dreamszilla

David considers a radical image overhaul at Hologram Sam's. Image generated with OpenAI David entered the studio and was met by a smiling man who offered his hand and said, "Hi, I'm Sam, and I am who I am, but you can be anyone." "Hi Sam, I'm -" "David. David Tipton." "Yes." "I have you right here." Sam raised the tablet in his left hand. "Come with me." Sam led David to the center of the studio, where they sat in clear acrylic chairs at a rectangular walnut table. "So, David, you're here about your chin," Sam said. "You have what some would call a 'weak chin,' and you'd like to turn that weakness into a strength." "Yes, that's accurate." "I have the numbers for you right here," Sam turned his tablet toward David and pointed to it as he spoke, "ninety-four percent of CEOs have a strong chin, ninety-seven percent of leading men have a strong chin,...

A rabbi prepares her skeptical daughter for bat mitzvah while helping a devout terminally ill woman convert to Judaism. Image generated with OpenAI "Rabbi Judith. I just... I think I might be dying." Kristine spoke in a clear, bell-like voice. I might even say healthy voice - not the kind of voice that's struggling to choke out her last words. Still, the sentiment didn't shock me. She was, in fact, dying. Just, from what I could tell listening to her breathe, speak, argue, sing, not right now, two in the morning, on the phone with her rabbi. Now sounded more like insomnia than the rare auto-immune disorder that we both knew would one day take her life. "Do you feel like this often?" I asked. "I mean that you're dying, in the middle of the night?" "Every night," she said. "This is just the first time I called you . I've run out of friends who'll listen to a lunatic complain about dying. I figure now that I'm Jewish, I...

In 1961, young Michael hangs out with Emile Khalid, owner of the small New York book store his father works at. Image generated with OpenAI Emile Khalid once had a fedora, a broken window, a red cat, and a black foot. Although not at the same time. French and Syrian at the root, with an intellect honed at the Ecole des Beaux-Artes in Paris, he was an enthusiastic émigré to America, erstwhile artist, alleged Communist, unabashed perambulator, bibliophile, bookshop owner, and born teacher. He was also fifty-five years my senior, and my best friend. I turned six years old in 1961, and Emile turned sixty-one, the math of his age always easy for me to calculate even as a young boy, he thoughtful enough to enter this world at the double ought. Emile lived alone, except for a red tabby with unkempt fur named Chester; the cat owned a narrow, intelligent face and he had free roam of Emile's apartment on the west side of Manhattan in an area known as Hell's Kitchen. There, Emile and...

The Albion Inn in Savannah teems with ghosts, but they don't bother the innkeeper Jesse Hawthorne, until a TV crew comes to investigate. Image generated with OpenAI Being in the Albion Inn was a bit like being in the woods in the deep of summer. Spirits buzzed incessantly in Jess's ear like cicadas, loud when he noticed them and white noise when he didn't, blending into the foliage until their absence became more noticeable than their presence. That afternoon, the spirits had been particularly loud, as a visitor with negative energy had checked out just a few hours ago. The speculation was that she'd been a murderer, or something worse. Not that it was any of Jess's business. "Hush," he muttered, as a chill went down his spine. Tabitha, the ghost of an old maid, swirled away irritably, but he didn't care. As the inn's clerk, he demanded few benefits, but not being touched by the dead was one of them. "Can't you go haunt some other room?...