dreamszilla

A magician attends a rich kid's party, and creates chaos when his magic works better than intended. Image generated with OpenAI The house on Atwell Lane was big, with a gate at the end of the driveway. Not every house they sent Connor to was big, but many of them were. He parked his Kia Soul on the street, outside the gate; the more luxurious vehicles parked inside had taken all the space. Connor went into the back of the Soul for his Box of Brilliant Tricks, the resplendently painted and bejewelled chest that held some of his magic equipment. It was meant to appear to carry more than it did; at least half his tricks were already loaded, hidden away in false pockets and containers already on him. His rabbits, Harry and Houdy, were comfortably resting in a compartment, carefully hidden away, happily nibbling on lettuce. They were very good boys and had everything they needed inside. Lugging the Box of Brilliant Tricks up the driveway, Connor noted both a Maserati and...

A postman in a Pakistani border town hides his Jewish identity, but the self-aggrandising son of the general is determined to stir up trouble. Image generated with OpenAI That morning, my sleepy border village was up in arms. My neighbors, friends, acquaintances had blocked off the dusty main road that led to my workplace, the Pakistan Post Office. "Down with India, down with Israel," they howled at the cinnamon sun, like the skinny hyenas that often stole our chickens. My heart sank every time I heard the name Israel. As the lone Jew for hundreds of miles, an endangered species in Pakistan, there always hung above me the anvil of mad-eyed vengeance should someone discover my true identity. That somebody would realize my birth name was Fischel , and not Faisal . This lived-in suspicion stung sometimes. As patriotic as I was, and a staunch supporter of Palestine - not to overlook that my father served in the 1971 war - there was little doubt they'd labe...

Two brothers visit their ageing mother who seems no longer to be able to tell them apart. Image generated with OpenAI The door to my mother's house always creaked the same way, a sad groan announcing my arrival. Inside, time was different. It smelled of medicine, of boiled chicken, and of a heavy silence. Three hours. That was my share every Friday. Marcos, my brother, came on Tuesdays. At first, Mom got confused. She called me by his name, asked about things I hadn't lived. At first, we corrected her: It's me, Mom, I'm Javier. Marcos visited you on Tuesday . But seeing her face in that moment of confusion and disorientation was like giving her an invisible slap. Her eyes, once so alive, clouded with infinite sadness. Until one day, Marcos called me. "Javi, what if... we stop insisting she recognize us by our names?" His voice was tired, broken. "What if we just become the son? It'll be easier for her. And we'll spare ourselves t...

Tasha's boyfriend works nights on a mysterious experiment, leaving her to deal with her nightmares of embodying violent people on her own. Image generated with OpenAI Plagued. Plagued, she was, by dreams of violence and blood, the scent of prey, the stench of predation. And she, the predator. The lion in the veld that develops an appetite for human flesh. The alien that probes a man's sinew and tastes his heart. The wild-eyed shadow on the subway platform, clinically choosing one person to push onto the tracks. And tonight she was a Roman legionnaire, the tremor of coming war in the air. She had massive calves, broad shoulders, the iron of testosterone pumping under the heavy armor. She was a man, tall and strong and wary, comfortable in the face of fighting and death. Sure feet in thick sandals on dust roads and stone. Helmet clamped onto the head over burly neck. She smelled the sand and soil just outside the camp, felt and heard the crunch of earth beneath her ...