dreamszilla

Dan Brotzel's character visits his father's death-bed, and faces reminiscence, reckoning, devil-worship, family scandal and custard creams. Image generated with OpenAI It is a tiring business, waiting for the dying to die. There is a lot of yawning and a lot of central heating, a lot of looking out of windows and a lot of unnecessary custard creams. In between visits to his room - where we take it in turns to lean in and try to catch a few whispered words that might well be Dad's last, and rack our brains for new nuggets of appropriate small-talk to say in reply (without him realising we can't really understand what he's saying) - my two brothers and I retire to the Living Room. Like the rest of this 'residential home' (and what kind of home, incidentally, is not residential?) the Living Room gives off the atmosphere of a fading, high-end hotel - discreetly tasteful and well-appointed, impeccable in its fittings and fixtures, but ultimately

Don McLellan tells the story of sixteen-year-old Sean Cooper's time in St. Joe's juvenile detention facility. Image generated with OpenAI St. Joe's pops into view at the summit of an arid prairie mound, three brick and climbing-ivy stories boxed in by hectares of alfalfa in purple bloom. Beyond is pine forest, a scattering of ramshackle farmhouses on either side of a sleepy, country road. A flash of silver where an ancient river courses lazily. Coop had spent the weekend in lockup, sharing a drum with Goodwin, who's appointed himself tour guide for the dozen new arrivals squeezed into the sheriff's box van. "Bible-thumpers built the place more than a hundred years ago as a residential school for Chubs," says a crooked mouth missing half its teeth. "It got closed down because the priests were buggering the kids. A new swarm of zealots converted the dump into a holding pen for fuckups like us." The iron gates when the bus settles in

Macho biker Josh heads to Las Vegas with a motorcycle full of contraband, to escape his rural Tennessee home for a while; by C. Davis Fogg. Image generated with OpenAI My name is Josh, named after Joshua the Israelite spy. I'm seeking the promised land, which happens to be Las Vegas - a mythic destination, the land of cash, milk and female honey, of light and sparkle and enough dark side to make life profitable and maybe too exciting. To get to the "Big L" as soon as possible, I planned to drive straight through, stopping only to rest, eat and sell a little dope to finance my trip. So, I gassed up my Harley Hog and loaded minimal supplies, a tent, change of clothes and my dope hidden in the false bottoms of my saddlebags. My vintage Hog is mirror black with chrome headers, pipes and cylinder heads. Everything that's not black or portable is chrome. The gold Harley logo neatly swishes both sides of the gas tank and I have huge fiberglass saddlebags on