dreamszilla

Farmers Jemery and Jezzie face a problem when two horses are growing too close together on the vine; by David Henson. Image generated with OpenAI I was concerned as soon as the horse pods began to sprout on the vine. The last two, Eleven and Twelve, seemed too close. Now that the pods are about the size of my leg, it's clear there's a problem. "Should we cut a tendril now and transplant one, Jemery?" Jezzie says as she ties a red bandana to keep her hair out of her eyes. My wife's mane was pure black when we met. Now her hair boasts streaks of white. I tell her they're like lightning - striking. When I complain about my receding hairline, she says it makes me look wise. I point out that when the snow caps to our west retreat every summer, the rocky peaks don't look wise. They look bald. It's all in fun. Keeping things cheery helps us get through difficult times. There are plenty of them when you grow mustangs. Transplantation is trick

Adam Dorsheimer's character writes a therapeutic letter to his ex to try and come to terms with the guilt he feels for his infidelity. Image generated with OpenAI I'm writing this because Lucy said so. Lucy's my therapist. It's been a couple months now and I'm still not quite used to saying that - I have a therapist now. And her name is Lucy. And she's tall and blonde and has cat posters all over her office. And she's very good at her job. When I came in last Thursday, she said she had an assignment for me. That's not too out of the ordinary - she's always got some kind of worksheet or exercise for me to do. They're supposed to help my brain. Like I said, she's very good. This time, the assignment was to write you a letter. I told her we weren't on the best of terms. "That's okay," she said. "You don't have to send it. Actually, I think it's better if you don't. It's a letter to her, n

Divorced realtor Ron Lewis resents the success of fellow salesman Dan Michaelson, but his luck is about to turn; by Warren Benedetto. Image generated with OpenAI "What's eating you?" the bartender asked. He wiped the bar with a rag, lifting napkin holders and bowls of peanuts so he could clean under them. The neon beer signs hanging overhead cast soft-edged splashes of color down onto the reflective wetness of the bar top. He waved at the last group of patrons as they pulled on their jackets and exited the bar. "G'night!" he called after them. It was almost closing time. "Fucking Michaelson, that's what," Lewis said. He hunched over a glass of whiskey, watching the ice melt into colorless swirls in the amber liquid. He tapped the base of his ring finger silently against the glass. Lewis was a short, overweight man with a sullen scowl that carved deep lines from the corners of his mouth down toward where his chin merged with hi

When Bobbi Jean finds out her grandmother killed a man, Gramma finally tells her story; by NT Franklin. Image generated with OpenAI "What? You showed them where his body was buried?" Bobbi Jean asked incredulously. "Well, sure. No sense fussing about him, he's dead and gone. No one even cared." "But Gramma, you could've gone to jail..." "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, my precious." "Is he still there? Can I go see him? Please?" "No, precious, he's long gone." Becky sauntered up to the long front porch and said, "Momma, don't you go filling Bobbi Jean's head full of nonsense. We've talked about this." "Becky, your precious daughter asked a question, that's all." "Mommy, Gramma showed the police where she buried a body. Did you know that?" "Bobbi Jean, please fill my glass with sweet tea and head on over to play