(“Firebird’s Child” necklace by Stephanie Coxon of Sorscha Azhure)

The last artifact is warm in my hands – two ropes of shimmering stones twisting together, with one larger stone in the center. I cup the stone in one hand and press the fingers of the other against it. The heat suffuses my hands, moves up my arms, and I try to pull away, but cannot. The artifact gives me nothing of itself, just reflections in its sparkly depths, reflections of the readings I’ve already done. The Oracle. The dancer in the desert. Time after time tonight I’ve had bleedthrough, had my readings cut short or been pulled in.

The heat flashes through me, through my whole body. I can’t drop the artifact; can’t move.

Behind me, the sun is rising. Its rays catch the artifact, and the artifact seems to blaze; the heat quickens in me, and I cry out. I cannot move. I cannot set it down.

But I can see everything.

The whole history of this planet, and all of its people. I see the moments that made history, and the moments that were quiet and full of easy grace. I see cruelty. I see wonder. I see love. I see everything, and I see it all at once -

Oh, these wonderful, terrible, beautiful humans! These poor creatures, and their poor planet! And the end – not a nuclear strike, not at all, not at the last – oh, my -

Record ends here. Survey team found no trace of Surveyor Kessanda Tarqillan, but since her link was wired to her brain and has gone offline, and that the artifact described was found in a pile of dust or sand of unknown origin, we must presume the worst. Sol 3 has been quarantined pending investigation.

(Box of secrets by Grey Walker of the Maskwood.)

I strike a match, and the flare of light becomes my entire world. One small world of light and heat, one moment.

One wish.

I formulate the wish as the match burns down, racing to put in all of the necessary clauses. I don’t know if there’s really some wish-granting entity out there, but I have read enough stories to know that – if there is – they have a sense of humor. Love to trip you up.

One match a day. One wish per match. Those are the rules.

Also a rule: no premeditation. All wish must be thought up after I strike the match. No tossing and turning at night trying to think up the perfect wish, the perfect formula. It’s not about gaming the system. It’s about where I am right now. About what I subconsciously need right now.

One a day. Once a day, I go down to the railroad tracks, lay pennies on the rails, strike a match, make a wish.

Does it work?

Strangely, yeah. Mom’s asshole boyfriend left, after all, and she got a promotion. I passed Spanish. If those aren’t wish-granting miracles, I don’t know what is.

Also a rule: Don’t wish too specific. And don’t wish too big. No wishing to win the lottery.

Just wishing for things to be a little better.

The train rumbles through, and I kick back and watch, ready to go collect my smashed pennies soon as it passes…

But that rumble is bigger than the train.

The sky goes bright, brighter than the heart of a flame, and I fumble out the rest of the matches and strike them all at once, wishing harder than I’ve ever wished -

(Long looping sparkly necklace by Phoe.)

The sphinx cranes her neck and studies her reflection. The new collar sparkles around her neck. “Not bad,” she admits grudgingly.

“I’m glad you like it.”

She glares at me, but with no heat behind it. “It’s still a collar. I cannot like that.”

“I know.”

She scrutinizes her reflection again. “But it is pretty. I thank you for it.”

“I did my best.”

“You know how I like sparkly things,” she smiles ruefully.

I sit in my accustomed corner chair. “I like to help, Melantha.”

“And yet you keep us prisoner, Agent Scott.” She quirks an eyebrow at me, imperious, and settles on her haunches.

“I didn’t know this was part of the job, when I took it.”

“And now that you know? Why do you stay?”

I pause. “I like you. You and the other -”

“Beasts?”

“Paranormals.”

“You like us. So you continue with our jailors.”

“Most of the agents don’t seem to have an affinity for you and the others. I guess I feel like I owe it to you, to make your lives a little warmer. And…” I look away from her, look out the barred window. “They compel me as well. None of us are truly free.”

(Carved rice bowl by Ridgely Schantz.)

The fortune teller holds out her bowl as you walk down the street. She is not so uncouth as to rattle it; still, the coins within swish gently across the bottom. You are intrigued enough by the bowl to stop – no paper or dented metal, this looks like fine china.

From the bowl, your eyes go to her face. She smiles and nods, dark eyes on you. “Your fortune?” she asks. Her voice is husky and inviting, and you find yourself nodding.

She shuffles, spreads the deck, and invites you with a gesture to pick a card. You mean to just grab the one on top, but your hand is drawn almost against your will to one near the middle. You draw it out hesitantly and hand it to her; she turns it over and slides the other cards out of sight.

The Story

a book, open

All stories are one story, and the story never ends. We choose places nearly at random to call beginnings and ends, but the chain is unbroken.

All our lives, the chain is unbroken.

We are made of stars and stories. And we are all part of the same story. The difference between me and you is as small as the difference between this page and the next.

Turn the page.

See what happens.

(Maille by Ian Hess)

Kieran caught a glimpse of red and caught Victor’s arm, nudging the sleeve of the black leather jacket back up. “What’s that?”

Victor blushed, only a slight darkening of his olive skin. He raised his wrist to let Kieran examine it. “Joseph’s been experimenting with chainmail. He’s giving these to any Kirayth who’ll sit still long enough to be measured.”

“Pretty and practical,” Kieran mused, running his fingers over the surprisingly smooth bracelet. “And the red?”

“Capri wove it in. She’s gone on this medieval kick – wants to give out tokens to her favorite knights.”

Kieran mock-pouted. “And none for me.”

“She’ll get to you.”

“Hmph.” He laughed. “I think Kip’s going to need her own House name and color before too long, the rate she keeps accumulating people.”

Victor half-grinning. “I kinda like being one of her people.”

(Viking ring cross pendant by Regal Pewter.)

Four, you understand? The number of the working shall be four. Four directions, four quadrants.

Four chambers of the human heart.

Four paths in this circle, and all converge. There is no escape for what we’ve got in there. Rivers and circles forever, and no way out, no matter how much they rage. Four winds, four powers. Four seasons, four humors.

Four wings.

You count them out. You sing them. You keep them safe within.

(“Birds” by Charity Larrison.)

They are the only color in these dark streets, some nights. Some days. Everything grimed with soot, everything dark and broken, and here she is, plumage bright, feathers flowing behind her as she runs, jumps over debris like a hurdler. They call her the bird-girl, and some people say it’s good luck to see her. Better luck still if she sees *you*, if she smiles at you. Best luck if you see the bird. He tracks her overhead, rarely landing – when he lands, it’s always on her, never touching anything else. Wonder if he’s really part of this world, that bird. Or if he’s from another, and she’s his gateway.

Wonder if she came first, or the bird did.

(“Like A Heavy Dream” by Mia Nutick of Chimera Fancies.)

I trace circles over his stomach with one bitten-down fingernail. “I forget,” I confess. “All of the marvelous things I saw. All of the things I did. Everything… over there. All of the beauty. All of the little miracles.”

“In your dream?”

I shake my head. “Not a dream. I swear. I know it sounds crazy. But I was *there*, I was transported…”

He takes my hand, kisses it gently. “The things you describe are impossible, honey.”

“They are. But I did them anyway.”

“Your sister says it was a serial dream you had as a kid.”

“You talked to my *sister* about this?”

“You said she was there with you. In this… other world.”

“But she doesn’t believe. She doesn’t remember. *She* thinks I’m crazy.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you?” I hate my voice for sounding plaintive.

He strokes my hair. “I think you’re as sane as I am. But it does sound rather more like a dream.”

“Sometimes it feels like that’s all it was. But I know better.”

I rest my head on his stomach, and he strokes my hair until I fall asleep.

I do not dream of home.

(Roma Necklace by Jennifer Parrish of Parrish Relics.)

She runs her fingers along the beads, tap tap like a rosary, pausing to caress the portrait under glass and tug lightly at the tiny bead hanging beneath. It’s her sole nervous habit, the tic that gives her away. Her tell.

And she’s been doing it a lot lately. Fingers slipping along the beads, gaze turned inward. The archaic necklace looks odd against her button-down shirts and labcoat, dangling as she leans in to rexamine the sample under the microscope. I wonder who gave it to her. It’s not the sort of thing she’d buy for herself, not our severe professor. It’s the sort of thing a long-lost lover would give to her. Something that says “us” rather than “me”.

I wonder what happened to the person who gave it to her.

I wonder if that’s the reason she’s so laser-focused on finding a cure.

This hat was worn to

many sci-fi conventions.

It’s cunning, ain’t it?