dreamszilla

Jen must face up to her relationship with her troubled father when they plan to attend her brother's wedding. Image generated with OpenAI I stand in front of the full-length mirror, running my fingers over my evening gown from Nordstrom's in Boston. My two-year-old son pulls at the hem. "Soft?" I lean down and stroke his hair. "That's right, Charlie. The vel-vet is as soft as moss." The side seams need to be let out another two inches. My daughter Eleanor is arriving in two months, and she has already busted the zipper. At least the blue will give me authority for my role as officiant. The bridesmaids - poor ducks - will be dressed in a hue called "champagne." On New Year's Eve, my younger brother Benjamin will marry Marianne, his childhood friend from the sandbox in our old neighborhood. I was thrilled when they finally asked me to join their lives together. They'd been so mysterious about their intentions for weeks. "No one kno...

Two children bully a schoolmate into showing them his secret fort, but there are hidden dangers. Image generated with OpenAI It was Neil's idea, as I remember it, as most of our bright schemes were. That long summer holiday we were bored, he and I, which, as most people know, can lead to serious consequences when you're thirteen. No school, and there was never much to do in Graevwych, but we had to make our mischief somewhere. We knew this kid, a year below us, Daniel Bartlett, who you could mess about with royally and get away with it. Everybody, including the teachers, thought he was a sandwich short of a picnic and nobody minded, really, if he got teased a bit. So in the playground we used to nick his schoolbag and have him running around after us trying to snatch it back. Get him to hand over his dinner money to us, spend it on fags, and have fun watching him splutter when we gave him one to smoke. Egg him on to say things to girls - I mean things that would have them slapp...

Lonnie is cheating with Greg's wife and is found dead in the bathroom after a game of pool at the Double Kiss. Photo by Kyle Miller, from Pexels It wasn't supposed to snow as much as it did the night Lonnie got killed at the Double Kiss. Two men guard the door of the pool hall. They don't work here. They exhale smoke into the dim evening air, snowflakes dancing around them. My late father's brother Francis, who recently took me on as his eight-ball doubles partner, nod to the two men. We step between them and Francis opens the door, sucking cold cigarette smoke inside the pool hall. I feel quiet tension. Maybe because it's playoffs, or maybe because of the unexpected snow. Albert, the owner of the Double Kiss, takes a knee in front of one of his pool tables. He pokes at something and peers through his thick glasses with his baseball cap turned backwards for a better view of the malfunction. The redheaded cashier behind the counter, Sally, greets me. "Hey, Jus...