dreamszilla

Tasha's boyfriend works nights on a mysterious experiment, leaving her to deal with her nightmares of embodying violent people on her own. Image generated with OpenAI Plagued. Plagued, she was, by dreams of violence and blood, the scent of prey, the stench of predation. And she, the predator. The lion in the veld that develops an appetite for human flesh. The alien that probes a man's sinew and tastes his heart. The wild-eyed shadow on the subway platform, clinically choosing one person to push onto the tracks. And tonight she was a Roman legionnaire, the tremor of coming war in the air. She had massive calves, broad shoulders, the iron of testosterone pumping under the heavy armor. She was a man, tall and strong and wary, comfortable in the face of fighting and death. Sure feet in thick sandals on dust roads and stone. Helmet clamped onto the head over burly neck. She smelled the sand and soil just outside the camp, felt and heard the crunch of earth beneath her ...

A young girl confronts a mythical huldra in the forest - but is she more in danger from the huldra or the bears? Image generated with OpenAI The world grew quiet near the cluster of alder trees where Marit hid, still panting and exhilarated from the game. At first she didn't realise what was happening when the birds abruptly stopped singing and a hush descended on the glade, it was only when Aksel's scream rose up from the wooded path behind her that she turned. The huldra emerged from the deep summer shadows cast by the trees a stone's throw away. Transfixed, she noticed the oppressive silence of the nearby waterfall and the unnatural stillness of the trees, their leaves unmoved by the gentle summer breeze that brushed against her cheek. It was as if the mundane world was paused, enchanted, while the creature regarded Marit with unblinking eyes. The huldra's dark hair shone in the sunlight and Marit stood, bewitched, until it moved towards her with the fier...

A caveman discovers storytelling, but must compete with other proto-entertainers for attention. Image generated with OpenAI Long winter. Many of us in cave. Outside is cold. Cold. No leaves on tree. All birds gone. Furry ones in holes. We sit inside. We wait for outside to be warm again. Then birds and animals come back. Fish. Then we can hunt and fish. We sleep. Look at each other. Or not look. Some men sleep loud. Mouths make noise. Women too. Some do not go outside to pee and empty bottoms. They do it inside cave. Much stink. Much! Whew! So I move to back of cave. I talk to no one. I have dream when I sleep. I dream I am leader of hunting party. I walk in front. I see boar. I chase it. Boar run fast. I run fast. Boar stops. Boar runs at me! I throw spear! Spear hit boar. Boar bleed. Bleed! Boar die. I hold up boar. Everyone yells HOMER! HOMER KILLS! WE EAT! Hunting party smiling. Then big bird swoops down and puts claws into boar. Tries to take it and fly a...

Orphan Petra tries to survive in a space station where her kind are hunted. Image generated with OpenAI Petra hid in the darkness watching the jumbled stream of beings, both human and otherwise, milling in the central walkway. Sooner or later, it seemed, all the lost souls of the galaxy washed up in Under Haven Station to join those unlucky enough to be born there. When she spotted the shine of gold winking from a Verengian's flowing garment, she hesitated. Cloven-footed, with skin as dark as the mines, Verengians moved like broken dolls put back together wrongly, almost human, but just a little slantwise. They frightened her more than any other aliens. But then, everything frightened her. Still, gold was gold. Slipping onto the walkway, she threaded between the station hands and starship crews, cut a wide circuit around a group of Bellecti tourists in their unwieldy exo-skins, and merged seamlessly with a cluster of humans whose iridescent clothing told her they we...

In a fictionalised version of medieval Ireland, scruffy and absent-minded Agnes consults some curiously clairvoyant locals about how to become a saint. Image generated with OpenAI Once there was Agnes. She lived in a little village in Medieval Ireland. I won't bother to describe it, because you've already got a picture of it your head, a false one, as false as any with which I might provide you. Whatever. Our joint illusions have provided my story a setting. It's time to climb into this story together, and move on. So! Agnes. I know what you're thinking. What kind of Medieval Irish name is Agnes? (You weren't?) Agnes' biggest problem was not her name. Agnes's biggest problem was that she did not quite fit the medieval Irish village. Some might say that she was ahead of her time, but no, she was right there, in her time. Agnes was not a misfit in a blaring way. She was rather like someone whose buttons are not done up right. From a distance th...