dreamszilla

Late at night on Christmas Eve, Julie heads out of London to visit her grandmother, but the journey does not go smoothly. Image generated with OpenAI London 1997 The night is fresh and very cold. Tangled flurries of snowflakes pirouette up from the pavement, creep along street signs, in and out of doorways, and swirl onto rubbish bins, vehicles, people scurrying to get out of the bitter wind. It's Christmas Eve and I am leaving Harrison & Eccles, the law firm where I work. The art deco building that houses the offices is solid and stately; it stands proudly right on the bank of the river Thames. I am sheltering in the portico, preparing to emerge out into the cold and the snow. Two arcs of poinsettias have been placed on either side of the front doors, garnishing the entrance. The red leaves are aflame in the chill of the evening, shavings of snow circling them in the brisk wind. I pause for a moment to look more closely and realise that there, in the centre of th...

A mother narrates a recipe for Cantonese Pork Trotters that is, for her, heavy with meaning. Image generated with OpenAI Cantonese Pork Trotters is a tangy dish that carries the sweetness and bite of living. You ate it after bringing your baby girl into the world; after her first public tantrum; after leaving her at pre-school and walking away. The dish is slow-cooked for the nutrition, drawing out all that's necessary to revitalize body and soul. It's a recipe for many seasons, especially when in need of a burning warmth on the darkest days. INGREDIENTS: 1. 8 boiled eggs: Freshly shelled and soft to the touch, so deliciously hot in your palms that one whiff will bring some small comfort to your aching heart. Close your eyes for a moment and cradle these eggs. Feel their roundness, so much like her cheeks when they were clammy and warm after chasing her friends in the playground, before throwing herself squealing and giggling into your arms. 2. 15-20 dried...

Bernie faces a life changing question in a hospital waiting room. Image generated with OpenAI I wait, interminably, for Billy to return with the inevitable news that we both dread. Even the receptionist has abandoned his post, and my only companion is the hum of the lights, droning insistently at me. The lights in the hospital lobby are so bright, leaving no corner to hide, no crook of respite. At home Billy and I never have the big light on. Here, there is nothing but big lights. I realise I am hyper; my senses amplified. Perhaps my brain is filling itself with stimuli to divert its attention from the truth of my husband's mortality. Time passes. I have eyed every wall, read every poster. Some clever soul has left a copy the morning Metro . That, at least, kills five minutes. I play with the contents of my bag, knowing there is nothing there of interest - my keys, my lipstick. But Good Lord , the wait is horrendous. I feel so alone with Billy behind the scenes. Soo...

A man goes to a memoir writing conference and gets a dose of his past he hadn't expected. Image generated with OpenAI I had been thinking about writing a memoir for twenty years and staring at a blinking cursor in a blank Word document for the past three years. Instead of moving my fingers and just writing the thing, I attended another (my twelfth) memoir writing conference - this one was in Chula Vista - where they guaranteed to help me unlock my past and write a best-selling tell-all that would become the next multi-episode Netflix thriller. Registration fee, hotel, airfare, car rental, food. Unlocking your past does not come cheap. But I hadn't been back to California since the year I turned twenty, so even if the conference was a bust, maybe I could rent a car and drive up I-5, check out some of the old haunts. Other than the catchy and cringeworthy conference titles (this one was called Mem-Wars: The Mind's Battle Between What You Think Happened and Wh...

Billionaire Chuck signs up for a ten-day retreat designed for privileged people to sample genuine everyday hardships. Image generated with OpenAI Charles Alexander Asbury's wife prefers he go by Chuck. It's less geeky, and gives him that bootstrap appeal the board needs from its chairman. Chuck's company designs and manufactures flexible PCBs, printed circuit boards, with embedded HDI components and integrated surface mount technology. Chuck is a geek. Still, he calls himself Chuck and doesn't smile when he shakes hands, because smiling denotes servility. He also defers when Marcy books him into the victimization retreat. She's right. The media has been unsympathetic lately, portraying him as a daddy's boy, a lightweight. Marcy says this will give him gravitas. Chuck's daughter calls from Paris to insist. The experience will bring him closer to humanity. Chuck thinks the retreat is a moderately funny, extremely lucrative joke. The park's ho...