It would be far truer to say that they bear no relation whatever to any period of history, but rather exist as a place apart-a place from which to contemplate the town coolly, or even to forget the town altogether.
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| I, Robot: What if? |
Impossible Dreams by Tim Pratt (2007 Hugo Award Winner)
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Picture of Ship by pyxelated |
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| The Story is Named after a Ghostly Salamander. |
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| Image from bezalel instritute of Art. |
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| Go to Review on Butler's Cinema Scene |
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| Pierce Arrow Automobile |
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Adrian Berg, R.A. (b. 1929)The Lake, Kew Gardens, Summer, Night 1984 |
Here in the graveyard, scrubby pines grew boldly within a circle of oaks and hickories. The stones nestled secretively beneath the tangled honeysuckle. They were moss-mellowed and weather-stained in that rustic way which charms lovers of old things.
I am currently reading the Stand and now that this will take me a long time. The book has a great following and one group of Stand fans twittered a version of the book. It's rather cool, check it out now. The site also plays a soundtrack that is connected to the book.
He had walked the sidewalks of Sawyerville at night for as long as anyone could remember. He never hurried, never strolled, and proceeded in a slow but businesslike manner from one door to the next, turning each knob to make sure that every store in town was safely locked. To think of Sawyerville at night without thinking of its watchman was impossible.
Mr. B. was a stout youngish man who hadn't been able—worse luck—to chuck his job and join the Army; he'd tried for four years to get another chap to take his place but it was no go. He sat at the head of the table reading the Daily Mail. Mrs. B. was a youngish plump little body, rather like a pigeon. She sat opposite, preening herself behind the coffee set and keeping an eye of warning love on little B. who perched between them, swathed in a napkin and tapping the top of a soft-boiled egg.
So I reach me down my old guitar off the nail in the wall. 'Cause I've got my guitar, what I've held on to from way back when, and I never dropped that, never lost or forgot it, never hocked it but to get it again, never give it away, and I set in my chair, with nobody home but me, and I start to play, and sing a-Down. And sing a-down, down, down, down. Sing a-down, down, down, down. Down.
Quote:
You've no doubt seen those TV shows where the child who has "made it" is confronted, as a surprise, by her own mother and father, tottering in weakly from backstage. (A pleasant surprise, of course: What would they do if parent and child came on the show only to curse out and insult each other?) On TV mother and child embrace and smile into each other's faces. Sometimes the mother and father weep, the child wraps them in her arms and leans across the table to tell how she would not have made it without their help. I have seen these programs.
Zora Neale Hurston—novelist, folklorist, and anthropologist—was known during the Harlem Renaissance for her wit, irreverence, and folk writing style. She won second prize in the 1925 literary contest of the Urban League’s journal, Opportunity, for her short story “Spunk,” which also appeared in The New Negro.
“Ain’t cher? Well, night befo‘ las’ was the fust night Spunk an‘ Lena moved together an’ jus‘ as they was goin’ to bed, a big black bob-cat, black all over, you hear me, black, walked round and round that house and howled like forty, an‘ when Spunk got his gun an’ went to the winder to shoot it he says it stood right still an‘ looked him in the eye, an’ howled right at him. The thing got Spunk so nervoused up he couldn’t shoot. But Spunk says twan’t no bob-cat nohow. He says it was Joe done sneaked back from Hell! ”
A land where all things always
seemed the same!
And round about the keel with faces
pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy
Lotus eaters came.
(Part Four) In the Sotrmy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The brodad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over Toward Camelot;
Downs she came and found a boat
Beneath a Willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote,
The Lady of Shalott.
...
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
