"Ok," Madame Zelda said in a voice soaked in boredom, "it's $14.95 for the first ten minutes and a dollar a minute there after. I don't predict lottery numbers, I don't read tea leaves, and I DON'T do birthday parties. All predictions are for entertainment purposes only and all customers, that's you," she said, pointing at the man sitting across the table from her with a manicured finger, "are advised to seek legal counsel before acting upon anything Madame Zelda tells you. Payment is required prior to any services. No checks but cash or credit cards are gladly accepted." Madame Zelda narrowed her heavily shadowed eyes and took a long draw on her cigarette. "Now, what can I do for ya, hun?"

"You are needed," the runner said.

Edgar flinched at the words.

They had traveled many leagues to reach the fabled Cairn of Sorrows. Along the way the party dealt with scorpions, giant nomadic sand lizards, and an enormous sandstorm that nearly buried them in its wrath. When they finally reached the opening of the Cairn the previous day, Edgar’s services still had not been utilized.

Jack Whitman sat quietly in the corner and tried to gather his thoughts. It was a difficult task considering the fact that he had been dead for quite sometime as were all the others occupying the abandon cellar along with him. They were all zombies but Jack felt different from the rest. He no longer wanted to eat human brains and this fact made him a target of ridicule and hazing. Still, he was set on changing his lifestyle and giving up human brains was his New Year's resolution.

"Where are you heading off to, Jack?" Lilly was up for a night on the town. "We could get a bite to eat then break and enter into someone's home to watch a movie."

"I don't think so, Lilly. I'm not really in the mood."

"Come on, Jack." She smoothed out the five blonde hairs remaining on her skull-like head and batted her dead colorless eyes at him. "The house will probably have cable so we can checkout On Demand for the new movie releases."

"Maybe later." He offered her a hollow grin. "I just need to have some time to myself."

"This isn't about your brain free diet, is it?" Lilly tilted her head and gazed into Jack's pasty grey face. "Is it?"

"No," he said plainly. "I just need to walk around for a while."

Belinda liked to watch the Harry Potter movies in order; just so she could see the kids grow up before her eyes. It also made her feel a little less like a dirty old lady for lusting after the lead when he took off his clothes for that play about blinding the horses.

The children she taught were nothing like the students from the popular movies and books. Her students were chosen for their lack of moral fortitude. In short, they were sociopaths. It was her job to give them a conscience or at the very least, rein them in so that they worked for the good of society instead of nefarious purposes. Failing that, well, Belinda preferred not to think of such unpleasant things.

So when one of her students, Jezzie Bell -- yes, that was her real name (sometimes, Belinda wanted to smack the parents) -- boiled up a mind control potion, Belinda had some hard choices to make.

On the one hand, it was rather funny to see Joachim (apparently “J” names were in for wizards that year) “bawk-bawking” around like a chicken, but it was another thing to see the possibilities glint in her other students’ eyes.

Belinda confiscated the recipe and erased Jezzie’s memory of creating it. Mind-wiping was another of those skills that danced the line of decency. Belinda understood her students so well because, a long time ago, she had been one of them.

Error

That's all the screen said.

Error

Just five green letters glaring out at me. But suddenly the sky's purple and the mountains are scorched and the oceans are boiling. Lakes are spitting steam and great streaks of fire are slitting the night apart.

Mushroom clouds are sprouting out of New York. Mushroom clouds are sprouting out of Los Angeles. Tokyo, Beijing, Moscow. London. Paris. Tehran. Hundreds of other cities, towns, landmarks, strategic locations.

Lasers are blasting down from satellites. Blasting up from ship decks. EMPs are knocking airplanes out of the air. Some virus is making people projectile vomit until they die from aneurysms.

Satan looked down his angular nose at the demon sitting in front of him. The portly creature squirmed in his seat. Good, Satan thought, don't want them getting comfortable. "Name?"He asked.

"Gluttony, Sir, it's right there on my app--"

Satan held up a hand. "I can see that. I wanted to know if you knew your name."

The demon cowered. "Yes Sir. Right Sir."

Satan smiled. "Tell me, where do you see yourself in four or five millenniums?"

The demon's face brightened. He'd prepared for this question. "In your job, Sir. Of course, that's after you've moved up to --"

"NEXT!"

The portly demon was stunned. "W-What? Wasn't that the right answer? All the books on interviewing said to be: confident, ambitious, and to --"

Mr. Witherspoon stared at the display and examined the "final" number. "Hmmmm," he said, "it seems you owe."

"What!" Roger sat up in his seat. "Are you sure?"

Mr. Witherspoon sighed. "I warned you that your Great Aunt's inheritance might tip the scales. I told you to do more community service."

Roger sat back. He owed, dear God, he owed. "But, my work with the homeless, my time teaching English to new immigrants, surely --"

Mr. Witherspoon shook his head. "Insufficient. I'm afraid you owe taxes this year."

"H-How much?"

Mr. Witherspoon looked down at his display again. "About six years. Of course, you would split it between you and your wife Rachel, three and three."

When ten year-old, Jason Howard wrote his letter to Santa two months earlier, the last thing he expected to receive was a reply. His mother came barging into his room and tossed the envelope down on the bed. He was flat on his stomach reading the latest issue of Demon Hunter comics with his feet kicking the air behind him.

"What's that, mom?" His eyes were sparkling and he quickly sat up.

"Well, Jason it looks like it came from the North Pole." She had both fists perched on her hips and her full lips were stretched into a wide U. "I'm sure it's got to be good news." She leaned forward and tousled his curly brown hair.

"Wow," he whispered breathlessly. "I can't believe it."

The carved pumpkin sitting on the front porch steps of the house was actually a hologram. The image flickered intermittently and quickly disappeared.
"Dammit!" Michael Plant stood just outside the doorway and continued to press the red power button on the pumpkin's remote control. "It must have some kind of short in the digital box."
"Could be, sweetheart," his wife, Rachel agreed from inside their home. She stuck her head outside the window. "You need me to help you troubleshoot it?"
"Well, I really think the kids look forward to seeing it every year. I don't want to disappoint them." Michael sighed and slapped the remote against his palm. "You think we got enough candy?"

It took almost a week for Sam to accept that the voices in his head weren't imaginary. They were real. That annoyed Sam. He'd taken this sensory deprivation vacation in order to "get away" from it all -- the noise, the people, the 24/7 advertising, everything. It was supposed to be a full month of peace and quiet. Having people talking in his head was a blatant violation of his travel plans and management was going to hear about it.