dreamszilla

A handyman in his sixties and a writer in her fifties each evaluate their relationship during a dinner date. Image generated with OpenAI "Who are you looking at?" she asks when his gaze shifts to a woman walking by their table. "Nobody." "Hmmm. Really?" "Really. I'm just checking the place out." "What are you laughing at?" His eyes are tearing up. "I don't know, you're just funny." "Good funny?" "Yeah, mostly. And paranoid funny. Like now." She's staring at him. "Is it hot in here?" It's like the restaurant is moving in slow motion. "You're so stoned." He is a little stoned. It takes the edge off when he's riding and it's five degrees out. But he never rides after drinking. He didn't make it to 61 just to end up as roadkill on Route 7. But he thinks, "Wouldn't that be funny? Splattered brains frozen into a bl...

Schoolgirl Jackie is frustrated about being kicked out of her favourite teacher's classroom because of a dead rat, and starts to see cracks in the façades put up by the adults in her life. Image generated with OpenAI The smell hit us the moment we entered our classroom on Monday morning - like my socks if I left them in my bag for a few days after figure skating practice. And that wasn't the only strange thing. Ms. Krenshaw didn't greet us at the door like she usually does, and instead was busy speaking to our principal, Ms. Lorry, with concerned looks and hushed voices. Ms. Krenshaw looked put-together like she did every Monday. My mother used that phrase, and it reminded me of Humpty Dumpty - my favourite nursery rhyme when I was little - who couldn't be put back together, even with the help of all those knights and all those horses. I imagined Ms. Krenshaw waking up early to tape up the cracks in her shell - cracks that wouldn't stay sealed. But as ...

A boy tries to make his way in life despite abusive parents and meagre prospects. Image generated with OpenAI When we were kids, living far out in the country, winter seemed infinite. As it dragged on, we watched for milky yellow dawns to paint the icy places with faint golden brushstrokes of hope. Finally, after months of curdled gray skies, purple crocuses shouldered up through last year's matted leaves. When the crocuses bowed off the stage, tangles of glowing yellow forsythia took over. Springtime! No more smelling wood smoke, wet woolen coats, or cooking odors bottled up in a closed house. Spring was also the time when my older sister would run away from home. The snow melted, the trees budded, Sis took off. Our mother was an angular woman, ash blonde with kaleidoscope hazel eyes that sometimes looked green, and she had an aquiline nose. She was bright and had done well in school, or so she told us. My sister struggled in school. Back then, "learning dis...