“Ladies and gentlemen, step right up!”
Darcy O’Connor winces as a loud female voice bursts out of the AI interface speaker. Her robotics lab used to be such a peaceful place.
“Only one ticket to learn your future!”
This is the AI’s way of requesting paper. Darcy keeps turning off Carnival Mode, but it always reverts.
My feet pounded against the pavement as the mid-September rain cut through the late summer humidity. My dark hair was soaked, but I didn’t care. I kept running, pushing myself to keep up with the droplets falling from the sky. My legs hurt, but still I ran. The pain didn’t matter. I couldn’t stop.
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Most high school principals looked forward to graduation night, but not Edwin. It was the one night of the year that he couldn’t ignore his psychic ability—he dared not call it a gift.
As he handed diplomas to the graduates, he would see flashes of their future, snapshots of what was to come.
“Remember when we took that egg?” Granpapa leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyes closed in a grimace. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
Jani swallowed the ache in her throat. “That was some adventure.
Every spring, just as the raspberries began to redden, Grandpapa’s mind would slip into these fanciful waking dreams.
When I signed up for Fated—supposedly the best app for online paranormal dating—I had no idea being a Seer would make it so hard to envision a future with my matches.
Like this vampire. His fangs sprout over his bottom lip as he licks away a speck of spaghetti sauce. “My mother
Watching the one-yen coin tumbling seemingly endlessly midair, Ren Izumi said,
“Winner gets to update the signal tower’s hardware down on the planet. Fresh air after three months, ah! The loser has to stay here and overhaul the ship’s decrepit ventilation system. I call one.”
Himari Tanaka smiled. “Is that Toshiko-san’s lucky coin?”
In four minutes, I’ll be dead.
I didn’t plan to go down like this, but you know what they say: Make plans or don’t make plans, God hocks a loogie in your face regardless. So here I am, dripping with holy spit in Jackson Square. Here I am with a splitting headache
Halfway down 22nd Avenue, a linebacker wannabe nearly knocked me over. I twisted around him, threaded between a mother and daughter, and sidestepped a yapping fur ball. All the while, my focus never left the woman.
She stood with her back against a storefront wall, staring at me with purple eyes. Yep. Purple.
This venture was supposed to be a pushover, thought Dor Manti as he dodged yet another vomited plume of emerald flame. The great, galloping beast was gaining on him, its maw still crackling with that damnable green glow.
And now I’m gonna die on this stupid backwater rock.
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Roger was reading the ingredient label on a jar of pickles when something bright twinkled at the edge of his vision. He scanned the store. It glinted at him from the clothing department, like candles reflecting off a piece of tinsel. He put the pickles back—too much sodium—and turned his shopping
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Sherry held the letterman jacket’s collar to her cheek and inhaled deeply. Polo cologne, her first Christmas gift to him. The herbal overtones had always reminded her of spiced cider. Like him, it brought warmth on a cold winter’s night. A hint of aloe from his shaving cream to ease the roughness of life…
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