dreamszilla

In 19th century high society, a famous wit has his palm read by "Cheiro" Warner. Image generated with OpenAI William John "Cheiro" Warner held the American's hand in both of his own and felt the man's exhaustion. It pulsed in the air between them, a living, ragged thing, like the trees buffeted by the London rain outside. Warner leaned over the table for a closer look at the man's palm and heard the leather chair creak under the extra weight he had acquired - seemingly overnight - since his fortieth birthday. Studied the man's fingers. Long, ending in squared tips. The knuckles twisted by age and stained with faded ink. "You are an ambitious man," Warner told him. The American's bristling white mustache twitched. "That hardly counts as clairvoyance, Mr. Warner. More like newspaper reading." Warner ignored the jibe. He was used to skeptics. Hadn't the Prime Minister himself said something similar before returning for thre...

A drag queen considers suicide after her best friend turns away from her, but life has some surprises in store. Image generated with OpenAI How would an expat Mexican drag queen camped out in Amsterdam end it all? In her best drag, as the shiniest fish in the North Sea, Desirée decides. She hops the empty bus, sits catty-corner from the driver, so she can flirt with him. Using her best Dutch accent, she asks the driver, "Aren't you gonna ask where am I going, all dressed up?" The man looks bleary in the blue dawn light. "I'm off to the beach, to a farewell party - you wanna come?" He shakes his head, "Too cold." When Desirée insists, the conductor begs off, tells her he has to work. "Me, I'm done for the night. You know how it goes: one minute you're on stage, next minute you're a has-been." The driver remains silent. The bus enters the tunnel and, briefly, they dip beneath the inlet to the North Sea. When the bus emer...

A radio presenter on maternity leave unwittingly hires a carpenter on whom she had an adolescent crush many years ago. Image generated with OpenAI Pacing the living room with my baby on my shoulder, I glance out of the window and see an old man on the sidewalk grinning in at me and bobbing his head. I call the radio station while I stand with my back to the window, jiggling David. The intern answers. "I need a fence. I have no privacy in this house. How come I never knew that?" "Because you were here all day?" "I miss you guys. I miss my job." I catch myself in the mirror over the fireplace and turn to face the window again. The old man has shuffled past. "That carpenter who built your deck -" "He's an artist, too. Did I tell you? The famous artist-carpenter." "Just give me his number." A car passes in the street, and I make eye-contact with the driver. "I'm in a fishbowl here." I pencil the number on a r...

Two graffiti taggers stuck in a backwater hometown develop an affinity with a supernatural object, first published in Not One of Us issue #87, July 2026. Image generated with OpenAI The Plateau erupted in the center of town last winter. I wasn't nearby when it happened. I was at Meelo's house, drinking beer in his basement, passing time 'til it got late enough to paint. My skin was still peachy-beige back then, and Meelo's was still golden-brown. Both our voices were still clear. At midnight we packed our bags and zipped up our windbreakers, filled our pockets with nozzles and markers and little bundles of weed. Tossed the bags in the trunk of Meelo's beat-up sedan and got in. Painting in town was cooked. Two winters ago our tags made the front page of the paper. People in town already looked at us sideways, always had. Once Meelo got the face tat, it was pretty much over. I convinced him we should probably cool it. There were miles of freeways in different jurisdic...