dreamszilla

A trio of twelve-year-olds plan to light a stash of fireworks in a long-abandoned mill, in Tom Sheehan's nostalgic mystery. Old Scott's Mill on the Saugus River, rebuilt in 1847 after a fire, a long-time employer of hard workers at wool and leather goods and lastly boot protection for soldiers in Viet Nam, had given off odd sounds since the day it closed down, a dozen years earlier in a new century. Now it gave off a sense of passage, spooky passage, which none of us three pals could measure or pinpoint its source. We had saved a cache of fireworks, my pals, Sinagna, Injun Joe and Charlie B, each of us twelve years old within three days of each other. "Pals to the end," we had said, squirreling away the fireworks in Sinagna's Aunt Lil's barn leaning from one century into another. Many times we were afraid those hidden prizes would explode in their secret hideaway, our want for noise and excitement so strong, at times like hunger tantrums. But we had saved

Lee Conrad tells a story of the commonalities between different social battles in a tough American city, when an old man who takes his new neighbour's son under his wing. The early spring day turned cold and grey. Sleet pecked at Brian Donahue's apartment window like angry birds demanding entry. Brian rose from his well-worn chair, leaving behind a substantial imprint in the cushion. He groaned and swore as he stood. His 78-year-old body creaked from long ago battles. He looked out the window at the people on the street, their heads down from the onslaught of the sleet or life itself. Days later, as Brian returned to his apartment from a visit to his doctor, a young boy bowled into him as he exited the elevator on the 4th floor. Brian's six-foot frame bounced the scrawny, five-foot kid off his body. The boy laid sprawled out on the carpet. "Sorry, mister." Brian reached down to him. "Here, son, let me help you up. Where are you running to in such a

Tim Frank’s character tells of an intense relationship with fellow college student Elle. Our train sliced through a tunnel, causing my eardrums to pop. We juddered in our seats and the wheels clapped like an offbeat gospel choir. Our class was on a school trip to the Tate Modern art gallery. We had boarded a train from a deserted countryside station and then we travelled through cornfields bordered by clumps of maple trees, bound for central London. I'd hardly spoken a word to Elle before, but I was instantly put at ease in her presence as she sat down beside me, nonchalantly plucked an earphone from my ear and placed it in hers. I felt a thrill as she brushed up against my arm with her hand - blue sapphire gemstones on every finger. Half an hour later she was asleep with her head upon my shoulder. Still, we had hardly shared a word, but other students had noticed us and were beginning to gossip. When Elle went to the toilet, Cynthia, who had a major crush on me, was fumin

Kenneth Schalhoub channels Yevgeny Zamyatin's We in this sci-fi about an emotionally suppressed counselor who discovers desire. The Counselor waited for his next client. His eyes focused on the wall straight ahead; an ever-changing projection of events in his past. He viewed his younger self staring at paintings in history books. He watched himself reading about nature before the world changed to programmable ambiances. He saw the image of himself staring across the pond at girls his age, just out of reach. He stared at the next image; the day when he talked with his Companion about girls. The next day his Companion administered the Medication. His client arrived; the wall faded to neutral. Anna sat with perfect posture in the ShapeShift, waiting for the Counselor to begin. "You were taught years ago that nothing is permanent," The Counselor said to Anna. Daylight radiated through the fully cleared windows. The sun's glow amplified her green eyes.

Lamont A. Turner's character wonders if he can put his unusual curse to good use, by targeting an unpleasant politican. I've never wanted to hurt anybody. I don't even have much of a temper. I have, up until recently, lived a normal, quiet existence, bothering no one. Even now I can honestly say I have never had the desire to kill anyone, and have certainly never made plans involving homicide, yet every day at three o'clock pm I find myself in situations that cast me in the role of the agent of death. I have no idea why this happens. I only know it happens at the same time every day, and that I am powerless to stop it. It started one afternoon about six months ago. While driving home from the store, I had been stopped by a crossing guard so a group of children could cross the street. Just after they had started across, I released the brake and sped toward them, stopping only a few feet short of running them down. I claimed I had had a muscle spasm in my foot and ap

A few years ago, we decided to grow a sunflower house for our grandchildren in the spring. We used sticks and strings to map out a section of ground for the tiny house, leaving a clear space at one end for the door. We cleared out the grass and rocks and dug a small trench underneath the string. Then we planted two rows of giant sunflower seed about six inches apart so that the sunflower walls would be thick. Finally, we watered and mulched them and watch them grow. When the grandchildren visited in the summer, they were delighted to find their own sunflower house to play in. They loved it, and so did the birds. They have mostly grown out of playing in sunflower houses, but they still love to help in our garden and pick the wild sunflowers that grow in our yard. There are three groups of sunflowers; tall sunflowers, dwarf sunflowers, colored sunflowers. There are also over 50 varieties, ranging from the common sunflower that sometimes grows without an invitation to the tall sunflo

Alice flies home to San Francisco after a failed business deal in Tokyo, and finds herself cast forward in time - can she reconnect with those closest to her? By Alison McBain. As soon as Alice stepped off the plane, she was heading home to fall into bed. Then, when she woke up, maybe she could try to fix the mess she was in. It didn't help that the nearly ten-hour trip from Tokyo to San Francisco had been brutally long, especially after the endless days of meetings preceding it. While Alice had spun a story for her bosses from five thousand miles away, the reality was that she was returning home with unsigned contracts. The multi-million deal was off. And after she told her bosses, her job might end up in the "off" category, too. Alice pressed the power key on her phone, and it chimed a musical harp-scale welcome. But the signal was absent - zero bars. No matter which way she turned it. The woman next to her leaned closer and held up her cell. "You, too?&qu