dreamszilla

Mason Yates imagines a future where all art is censured. While Ned Arroyo crouched in the hollow depths of earth and clawed into the dirt pile in front of him, two bloodied men, bound by ropes around the wrists and ankles, knelt on the damp stone floor twenty feet away. Illuminated by two dozen portable spotlights, the cavern felt more like a theater stage than a cave. Nevertheless, the dagger-like stalactites hanging from the ceiling and the constant echoes of dripping water proved the naturality of where they were located. Ten men populated the large room. All of them held rifles, except for three of them: the kneeling two and Ned, who, although he did not carry a rifle, had a revolver attached to his hip as he scooped handfuls of dirt and tossed them to the side. Sweat streaked down his face as he dug deeper into the pile, a pile specifically placed in the cave for the purpose of hiding a secret. It was the only thing in the cave that was not natural. As he worked, Ned guessed th

Clare arrives at the wrong church for a funeral, and meets a new fate instead; by Sheena Billett. My first thought is that I must have the time wrong when I arrive at the church and there is not a black-clad mourner in sight. Just to be sure, I try the door which is firmly locked. Surely a place like Surrington can't have more than one church. I check the details on my phone and look at the ivy clad information board leaning crazily against a tree trunk. St Matthews - not Holy Trinity! I scan the horizon for any other spires and towers but can see no evidence of another church. Trust Aunt Anna to make things difficult and have her funeral at the most out-of-the-way venue possible. 'I don't want to put you to any trouble. Something small will do me.' I sigh in frustration at my now-deceased aunt. Having retreated to my car and Google maps, I locate the church on the other side of town. Engrossed in my phone I haven't noticed a man approach the car. I look up jus

Jumi, a troubled refugee, tries to connect with his roommate Rudi, in Luke Beling's tragic tale. Five black jeeps, filled with men dressed in camouflage, stormed into my village while I was kicking a ball with my brother and father. My father put his hand over his mouth and looked at my brother and me with eyes so big I thought we could jump into them. We heard the shrill of my mother's voice. My father gasped. Arthritis squeezing his every joint, he sprinted towards our house with my mother's name on his lips. I froze with fear tying my feet in a cattle's hitch knot. A man with a peaked cap looked into my eyes. It felt like he could see into my soul. He smiled at me with bright red lips curling up to the bottom of his nose, and then he threw a rag of fire onto my neighbor's home. The flames shot up into the sky like a coral in full bloom. Bullets sprayed across our dirt street like chicken feed. My legs stayed locked with a panic that felt like heat - a feeling

College student Dan strikes up a relationship with a rich Korean woman that leads to dependency, obsession and death; by Charles David Taylor. You can never find a bus stop in Houston when you need one. I'd walked a few blocks from the cemetery through a misting rain, with no luck. I was about to splurge on an Uber when I finally saw one of the familiar kiosks, complete with cracked plastic walls covered in graffiti and an overflowing trash can. All it lacked was a snoozing homeless guy. I brushed the beer cans off the scummy bench and sat. I was soaked. Of course, my thoughts were on poor Dan, my best friend, whom I'd just left in the sodden earth. As a poet, he would have appreciated the atmospherics. I could have gotten a ride back with the family, but I wasn't ready for their questions. I'd see them later and supply the answers. For now, I just wanted to be alone with my misery. And my anger. It all started at a pre-semester gin & grinder at the Alpha

While canoeing on the lake, divorcé Kyle is caught in a storm that casts him on the shores of destiny, in Jeff Ingber's heart-wrangling story of forbidden romance. My paddle slices through silver-blue water, the morning sunrays dancing on the ripples. The monastic quiet is disturbed only by a squadron of buzzing flies and the splash of rainbow trout lunging for their breakfast. The canoe rocks melodically. As I pass the lush, abandoned island in the lake's center, a heavy wind announces itself. At first, it pushes steadily at my back, easing the work. Gradually, it shifts direction and strengthens, flapping the air like the wings of a trapped bird. White-capped waves roll underneath the bow and shove it angrily. Water sloshes in. The lake's heaving intensifies, turning the canoe into a bobbing cork. With fists of storm clouds racing overhead, the only safe choice is to run with the waves and head for the nearest shore. On a jutting finger of land, I spot a pier with