dreamszilla

In Huron County, early 1910s, eight-year-old Ruth navigates the freedoms and perils of farm life; by John RC Potter. Image generated with OpenAI It was a Saturday morning in late spring in Tuckersmith Township. The air was moist and fresh with the promise of a renewed world. It seemed to Ruth that God had taken a paintbrush and with two broad strokes - one of deep green, the other of cool blue - had created the earth and the sky. To Ruth, it was a world that seemed without end. The dirt lane ran in a straight line between the house and the barn, disappearing on the horizon where it met up with the side road, that led to the highway to the south. At that junction, the highway to the west meandered until finally reaching the village of Bayfield, on the shores of Lake Huron, whilst to the east, and much closer at hand, was the hamlet of Brucefield. Ruth was most familiar with Brucefield because she was sometimes fortunate enough to go there with her parents when they went to t...

Sturges supplements his poverty wage at the student union with petty thievery - what could possibly go wrong? By Bill Tope. Image generated with OpenAI "Man, I gotta find a new job," I told my boss Arno on the final day of work for the season. I had worked at the on-campus music festival held at the university each summer. Arno, a supervisor there, apparently felt that I had served him well, for he decided to use his considerable influence to get me a position in the Student Union, where he also worked when the festival wasn't running. "Leave it to me, Sturges," replied Arno optimistically. Though only a year older than my twenty years, he exuded confidence and authority. So we quitted the natural outdoor amphitheater where the concerts were held, and made our way to the campus proper and to the Union, where Arno introduced me to Carl, supervisor of the day's shift janitorial crew. Carl was in the Civil Service but also supervised the students,...

An out-of-work urban design professor uses his explorations of London's psychogeography to avoid reflecting on himself, in Samuel Rutishauser-Mills' sophisticated satire. Image generated with OpenAI The derive is the art most antithetical to the workings of late capitalism. Using movement, our goal is to interfere with the mechanisms of the superstructure. We refuse to 'commute' along the authorised transit lines that link key urban features, typically of commercial interest. Only when positioned in the dead space of the urban environment do we know who we really are. My investigations have taken me to the hinterlands of this strange city. What I've seen here has irreparably shaped my impressions of its more popular reaches - the monuments and squares - that wink at me now like cursed trinkets, tempting passersby with their poisonous promises. Before the pandemic, I taught urban studies at a college in London, which encompassed a psychogeography modul...

A firetruck is hijacked by a man desperate to save his daughter from an apocalyptic wildfire; by Aidan Alberts. Image generated with OpenAI Hurtling through the shrouded cover of the burning town of Paradise, Frank's fingernails carved deep into the black leather of the steering wheel. He did not appreciate the mechanistic sound of a cocking shotgun, or the way the gun's silver barrel scattered little beams of vermillion light in his personal space. The twelve-gauge muzzle pushed into the side of his forehead, while he bit his lower lip. Frank couldn't believe his luck after minutes before having narrowly escaped death by fire, only now to find himself on the wrong side of a gun. Earlier this morning, he had stared up at the pitch-black fortress of smoke that rose like a dark tide out of the mountains. Back burns, fire breaks and any thought of containment were useless when it came to controlling this magnitude of fire. For the people on the west side, the win...

Arnie doesn't believe that Larry is sleeping with a woman that seems way out of his league, and they make a bet over it - but who will have the last laugh? By Scott Harris. Image generated with OpenAI Shunning the conventional approach has always appealed to me. I am what I am. My most egregious malady seems to be greed. Greed for dope, food, booze and most grievously - money. Greed for sloth is also a favorite. The lengths I will go to do nothing is astounding. I'm always in search of a cozy cushion. The easy route. The right lane going the speed limit with a golden oldie wafting from the speakers. I also have a short attention span and get bored easily. That's when I feel the need to whip it in the left lane and tromp the gas and see what this baby will do. That leads me to bad decisions and momentary regrets. These traits have gotten me branded as a "toxic person." What the fuck does that mean? New wave psychobabble bullshit, I say. I'm old sc...