[This is another story about Mickey Gorky, who is not quite a bully and is crazy for horror movies and especially Boris Karloff. It's February 2, 1969.] As he holed up in his room, lying on his bed, looking up at the King Kong poster he'd thumbtacked up there, thinking about finishing that Aurora model of a witch he was working on (he loved painting every little curve and crevice, the bubbles and snakes in the cauldron, the dead bats hung up like Chinese ducks), downstairs his mother turned on the radio while finishing up the biscuits and moving on to a chicken. It was news radio, and the announcer seemed to have been handed a bulletin because he hurried through some comments about a tie-up on Roosevelt Blvd. and read,  "Boris Karloff, 'The King of the Monsters,' has passed away of pneumonia in England after a long and celebrated career. By the time he starred as the monster in  Frankenstein , Karloff had already appeared in dozens of pictures. But it was with Dr. ...

image https://footageforpro.com/philadelphia-1963/ (Og Gorky, a bully, is on a school trip: a Delaware River boat ride. He encounters Joey Falco, often a target of Og's bullying. But Og has just imagined what it would be like to have wings—of course, he becomes in his mind a kind of warbird—and is perplexed by Joey's friendliness and oddly similar imagination.) “The birds,” Joey said. He tilted his head sideways toward Camden, where some gulls flew low over the water. “Birds?” “Yeah, the birds, seagulls—well, not sea, maybe, we’re on a river, but the birds.” Og was unaccustomed to conversations that were not conducted while he stood over a cowering victim—or himself on the ground, headlocked by one of his brothers, while the other bent down and shouted, “Tell us the truth, you goddam pipsqueak, or we’ll cream you!” So he just said “Birds?” again. “Yeah,” Joey said, still smiling. “I was imagining I was a bird, and you were too, and we were flying downa shore, all the way to Cap...

Giants #2: Flaming Teeth On Fiji every night, Flaming Teeth tore around tearing around The tender tasty edges of every fleeing Fijian too slow to see his teeth approach—surprising since they flamed, large as tree trunks, cooking prey as he chewed. Sick of villages burned and being consumed, they set the trap in darkness—the only light in the world  jutting in red tongues from his teeth.  How many must have swarmed around the rock to raise it, let it fall and scatter those burning toothy logs across the countryside— to be carried back to smoking ruins, Their own fire at last, a hearth conjuring like magic from magic their cozy homes, lights to blind the night.