You grab the laundry basket and hustle to the crawlspace, surprised at how heavy 13,000 tickets are.

  Sean and Karen are arguing about who should take out the trash. They stop when they see you. Karen smiles. "Hey, stranger! How have you been?"

  "I want the thing," you say. "The live-another-life deal."

  "Ooh! I love that one," Karen says, grabbing a long stick with a grabber at the end. It grabs what appears to be an old, imitation-leather suitcase.

  Sean turns toward Karen and scowls. "We're supposed to present some options. Maybe he wants the Xbox. That's what I'd get." Sean must've seen you looking at it again.

  "He didn't ask for the Xbox, did he? Besides, it's more expensive."

  "Instead of one boring life, he can have two," Sean mutters. Karen shoots him a dirty look.

  "I could buy an Xbox anywhere. What's so special about it?" you say.

  "Nothing," Sean says. "There's nothing special about any of this stuff."

  "Sean!" Karen says, looking toward a dark corner of the room. You again wonder about security cameras.

  "Living an entire lifetime as someone else isn't special?"

  Sean rolls his eyes. "What's wrong with the life you've got?"

  "I dunno. It's fine, really," you say, fishing in your pocket for the pocketknife Jeremy gave you for your fourteenth birthday. "It'd just be nice to get a do-over on some stuff, you know? I could do less of the dumb things, more of the cool ones. Are you saying it doesn't do that?"

  Karen clears her throat. Sean rolls his eyes. "I'm not saying anything," he says. They irritate each other so much, you wonder if they're family.

  "We obviously can't guarantee the kind of life it would be," Karen says. Sean is about to say something, but Karen shuts him up with another dirty look. "Life is a series of opportunities. What you do with them is up to you."

  "How'd your other prizes work out?" Sean says.

  "I mean, the one with the dreams wasn't great, but it was the dreams that were duds. The prize worked just fine."

  "How were the novel endings?"

  You respond with an awkward pause. You don't want to hurt his feelings.

  "What would you do with the Xbox?" Sean says.

  "Uh, play video games."

  "Anything else?"

  "Like what?"

  Sean sighs; he's a string bean, and the sigh weighs more than he does. "Is there some game you loved as a kid but never finished?"

  "Oh. No."

  "Maybe some game you used to play with a dead son or daughter as a bonding experience?"

  "Jeez! No! I just want to relax and play Monkey Kong or whatever."

  "Then yeah, it works perfectly."

  You stare at Sean. "The Xbox is the only thing that'll do what I want it to?"

  "Candy works fine, too." He grabs a handful of Pixy Stix and slides them toward you.

  "Oh man, I used to love those things," you say. "When my brother and I went to my grandma's for sleepovers, she let us have these if we promised not to tell our mom. There was one time when—"

  "Ooo-kay," Sean says, taking the Pixy Stix from you. "How about a Twix? Any toxic nostalgia tied to those?"

  "No, not really."

  "Sold." Sean slides one toward you and snatches fifty tickets from your hand.

  You see Karen hustling to get the other-life prize from the shelf, like if you'd just take a good look at it, you'd see the wondrous new jobs you could have, the coworkers you could spend years and years with, the sad sacks you could cheer up with second chances and false hope. Sean makes no effort to help her. You want to ask Sean how someone with such poor customer service skills even got this job, but you're starting to think you already know.

  You look at Karen, whose eyes don't look nearly as happy as her smile would have you believe. "I'll take the Xbox," you say.

  Karen says, "Are you sure you wouldn't rather—"

  "I'm sure."

  Karen takes a deep breath, then hands the grabby-arm thingy to Sean and walks away, apparently deciding it was indeed her turn to take out the garbage. "They are so writing you up," she whispers in a way that she obviously wants you to hear.

  "Like they can fire me." He hands you the Xbox. The packaging promises lots of gigahertz and ROMs and other stuff that makes no sense to you.

  "Did . . . I just get you in trouble?" you say.

  "Nah, she gets like that." For all his defiance, he looks a little paler than a moment ago.

  "You, uh, need to grab a pizza after your shift? Blow off some steam?" You motion to the Xbox. "Play some video games?"

  Sean smiles, or something like it. "Can't. Thanks, though."

  You've seen movies, and you know how these things work. The next time you enter the crawlspace, it will again be just a crawlspace, with all the ruins of discontinued hobbies, outgrown clothes, and Jeremy's old shoeboxes full of CDs implied therein. "Take care," you say.

  "Uh, thanks man." You're not sure if there's warmth behind his cool façade, but you decide to believe it's there regardless. You exit the crawlspace and close the door behind you, excited to fire up your new toy.

  You're so giddy that, without thinking, you call Jeremy—muscle memory from back when you were getting along—about how you just won an Xbox. You go straight to voicemail. Feeling foolish, you lug your prize into the house, the warm sensation of victory carried off by the chill winter breeze.

  You set the Xbox on top of a plastic bin of Christmas stuff, the one with all the wrapping paper. A thought occurs to you. Instead of opening the box, and before you can change your mind, you wrap it in paper festooned with snowmen and holly branches. Jeremy's kids will love it. Well, probably. Do they even like video games? But isn't it your duty as an uncle to give loud, obnoxious gifts? You'll ask Jeremy that when you show up unannounced at his door with a belated Christmas present. You laugh, thinking about how mad he'll be when he sees you. On some level, Jeremy will appreciate that. An Xbox can't change what happened, but it might be enough to get you through the front door. And it's about time you two got things fixed.

  Speaking of doors, you run outside to check on the crawlspace. The movies did not lie; your disorganized junk is right where you left it. Good. You'll hit the road just as soon as you finish putting away the Christmas decorations.

  Bill Ferris is a stand-up comedian who writes mysteries, fantasy, science fiction, and horror, and does not do stand-up. He has published several short stories in literary journals, and writes an author advice column at Writer Unboxed designed to help dilettantes and hacks learn nothing whatsoever. When he's not typing words into a thing, Bill develops online courses at a university his lawyer advised him not to name. He has two sons who asked not to be mentioned in this bio, but Elliott and Wyatt forgot to say "please."

  Visit him online at www.famousauthorbillferris.com, or follow him on Twitter (@BillFerris).

  Return To Sender

  Melissa Mead

  Hiya, Little Brother! How're you and the missus liking the new place? I still don't get why you'd build on clouds, but whatever floats your castle. What do you do during thunderstorms? Anyway, thanks for the wedding invite. You guys really know how to throw a party. The roast kid was delicious, and I haven't had baby back ribs that tender in ages. You two should come visit me sometime. I've got plenty of room on the Carabas estate. Maybe this summer?

  Your big brother,

  Barney

  Hey, BB. We'd like OUR place better if it didn't stink of human. We'd just got all settled in when this beanstalk popped up near Cloudbank. One of the little parasites must've climbed up it, 'cause the smell's all over the kitchen, and now there's a bag of gold missing. And Nellie let the stinker get away! Said it was "cute." Seriously? Good thing that woman's the world's best cook.

  Later,

  Bert

  Hey, Bert! Still got humans coming up that beanstalk? Wasn't getting away from the little buggers one of the reasons you moved to Cloudbank? I've got to admit, I'm surprised one of them made it all the way up there. Sorry to hear that one of the little stinkers got away with some of your gold. Maybe you can hire that piper guy who catered your wedding banquet to get rid of them.

  Best of luck.

  Barney

  Yes. Yes, we still do. And this time it made off with Mrs. Scramble. Nellie was crushed. We can make do without the gold eggs, but she raised that hen from a chick. The human isn't looking so cute now. If it comes back I swear I'll stew it in its own beans. And grind its bones for bread. Great source of calcium, bones. Darn it, now I'm hungry.

  Your frustrated baby bro,

  Bert

  You've got to be kidding! I was only joking, you know. It climbed all the way up that beanstalk again? You should uproot the thing. And what on Earth (or cloud) would a human want your hen for? I mean yeah, gold eggs, but the critters can't eat gold. (I know. I keep a herd of the tough older ones to farm my lands, and the little buggers always need feeding.) They just play with it. And try to steal it from each other. If your thief shows up in town with a gold egg, all the rest of the pack will start fighting over it. That's why our Grandma Yaga moved out into the boonies, you know. The humans were too aggressive. Especially the ones with tender young.

  The humans say "Bad luck comes in threes," so if you really think it's the same thief, maybe you should watch out. And set a few traps. I hear chocolate makes great human bait.

  Your loving brother,

  Barney

  Hey, Bert, what's up? Forgot how to write back? That harp I gave you for a wedding present put you to sleep? I know you're newlyweds and all, but drop your big brother a line sometime.

  Hoping to hear from you soon,

  Barney

  Bert? Nellie? Are you guys even getting my letters? You're starting to worry me here. Write back, ok?

  Your concerned brother,

  Barney

  Guys, just a quick note to let you know I'm on my way. Baba says she hasn't heard from you in ages either, so I know something's up. I'll be heading out just as soon as I deal with an unexpected visitor. You won't believe this, but it's a cat! And it's wearing boots!

  Seriously. I'll tell you all about it when I get there. Or maybe I'll bring it along. Sounds like you guys could use a good mouser.

  See you soon,

  Barney

  Melissa Mead lives in Upstate NY. She's done strange things to fairy tales before. Check out Daily Science Fiction and various issues of Sword and Sorceress for examples. You can find her on Facebook or at carpelibris.wordpress.com.

  The Friendly Necromancer

  Rod M. Santos

  I shut the book I was reading, A Bestiary of Baby Monsters, and smiled warmly at my guest. I was never embarrassed to welcome unexpected company because I always kept my workchamber tidy—blood-inked tomes carefully catalogued, bonefinger candles aesthetically arranged, pastel skulls brightly polished on my desk.

  The halfling introduced himself as Plip the Pilferer, his pointy beard quite incongruous on his cherubic face. It took all my willpower not to reach across my desk and pinch his chubby cheeks.

  If Plip noted my struggle, he ignored it. "As you may have guessed, Master Fahrity, I'm in need of a necromancer's help. Are you familiar with the name D'reer the Deathless?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "He was also known as D'reer the Immortal."

  I shook my head.

  "Also called D'reer the Ever-Breathing, D'reer the Eternal, D'reer the Undying—"

  "Ah, yes! Good old D'reer the Undying! How's he doing?"

  "He died."

  My eyebrows shot up, making my bangs flutter in the air. "Died?" I disliked when a colleague fibbed about his epithet. "Are you certain? Perhaps he's on holiday?"

  "I learned of his death from . . . a good source and authority."

  D'reer and I were not especially close; I'm an introvert, and he was a paranoid schizophrenic. "My . . . condolences?"

  Plip brushed the sentiment away with nimble fingers. "I'm here because I know where his Hidden Tower is hidden. A tower now unoccupied . . . but not empty."

  Ahh. I disliked where this was going. A wizard's tower was as much a trove as a dragon's den. Less gold perhaps, but greater treasures. Yet the notion of plundering another necromancer's home struck me as disrespectful. Perhaps even a tad suicidal.

  "Not empty," I agreed, "and not unguarded."

  He smiled, unfazed. "Spell traps, undead sentinels. I'm expecting the works. Having another necromancer along would be a boon."

  "My good halfling—"

  "Call me Plip."

  "—you may not be aware, Plip, but my profession does not enjoy a particularly flattering reputation. Indeed, my personal mission is to dispel such stereotypes. Hence, my clean-shaven face, my immaculate saffron robes and, in this case, my avoidance of anything that even remotely resembles grave robbing—"

  He raised a hand. "I'm no stranger to stereotypes, particularly those concerning halflings and avarice."

  I coughed pointedly. "You introduced yourself as Plip the Pilferer."

  "A family name. Tangents aside, were you aware that D'reer had in his possession the Umber Urn of Unresting? Perhaps you've heard of it."

  My gasp killed any chance of feigning disinterest. The Umber Urn was a fabled artifact created by the Arch-Lich Wendigrah herself. It was as lethal as it was legendary. "Who told you this?"

  "A good source and authority."

  The phrase was becoming his mantra. "The same that informed you of D'reer's death?"

  "Indeed." His chubby cheeks taunted me.

  "Tempting . . . very . . . but the Urn is a tool of extinction best kept out of everyone's hands. Including mine."

  Plip climbed off his chair and made a show of dusting off his trousers, a most unwarranted insult to my housekeeping. "I understand."

  "Understanding begets wisdom. My servant, Duke Underfoot, will show you out." Rose-scented smoke poofed at his feet, and a fluffy kitten appeared, looking up expectantly.

  Reaching across, Plip petted him. "Apologies for wasting your time."

  He followed Duke Underfoot to the door, then called back over a shoulder. "By the way, could you tell me how to find Kowtosh the Corpsewaker? Or perhaps S'nistra the Shroudfitter?"

  My ears flinched. "Pardon?"

  Plip donned a mask of innocent confusion.

  "Ahh," I said. "By threatening to collude with my less scrupulous peers, you seek to change my mind." If either Kowtosh or S'nistra mastered the Urn, they could create legions of undead. Kingdoms would plunge into war. The art of necromancy would never be able to wash away the associated stains of evil and bloodshed.

  Plip rubbed the tip of his beard. "My preference is that someone more responsible inherits D'reer's treasures. But there are only three necromancers of any note in this realm, and despite your youth, you're reputedly the most skilled. In any case, my path is set. All I need is a necromancer to accompany me."

  I hemmed with a side of haw. "Might I ask why you're so adamant? The magical items there would be of little use to a non-wizard. You could sell them, but there are a thousand less dangerous ways of making coin."

  It was his turn to pause. This time, when he spoke, I sensed only sincerity. "There's a story few know, about a halfling who in his callow youth broke contract with a cruel necromancer. As punishment, the necromancer stole the soul of the halfling's lover. With the necromancer gone, the lover's soul remains trapped in the tower waiting to be returned to his body, a body kept in enchanted sleep."

  I took a deep breath. Before I had become a full-fledged necromancer, I had been a medium, helping folk resolve unfinished business with their deceased beloved. The chance to reunite lost loves was not something I could resist. "Is this truly your goal?"

  "It eclipses all others," he said.

  "It will be a dangerous undertaking."

  "I've already gathered help—a noble knight, a powerful seer, and an exorcist who highly recommended herself."

  A party of adventurers. I had always wondered what being in one would be like.

  "Very well, I'll . . . go. With the understanding that the Urn is to be destroyed."

  He smiled and offered me his little hand. I shook it.

  The Hidden Tower of D'reer-formerly-the-Undying waited for me in the Deadwood Forest. The edifice was mystically camouflaged as one of the Forest's colossal petrified redwoods. I found Plip's party congregated not far from the tower's entrance.

  "I'm thrilled you've come," he said. Behind him stood a crone, a mounted knight in silver armor, and a smiling, dark-skinned woman twirling a truncheon.

  With a small flourish, Plip introduced me. "May I present the new face of necromancy, Fahrity the Friendly!"

  My saffron robes fluttering, I bowed with a flair perfected through long hours before a mirror.

  "I'm Sister Betty, the exorcist," the truncheon-twirling woman said. Magnificently frizzy hair framed her round face. "My parents call me Betrinda, but don't call me that unless you want to be on my bad side, too."

  Despite her easy smile, I got the distinct impression her bad side wasn't anywhere you wanted to be. Her pendant depicted an angel, who likewise wielded a truncheon. "You're kind of cute," she continued. "Are you sure you're a necromancer?"

  I bristled. "Are you insinuating all necromancers are ugly? You seem . . . rambunctious. Are you sure you're an exorcist?" I wasn't actually aware of any such stereotype, but it was all I could think of on the spot. She laughed, clearly unperturbed.

  I sighed at my own sensitivity.

  The old woman behind her waddled forward. In a portentous, unnecessarily loud tone, she proclaimed, "I am the Hoary Crone!"

  Betty snickered. "You don't want to announce that to everyone, sweetie."