dreamszilla

Teenager Paul starts an apprenticeship as a painter-decorator at his dad's firm, but will his workmates' boyish pranks go too far? By Paul Kimm. Image generated with OpenAI Jeff and Joan owned the last guesthouse on Princess Avenue. Joan ran the guesthouse, which was busy from June to the end of August every year, with guests from across West Yorkshire, Tyneside, and sometimes Scotland. They also owned a decorating firm, JWD Decorators. They'd had the house for seventeen years, the decorating firm for fifteen. It was the only home their son, Paul, had lived in. The painting firm employed five full-time decorators and a new apprentice, Paul. 'First lesson is how to hold the brush. You're right handed, right?' 'Yes.' 'Here, take this one-inch.' Paul took it from Derek and held it as he would an ice cream cone. The brand-new brush with a burgundy handle, gold letters, its brand name embossed into the wood. A thousand pristine, un...

Kirk Alex takes us on a characterful ride with a cabbie working the streets of Los Angeles. Image generated with OpenAI We're at the Plaza Hotel. Three of us. It's past 4:00am. Howie Lipowitz is first up. Sound asleep. So is the cabbie in back of me. I'm barely awake myself. There's nothing going on. Century City is quiet. No cars or peeps. Now, mind, Howie is pushing 60. White-haired, white dude with a flattop. His face is scarred and smashed-in like a train-wreck. It was common knowledge that Howie has spent time in the joint, just as this other personality trait that he was not shy about by having a corner of a red kerchief always and forever dangling from the left-rear pocket of his jeans. Yes, gravelly-voiced Macho Man Howie evidently leaned a certain way (and wanted the world to know it). Not that anyone was bothered by this fact or ever bothered him about it. Most folks didn't give a damn. No problem. Lipowitz could be fun to talk to and often...

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Bill Tope invites us to a drug-fuelled party in 1970s USA. Blind Faith's eponymous new album was spinning on the turntable; Steve Winwood's haunting vocals on "Can't Find My Way Back Home" was set off to great advantage by Clapton's 12-string. The music floated evocatively throughout the party room, where a thick, inert blanket of marijuana smoke hung near the ceiling. All the cool people were there, as was sexy Beth - the life of every party - and every purveyor of every controlled substance then known to the local subculture. Everyone seemed mellow, clutching either a beer or a joint. Professor Bob sat in a quilt-covered rocking chair, warming himself before the fire as he sifted through a huge woven bamboo tray of marijuana leaves and stems and buds. He smiled. He was happily in his element. Beth walked slowly across the floor, her nose stuck in yet another book on numerology, her latest obsession. She was frustrated: other folks couldn't seem to c...

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Wesley Boyd wakes up unsure of where he is or how he got there, in Mark Saha's charming story. Somebody cracked Wesley Boyd in the back of the head with a pool stick and dropped him like a rock. One minute he was lining up a shot, and the next he was face down on the barroom floor, whiffing stale tobacco and rancid beer in the sawdust. His mind went missing in a low ground fog trying to figure out what in batshit hell had just happened. He must have got into an argument with somebody while shooting pool. Then when he leaned in for his shot, the bastard clipped him from behind with the butt end of a stick. For the life of him, he could not put a finger on who had done it or what they had been arguing about. Lying very still with his eyes shut, Wes gradually became aware that he did not hurt anywhere. He felt good enough to jump to his feet and surprise the son of a bitch, and punch his lights out. He decided to do that. But when he went to make his move, he suddenly felt bad al...