The Sphinx Club was a bump and grind joint that had the strange distinction of elevating the neighborhood. A block down the road the Strip got sketchy, but the Sphinx Club projected something resembling class. From outside it looked like a miniature casino, its entrance flanked by two golden sphinxes and bathed in soft spotlights at night. Inside, the decor was tasteful-minimal in red and brown and gold. There were Egyptian touches, but not enough to be kitschy.

It was two minutes till the museum closed, and Jerry at the security desk gave Nick a stern look. Then he smiled and waved him along. Nick responded with a big grin, dropped a bag of his aunt's cookies on the desk, and boldly pushed open the door marked Employees Only.

"You're killing me with these," Jerry groaned.

"Tia Dolores will kill you for real if you don't eat them all," Nick called over his shoulder.

He hummed as he took the stairs down two at a time. Once on a school trip his class had gone backstage at a theater. Being in the museum after hours gave him that same feeling, that he was going to see where the magic was made.

Megan was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.

"I'm getting to be an old man," Thomas Quayle said to his empty parlor. Just moving an armchair to face the window had left him winded. He sat down, sighed, and peered down the lane in the direction of the Corkill farm. It was none of his business, and the good book said spare the rod and spoil the child, but he was going to have to have a word with the boy's father. He was going to have to have a word with Colby Corkill.

Mo wasn't in the mood for conversation, but the waitress always wanted to practice her English.

"Here! Are your noodles!" she announced happily. "Please enjoy."

"Xie xie," he replied pointedly. As usual, she ignored the hint.

"Happy New Year!" she chirped.

"Uh? I thought New Year was a month away."

"American New Year is now." She checked her watch. "Literally! Ball dropping in New York. Champagne! Y2K!" She beamed at the other person seated at the bar. "You want a beer? Let's celebrate!"

Absyllea, Predator-Class Cyborg, Soldier of Enlar, War Scout Prime and Scourge of Chardis, methodically made her way to the computer core at the heart of the Justice Patrol headquarters. Tri-steel doors tore like tissue paper in her mighty hands. She tossed aside duranium struts like balsa wood. Finally, with a grunt, she wrenched open the last hatchway and strode into the data center.

The room teemed with a strange array of jerry-rigged equipment. Most of the machines appeared to be of Earth manufacture. Others had obviously originated in Consortium space. And some, intriguingly, were unidentifiable. She duly recorded it all with her enhanced eyes.

On the third day of the sickness Rory stopped screaming. Uncle Colby was the only one well enough to notice. He stood in the small garden out back, eyes closed, gripping a shovel, and savored the quiet.

The sickness had left his ears overly sensitive, and long after Rory had screamed himself hoarse Colby could hear the choking, gargling noises the boy made. Now there was only the breeze and the bees. Colby wiped the sweat from his brow, tucked a dark curl behind his ear, and returned to burying his wife. What was left of her.

When the job was done he leaned on the shovel and stared at the churned earth for a long time. It was a fine spring day, and with the wind carrying all the smells of the farm he could almost pretend it was a day like any other.

      
     
There is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman.
-Arthur Conan Doyle
              
 

          
Detective Cruz looked up from the dead man sprawled on the asphalt and saw another dead man walking towards her.

"I'll be damned," she muttered, and then, "Edison Palmer! You're under arrest!'

Inspired by comic books like What If? this story is set about ten years into the future of Hudson City. Not the future, just a future.
           
                 
                        
Here is where you'll always find me
Always walking up and down
But I left my soul behind me
In an old cathedral town

- Al Dubin

He spotted her across terminal A. She was chatting with a businessman as they glanced through magazines at a news stand. He stared, at first to make absolutely sure it was her, and then to make sure she noticed him. She never turned her head, but after two minutes she ran a hand through her hair, twice.

He remembered the old signal. Don't approach. He wondered, without any real interest, who the mark was.

Whenever the unSighted ask me about magic, I tell them this story.

Once upon a time, though not so long ago, there lived a girl. Some might have called her a young woman, but really she was a girl. This girl dreamed of becoming an actress. It was a vague and secondhand dream, for this girl fancied herself misunderstood and unloved. She thought if she could become famous then all the world could, would, should love her.

She mustered her half-portion of courage and set out to make her way in the world. She found it was not so easy to become an actress. But the girl was pretty, and she got a job as a model. She imagined it was her big break.