dreamszilla

When Paul Lamb's character is relegated to the fringes of the art fair, he is determined to come up with the next big trend. I knew I'd hit bottom when they put me by the toilets. Sure, there were years when I owned the best spots: at the entrance where fair goers were fresh and flush; at the nexus where everyone had to pass to get anywhere; across from the food tables where folk sat on the rickety chairs devouring funnel cakes or undercooked brats and contemplated my paintings. I was golden. The innovator of the moment. The one everybody copied, following the non sequitur that I must be doing something right if I was so successful. I was the Young Turk of the art fair circuit. I paint Victorian ladies, in flowing dresses with bunches of lace and impossibly large hats, clutching folding fans or nosegays, often swooning on plush settees amidst aspidistras and oil lamps and framed daguerreotypes. My paintings evoke a golden age, far too distant for the shuffling fair goe

Doug Hawley reveals the inspiration behind Stephen King's first published novel in this comic short. You might think that you know me from the movie and book about me by the man I call BFA, for big famous author. Sometimes the "F" stands for something else, depending on my mood. I've always been irritated about his claim that he created his best seller that got him started. Truly, he just adapted an event that he saw in our hometown Neville newspaper. BFA started researching his story after seeing the newspaper headline - "Local girl Cherry Black kills prom goers with magical powers after being subjected to a cruel prank while being crowned Prom Queen". He checked around, but got her whole back story wrong. I know the true story because I am ironically named Cherry, AKA Kerry to BFA. BFA just changed some names and altered some of the events, that's all he did to get his best seller. I don't know how he got away with it. Maybe some of the princi

Hunter heads up a homicidal rock band existing on the edge of society and self-destruction in Martin Grise's dark tale. Hunter stood at the right edge of the stage, where he could barely hear Pulse's drums over Vik's screaming amp, and danced in place as he viewed the scene. Vik and Ron traded fours, Ron slapping down thumping variations of the theme on his bass, Vik tearing them up like a chainsaw with his black Gibson Firebird. Pulse leaned back behind the drums, eyes half-closed, hitting hard but remaining relaxed with an air of authority. In the band's bus in the parking lot behind the club, Chad watched a video feed on his laptop from the night vision camera of a quiet, hovering drone, looking down on three young men in an empty lot a mile away. In front of the stage, the kids stomped and jumped and grooved in time with Pulse's hands and feet, the flashing lights and wailing music blowing the thoughts from their minds until, blessedly, they forgot themselves

From her absent father and her emotionally distant mother, Lena finds solace in the sea; by Tiffany Renee Harmon. When Lena was a young girl, her favorite place in the world was the Sea of Sandrine. She would sit by the banks of the sea with her green pail and plastic shovel waiting for hermit crabs to scamper near her. The whole world seemed to fall silent and melt away in this private paradise. When she looked out across the sea, she saw only water. Sometimes she wondered if it was the edge of the world. Other times she wondered if the magical lands her father used to tell her about were on the other side. She dreamed of growing up and buying a boat and sailing across the vast sea. One day, after breakfast, Lena looked out the bay window of the cottage while scraping off the last bits of congealed egg from the plates. "Mama, can I go play at the sea when I'm done?" Her mother looked down at her. Her nostrils flared in disgust and she pursed her lips. "Not to