dreamszilla

A woman suffers a deeply troubling recurring pregnancy. Image generated with OpenAI She had already delivered twice in the month of May. To her dismay, in another two weeks, she was due to give birth again. The first time it had happened, she had been alone in her room in her father's ancestral bungalow, the one she had long called home. Unable to coax sleep, she brewed herself a cup of chamomile tea in an electric hot water kettle, which she kept by her bedside, and poured it into a clear cup. This was a nightly ritual she swore by for a deep sleep. Before the beverage could touch her lips, however, she felt an intense pain in her lower abdomen. In agony, she dropped her teacup, which broke into a constellation of glass fragments. Avoiding the golden liquid and the broken glass, she crawled into another corner of her bedroom. Before she had time to wrap her head around what was happening, she felt something pass through her vaginal canal and into her needlessly flora

Sylvia Corey is not looking forward to meeting the man she blames for her father's death two decades ago - can she hold it together? Image generated with OpenAI "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Exodus 22:18 He woke, and when he woke, as always, he woke hungry. In the shadow of the yews he began to hunt - not as the wolf pads silently behind a traveler, or the shark follows the tang of blood for miles - but as an exquisitely patient spider. He made his trap beautiful, hospitable. He concocted the sweetest poisons. And he waited. The town of Nantwich was enjoying an unusual warm spell. The November sky arched blue overhead. The sun shone on the silver sands of the beach and the merry white caps in the bay. From the salt marshes a plover winged its way over the grid of streets and tidy, shingled homes. The campus of the Theological Seminary nested in the heart of town, an old-world labyrinth of stone, brick, and spire. In a quiet courtyard betw

A young idealogue becomes addicted to ghostwriting academic essays in exchange for goods and services. Image generated with OpenAI While most of my peers fretted over their looks and romantic escapades, my adolescence was defined by a different kind of drama: the thrill of the academic black market. While some effortlessly excelled in calculus or displayed incomparable athletic prowess, I mastered the art of trading academic essays for whatever caught my eye. The epic saga of my free dive into the academic underworld began amidst the chaos of our local, dilapidated skate park where my twin brother, Paul, and I used to hang out. Surrounded by rebellion in full swing - punk tunes blaring, handsome teenagers gliding past me, the harsh grind of skateboards crashing against the concrete, and the tantalizing smell of stale beer and weed wafting through the air - I found myself mesmerized by this decadent allure. I yearned to be part of this enclave but, alas, everyone ignored m

An addict obsessed with patterns is haunted by a preternatural group of children lingering on the fringes of chaos. Image generated with OpenAI It began with a few grainy photos captured on a night vision trail camera: at the edge of the woods, bathed in lurid green light, was a group of children. Six of them, of various ages. None looked to be over ten, the smallest one a toddling baby. No one knew whose they were, or what they were doing on a stranger's property in the middle of the night, or why they were just standing there. They stood for duration of three hours, according to the camera time lapse. It wasn't a natural thing, for children to be so still and quiet. There was something not right about them. Like creepy kids from a horror movie. Possessed kids, killer kids. Creepy little ghost prophets who knew no boundaries. A faded image from the back of an old VHS video sleeve. After the photos went viral on social media, sightings of strange children began