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| Author: |
Hugh MacDonald |
| Dated: |
Tuesday, October 03 2006 @ 10:30 AM EDT |
| Viewed: |
1384 times |
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| The frost on the glass was thick and it covered a third of the window. The rest was covered with steam. The pot on the stove bubbled, and I waited eagerly for the porridge to be done. The kettle was boiling fiercely and my mother placed a spoon between the lid and the spout to put an end to the incessant whistling. Much of the wall and ceiling was wet from the kettle’s steam. It contributed to the fogged up window. The steam would soon overtake the remaining frost as it, and the heat from the coal stove, drove away the chill the night air had left behind.
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| Author: |
Robert Ziegler |
| Dated: |
Sunday, October 01 2006 @ 08:30 AM EDT |
| Viewed: |
1348 times |
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A Shopping Tale
Knobbly gourds, ornamental red corn, and miniature pumpkins are displayed in autumnal pyramids to catch shopper’s eyes as we walk through the electronic doors of the Save On Foods store. Frozen butter-ball turkeys and pumpkin pies on sale, 2 for the price of one, are being harvested from shelves and bins, loaded into heaped-high carts and hustled down the bustling isles. Two days left until Thanksgiving, and I don’t want to be here.
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| It was better when I was Allan Gerrold of no fixed address, a homeless man living on the streets. As miserable as that life was, I’d go back to it, if I could.
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| Author: |
Brenda Clotildes |
| Dated: |
Tuesday, August 22 2006 @ 10:04 AM EDT |
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1187 times |
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| Early Sunday afternoon I unlocked my front door and stepped into the living room. The television was on, but muted - frantic game show contestants were cheering in blessed silence. A pizza box sprawled greasily on the low coffee table, guarded by beer bottles standing like sentinels at the grave. A couple of houseflies crawled on the remains - two cold, varnished-looking triangles pocked with olives and a pile of crusts. The hair on my neck stood up. Thank God there were only two. Discarded newspapers lay scattered on the scarred wooden floor.
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| Author: |
doris ray |
| Dated: |
Tuesday, August 22 2006 @ 09:15 AM EDT |
| Viewed: |
1162 times |
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CELIA'S DIARY (based on a true experience)
Celia Engstrom is a small town lawyer and compulsive volunteer who resides with her husband Peter in the wilds of the BC Central Interior. The town's resident physicians have recently fled the community for more restful practices under sunnier skies. Temporary doctors known as locums now administer to the needs of the infirm and the unhealthy. This situation hasn't bothered Celia one bit. She eats her apple a day and takes her vitamins routinely--in alphabetical order. Once in a while she'll visit the medical clinic for a fast check-up. Celia is now sixty years of age and her husband is seven years her junior. Peter has become an author of wildlife books since retiring from his job at the mine. Celia also plans to retire soon. She wants to dedicate her golden years to volunteering. She's already on the Village Council, the Library Board and the Museum Society. Each evening before going to bed she writes in her diary. As she explains to Maria her office manager, it keeps her brain organized. Maria usually snorts and mutters something derogatory about the quality and even the existence of Celia's brain. The two women are the best of friends.
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| It all started off so well. I just used the room to help me get my work done. I didn’t realize at first what was happening, and when I did, I thought only of how it could benefit me. I would have eventually used it to help others, but it’s far too late for that now. I might never be able to go back to the way things used to be.
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| It was a warm summer day, with a clear sky and a gentle breeze. The chirping of birds filled the air. Jill Turner saw and heard none of this. She walked at a steady pace, gazing at the path in front of her. Lost in thought, she trudged along. She was thinking about the topic of her essay, and she thought about the title for the hundredth time. What is the Meaning of Being? Indeed, she wondered, what is the point of it all? Why should I bother to finish this essay, or to finish this Masters degree, or to do anything at all? And why should I be doing this, of all days, on a Sunday?
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