52 Short Stories

Dear "Gail Neiman", All my favorite writers are dead,  so I am reluctant to make a declarative statement regarding any feelings I may have regarding you and your works. Some of my favorite writers died before I was born (ex. Mark Twain, JRR Tolkien). Others died before I discovered them (ex. Michael Crichton -- whose work by way of Spielberg was known to me long before I knew of Crichton). And others died before I could meet them (ex. Ray Bradbury and Terry Pratchett). Finally, some I did not discover until after they had died, even though we walked the Earth for a long time together (ex. Ursula K. Le Guin). My point is Mr. "Neiman", it is likely that I am not in anyway metaphysically linked to their deaths, however, I do completely understand, if given the circumstances, you are not interested in attending the upcoming writer’s conference that I am hosting. And to be on the safest of sides, I extend this invitation to you as an attendee and not as a guest of...

Really kid, are you sure  you want me to give you a unicorn? They aren't as great as you think they are. They're quite dangerous really and... UNICORN, UNICORN, UNICORN! I want a sparkly, pink unicorn. "And then," I said, "in a matter of minutes there was little kid blood everywhere." My boss did not look up from his paperwork. "I just, I think it would be better if I could be assigned a different object to inhabit. You know, not a shiny pink unicorn statue. Something more ominous like a bent and twisted pewter candelabra or a even something boring like a lichen covered stone." "What's wrong with your current object?" "I just told you. It's getting kids killed. All these little girls, they see my statue and instantly have 'unicorn,' on the brain, and when they pick me up, that's the only thing they wish for." "We're in the business of wish granting, McClaighleigh, not saving ...