From: eugene@maya.wintermarket.com   
      
   In article ,   
   Sweet Poly   wrote:   
   >The big old house is outlined in white christmas lights, and cold blue   
   >and silver icicles hang jagged and sparkling from the porch roof. The   
   >light from the house reflects off the fresh snow, and the bright stars   
   >glitter like diamonds in the cold black winter sky.   
   >   
   >Inside all is warmth and color and light. The christmas tree is an old   
   >fashioned balsam fir, so tall the star on top just misses the high   
   >ceiling. It is hung with glass ornaments in gold and red and silver;   
   >small toys made of wood and felt; santas and cowboys, cactuses and   
   >candycanes, angels and teddy bears, sachet hearts and art glass. There   
   >Near the top are two flameskimmer dragonflies in red enamel and gold.   
   >The tips of the high branches are hung with hand-twisted crystal icicles   
   >twinkling with reflected light.   
      
   "Hold steady, for God's sake," Ed hollers, "That 18-wheeler can splatter   
   you flatter than Cold Duck uncorked for a week!"   
      
   Gene wonders whether, like Spider Rose, Pablo Mavrides, and so many   
   others, his 200 years of luck (a commodity more precious than   
   fifteen minutes of fame) have finally run out.  It's been total   
   white-out after the first five miles of the drive leading home.   
   Sure, they're on a "Designated Snow Route", but what does THAT mean   
   in Oklahoma City?  A place designated for all the snow to blow and   
   pile to high heaven, to bury the incautious in a tomb of ice as   
   they hitch a ride to a Judgment far kinder and more gracious than   
   that of Nature Unchained?   
      
   "You're no help yourself, Ed.  We're under some grave constraints,   
   in case you hadn't noticed.  Look at you: you're incarnate!  Family   
   waiting at home, Rancheros about to throw the feast of the century:   
   how can we be in two places at once when we're not making two miles   
   an hour?   
      
   "See those folks out our window?  Slamming drifts and spinning?  Well,   
   watch how they're driving and then DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT."   
      
   This actually makes sense.   
      
   Gene and Ed go slack as circumstances will allow, plug a metaphor   
   translator into the unused cigarette lighter, hope for the best ...   
      
   ... until POP!  that warm and unmistakeable simultaneous positioning   
   wins out over fear and sweat.  They're back at home, back at the Rancho,   
   hell, the groceries are even unloaded and stacked in the fridge.   
      
   They smile with unforced joy, seated at last in multicontext fashion,   
   toasting with Sourcerer, Poly, and the assembled Christmas revelers   
   of the Rancho.  They open presents with Gene's wife and kids.  As   
   one might expect, the best gift of all is coming home.   
      
   [ based on a true story ]   
      
   /*   
      He kissed her with the bright salt taste of blood.   
      
         -- Schismatrix   
   */   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)