most precious possessions were hidden from sight. "Good morning, Mr. Dearborn." A uniformed employee opened the door. "Morning, Sam." The crisp morning had John looking forward to a walk, but the walk could wait. Though

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For seventeen days and seventeen nights, John McCrae, a soldier in World War 1 and a surgeon during the second battle of Ypres in Belgium, said that he and his comrades never took their clothes off or boots, except occasionally. “In all that time while I was awake, gunfire and rifle fire never ceased for sixty seconds, he said.  Behind all the noise, all we could see were sights of the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and the terrible anxiety lest the line should give way.” Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae was a soldier, physician, and poet. He was also the son of a military leader who grew up believing in fighting for his country. His friend, Alexis Helmer, was killed during the battle on May 2. While McCrae was performing the burial service for his friend, he noticed the beautiful red Poppies that quickly grew around the graves of those who died at Ypres. The seeds had scattered in the wind and sat dormant in the ground, only germinating when the land was disturbed—as it was by the

In 1970s rural Ontario, young Marc Perreault suffers from a hormone deficiency, and decides he's had enough; by Mark Creedon. It was Saturday night, October 10, 1970, and Linda Perreault was tending bar alone at the Capital, while her boss and two colleagues were off at a wedding. She didn't usually mind working by herself, but tonight she was jumpy. The band was loud and many of the men were already drunk. At the end of the bar, a small black-and-white television flashed images of Pierre Trudeau being interviewed by a reporter on the steps of Parliament Hill. Linda thought she noticed a tic in the eye of the usually unflappable prime minister. A man wove to the bar and ordered a jug of beer. Linda handed it off, retrieved her quarter tip from a puddle, and mopped up the spill. She stared at the crowd and wondered when things would get ugly. The trick was to spot the spark that would ignite the room. It might be a clash between French and English, or some guy who suspe

Will and Jason bet each other they can't spend a whole day without looking at a screen, in Jen Mierisch's cute comedy. It had sounded like a great idea after three mojitos. Liz was bartending that night. "Jason's driving, right, Will?" she asked me, taking a break from slicing lemons to press a glass of water into my hand. "This guy," I told Liz, my arm around Jason, "this guy did laps around the living room last night. Just to get to 10,000 steps before bed!" "What? I like to stay in shape," Jason said. "Obviously," said Liz, winking at me. "He's obsessed with his Fitbit. And his phone," I carried on, buoyed by an alcoholic wave of truth. "He's on it twenty-four seven." "So? I'm a gadget guy." "My gadget guy," I said, planting a smooch on his stubbly cheek. "You're drunk, Will," said Jason, smiling. "Seriously, though," I plowed