dreamszilla

Dominic is attacked by a werewolf - can he keep control of his humanity? By Surina Venkat. It was the birds that gave them the first sign that something was wrong. The clearing where they played in was dappled with shade from tall, looming trees, one of which their mother had settled under to doze. Dominic had just caught Red, about to declare her the chaser, when he realized all the birds had fallen silent. Red didn't notice - she darted forward and smacked him square in the chest. "TAG!" She shrieked. "YOU'RE IT!" Red didn't run away immediately though. She paused, and squinted. "Hey," she said. She ran to the edge of the clearing, and Dominic turned to follow her. A pair of blood-red eyes peered from the forest, and an arc of ice curved down Dominic's spine. "Hello?" Red said. "Red!" He shouted. "Get back!" Red screamed as the eyes shot forward, a body of thick, black fur and rippling muscle f

Alison attends her mother's funeral, and reflects on her past and her present; by Jane Van Cantfort. Alison stood in the alcove of the church, waiting for the funeral procession to begin. She studied the floor; every other tile was decorated with a tiny swastika, a benign symbol when the church was built in the 1700s. Alison's Doc Martens with leather laces looked completely wrong with her borrowed light-blue flowered dress. Only Alison and her dad were alone, everyone else was paired with someone for the walk down the aisle. The pastor handed Dad a heavy square box draped with a deep blue velvet cloth, and the organ music swelled. Alison felt dizzy, and briefly touched the wall to steady herself. The ushers pulled open the heavy, intricately paneled oak doors, and Alison could see the sea of heads in the pews. Dad went first, carrying his box before him, headed for the altar. It was just a blur of faces, few that Alison knew; she had been gone so long. This was the chur

An ageing Scrabble tournament officiator takes a shine to an eccentric Romanian competitor with an outside chance at winning the UK Open; by Philip Charter. We've never had a playoff before. The first match finished in a draw, so I reset the board and they'll start again. I'd usually fast asleep by now, but I'm here, officiating in front of a hundred people as the rank outsider, Mikkael Iliescu, takes on seven-time champion, Norman White. For White, it's all about the Association of British Scrabble Players title, but for Mikkael, the cash prize would be life changing. Members of the crowd crane their necks for a better look. They switch their view from the players to the big screen as if the tiles might change. The screen shows the game board, with its wonderful words criss crossing each other: solarium, banshee, gherkins, quern, pesticide, formulae . The tournament competitors have stayed to see if the first-time finalist can beat the greatest player the game

Jaren is out of prison and keeping clean, until federal agent Billings extorts him into insinuating himself into Big Ma's criminal gang; by Alexander J. Richardson. The serving girl smiled at him as she set his food on the table - steak, medium, with green beans and a baked potato - and Jaren was happy to see she had all her teeth. A step up, at least, from some of the other women he'd met since coming into town. "Get you anything else, hon?" Jaren lifted his glass. "Another iced tea, thanks." She smiled and hurried off to fetch it. Jaren started working on his food. The steak was dry, the potato overcooked, and the green beans were half raw. He ate anyway. How it tasted didn't matter. He wasn't here for food. Several truckers sat at the bar, drinking Coors and watching a UFC match on the TV hanging in the corner. There were a couple pool tables, and two men were playing a game. One of them had sandy hair and big eyes. He wore a striped