dreamszilla

Four friends go for a sunrise hike after graduating from high school in Harrison Kim's lyrical coming-of-age vignette; by Harrison Kim. Image generated with OpenAI After the high school graduation ceremony, the four of us slid ourselves out of the school gym into the car and along the highway above Shuswap Lake, wheels revolving, mountains and water slipping by. Jackson's sister Carol drove, her smile partly hidden under falling forward auburn hair that she flipped back before it fell again. "We're all in this together," said to her friend Janice, passing back a lit joint which I handed to Jackson; he took it in his big fingers and sucked the smoke. "What are we in?" I asked. "This," she motioned, circling her hand to indicate the car. She put her fingers to her forehead and along the edges of her pageboy haircut. "Ow. Everything's so big." I pointed out the window. "What we're moving through is bigg

Kyle Pakka tells the story of a stunt motorcyclist who tours Egypt to perform at the saint's day festivals. Image generated with OpenAI 1, 2, 3 All it takes is one orbit and I am riding the green line. Riding the wall as if by magic. I have kept my eye on the green line and have never fallen, not even when the occasional khuwaga takes a picture and the flash startles me, makes me see spots. Of course, I fell the first time. Everyone does. I feel the hand of centrifugal force hold me against the wall, the hand that suspends me horizontally above the ground. My oldest son, Mustafah, says it is the hand of Allah that holds me there. I am riding the green line, going in circles, as I have done for forty years. Sometimes, it feels like I am motionless and it is the arena, lined with faces eager to see me fall, that is spinning around, that I am upright and they who are horizontal, and it is the rotation of my wheels that spins this old wooden water tank around me. I

via American Short Fiction https://ift.tt/Mxo3m7d

via American Short Fiction https://ift.tt/wpoqTKR

A Los Angeles taxi driver witnesses the worst of the city's underbelly, but he's just trying to do his job; by Kirk Alex. Image generated with OpenAI It was a late-night call and some of these late night calls had a way of taking their toll on the old psyche. The dispatcher had one up in Coldwater Canyon. I'd been sitting at the Beverly Hills Hotel doing nothing. It was two in the morning. I took the call, whipped the cab down to the end of the driveway, turned right, made it to Beverly Drive and took it to Coldwater. No cars around. Nothing. The streets were dark and quiet in an eerie kind of way, and I had the opera going on the radio, with the female voice hitting such high notes it seemed to underscore the other-worldly atmosphere. I don't usually go for opera, but this time it felt right for some reason, even soothing. I stayed on Coldwater for a mile, turned left, and went up this winding, narrow road, all the while wondering what kind of basket ca