dreamszilla

A man tries to explain his act of kindness towards a finger-deficient busker, but there's something more sinister going on. Image generated with OpenAI He's always been in the same spot as the first time I saw him. Right on the ground with his bottom planted, lotus position, on the concrete square slab that seems reserved for him. Even when its busy he's there with the little keyboard held between his thighs. Those fingers he has plinking out those same tunes. I can't say I recognised any of the melodies, but they seemed harmonic enough. I'm no expert on musical composition of course. Never saw him wearing a different outfit, just the same green smock, the baggy brown trousers and flat hat, and battered shoes. The keyboard was a cheap Casio, I guess. I'm pretty certain it was, as my brother used to have one like it, more of a toy than a keyboard. Like the same one Trio used for that Da Da Da song in the eighties. I'm not sure that's relevant.

A Madison Avenue advertising creative faces up to the challenges of his job and his life with the help of copious cocktails - but is creativity alone enough to survive? Image generated with OpenAI They told us to make nice to each other, to open up and be free and easy with each other. They told us not to clam up, to keep talking because talk is the mother of ideas, they said. They told us that if getting it on together helped then by all means be their guests and close the door. They told us that everything we wanted to be depended on each other, that not to be meant tending bar, walking dogs, living in fifth-floor walk-ups way the hell out in Brooklyn somewhere. They told us to have each others' backs because we'd either be kept on together or fired together. We were two of the chosen ones from of a large cattle call of candidates trying to lift ourselves out of the bottom three percent of unemployment hell. We got bankrolled into a start-up ad agency in lower M

One moment after I pressed the timer, it was humming away. Then suddenly, I heard a loud explosion. The door flew open, and the plate I placed on top of the bowl flew out and shattered on the floor, followed by the clear bowl filled with eggs and water. The sight and sound was startling, to say the least. My husband and I jumped up to see what happened and saw the eggs and broken glass on the floor and the baseboards. We were both making poached eggs. He was cooking on the stove, and I prepared mine in the microwave. As a challenge, I told him I could make mine fluffier in the microwave. “What happened?” he asked. “The video showed putting the egg in a bowl, covering it with a saucer, and microwaving it for two minutes for a fluffy poached egg,” I told him. “Well, after two minutes, the eggs still looked raw, so I added a couple more minutes, put the plate back in the bowl, and started the microwave,” I told him. Warning! Do not put a plate over a bowl of water in the microwav

During the pandemic, Gina goes on a punishing bicycle ride to try and shake herself out of her acute ennui. Image generated with OpenAI "Dammit," Gina hissed as pain stabbed through the cramping muscles of her right thigh. She pedaled slowly up the long hill on the rural road five miles north of town, laboring against gravity's pull on the pounds she had added during four months of pandemic lockdown. Back when she biked two or three times each week, she seldom felt this near to cramping. After the recent forced inactivity, however, her legs weren't what they used to be. The July mid-morning sunshine beat down through the vents in Gina's bike helmet, tickling her scalp with rivulets of sweat. The day had already crossed from cool to warm, and salty moisture matted the drooping strands of her hair. "Push through it," Gina grunted. "Push, push, push!" She syncopated her thrusts, easing up with her cramping right leg and powering th

For the next few Wednesdays, Fiction on the Web will be publishing an extra mid-week story! Thomas is a precocious toddler with incredible mind powers, but still physically underdeveloped - is his mother strong enough to raise him? Image generated with OpenAI Amanda Barns opened the classroom door with her hip, trying to balance her two-year-old son in her arms and the overstuffed backpack digging into her shoulders. She was 15 minutes late, and as soon as she entered, Professor Yasmine halted her lecture, glaring. "Sorry," Amanda said, blushing and wishing she were invisible. "My babysitter cancelled at the last minute, and I couldn't find another on such short notice." "You can't bring your child in here," the professor said. "He'll disrupt the class." "He's very quiet," Amanda said. "I promise he won't..." "I'm sorry, but you should've planned ahead." Amanda hear