dreamszilla

An Airbnb hosts a ghost for Eric. Image generated with OpenAI It did not look like a haunted house. Rather, it looked like all the other houses in the neighborhood, undistinguished, ranch-style with vinyl siding and a basketball hoop in the driveway for children long-since grown. Whatever, though. Eric grabbed his duffel bag from off the passenger seat, exited the car, walked to the door. Above the doorknob, nestled in a brushed steel plate, was a smart lock. He typed the code given to him by the BnB host, waited for the green light to flash, then turned the knob. Inside, it was dark, the only light coming through the windows and hitting the floor to expose each grain in the hardwood. There was a strong smell of pine-scented cleaner, nary a trace of dust in the air. Not very gothic. Certainly no budding cobwebs or eerie statuary threatening to lend the home a hint of character. The house opened onto the living room, with a big leather sectional couch facing a glass-topped coffee...

Danielle seeks inspiration for her writing from the patrons of the Strawberry Café, but feels like an imposter in her own life. Image generated with OpenAI Danielle Bennett used to find inspiration through observation. And she found it everywhere. At the Strawberry Café, for example. Faces spoke to her; eyes were emotions, wrinkles were experience, expressions were attitudes. Little pieces of life, tiny pictures. It didn't matter if she got people wrong because it wasn't judgement, it wasn't criticism, and it wasn't personal. What she wanted was free, and it used to drip faster than sap from a spring maple. What she wanted was detail, visual facts, gritty reality. Stubbly faces or worn-down hoodies. Restless legs or doom-scrolling thumbs. First date jitters or teary breakups. She got impatience, she got acceptance; petulance, grief, vanity and misery. Faces spoke to her in short, angry bursts and long, dull conversations. She used to get it all at the café. And then t...

Charlie decides to attend a first date in person rather than send his android stand-in. Image generated with OpenAI Ten Fridays ago, my night went sideways when instead of sticking with the plan to lose a little money by playing Texas hold'em with some new guys from the gym, I called my android stand-in and told him to return before he reached my date with Eliana, that is, with her stand-in. I hailed a separate car, donned a fresh designer T-shirt, and chose my blue Ultrasuede slip-ons. I messaged an apology to Eliana's stand-in. With all of that, I still arrived less than ten minutes late. Stand-ins dated stand-ins all the time among my peers. He - it, whatever - walked and talked just like me; everyone agreed. For security reasons, even androids can't identify another android. The practice gave me, I don't know, the benefits of first dates without the complications, but I missed the thrill of it, the mystery. I didn't know. I still don't know what I really fel...

Teenagers Ritchie and Donald abduct a pair of children, intending to return them for a reward, but they chose the wrong kids to mess with. Image generated with OpenAI Selver and the bee held each other in thrall. He stood transfixed in the tall meadow grass, elbows raised as the tiny yellow stunt plane banked and dove around him. The bee was soon joined by others, a humming circus of elliptical orbits around Selver's fair hair and slender limbs. Mom and Dad had told him to keep an eye on Hannah, who was playing with one of her dolls nearby. But his mind was consumed by communion with the bees. So absorbed, he was startled when the buzzing bees dispersed and two swooping, yellow haired teenage boys were upon him. They grabbed Selver by his elbows and picked up Hannah, chivvying, "Let's go, let's go." One moment Selver was standing in the high timothy grass; the next he and his sister had been taken, over the hill and out of sight of Mom and Dad who were chatting w...