"In Many Ways" by Peter Carroll

He had no particular preference when it came to how to make money and wield power. To get where he was, he had certainly had to ditch any sense of empathy or sympathy for those he dealt with. Better still, he was almost certainly born without such cumbersome baggage. This unburdening undoubtedly saved him the angst that those initial, moral, gangster dilemmas would have elicited in most until they had dulled themselves to it. It would always be difficult to decide in any individual, which one of nature or nurture had played a bigger part in shaping who they were. However, from a fairly early age, spurred on by the example (or genes) set to him by his father, he really did not appear to be all that interested in whether his actions had a negative effect on, or outcome for, other people. No matter the conclusions drawn in any intellectual debate as to the origins of his disposition, it was fair to say that if ever there was a man that had been born to profit from the misery of others, then this was he, and that lad in the chair was about to be very miserable indeed.

"Panoptica" by Patrick Hudson

Amidst the revellers lining The Mall stood Titus Spring, as grey and unmoving as a blown pixel on a busy screen. All around him rainbow scarves and ruffles twitched in the breeze, holofabric gowns and suits glittered against scintillating self-generating backgrounds, and shimmering clouds of floating nano-pigments puffed and settled, puffed and settled in a seemingly endless sequence of ever more complex patterns. Nearby, children shrilled past in blurs of swirling colour and light, and the air around him was thick with flashing logos, tags and mini-screens and the roar of a great party in full swing. Titus Spring, by contrast, stood resolutely straight and still and silent in a drab smock of dumb, unbleached linen, tan leggings, a functional hat, and a cape that might have been interpreted as a very low-key attempt at flair had the stiff dun-coloured waxed cotton given any quarter whatsoever to either fashion or style. He was an absence, a blot, a colour sink that leeched brightness from the world around him by sheer force of his sartorial disdain.

"Tips for Tailoring Spacetime Fabric--Vol. 2" by "Roger Bourke White Jr."

Tom is introducing himself. Tom is the only living person in New York.

Hello there.

... You can’t be real, but you seem real. So I’ll talk to you. I’m a pretty lonely guy these days. I’m Tom and I’m the only living person in New York. And I have been for three years now.

He looks back at Central Park for a moment, thinking hard, making a decision.

That may change, soon. Especially if I’m starting to see you. You’re a hallucination, of course. There used to be others, real others, I mean, but they’re all gone now ... all gone.

But it’s really nice to have someone to talk to ... anyone.

I’m about to get some dinner, would you like to join me? ... Of course you would. He grins a bit sheepishly for asking the question. Old habits die hard.

I’m probably not making sense, am I? Let me start from the beginning. I have a choice to make ... I’ve always had it. The question facing me now is ... do I want to give that choice up?

He laughs. Well ... that didn’t sound like the beginning, did it? But it is. Now let me start at something that sounds like a real beginning.

From "Survivors' Dreams" by Kaylan Doyle

A small metal cylinder suddenly extrudes between sixteen year-old Rak’khiel’s toes. As she works it free, another searing pain tears at the base of her skull:

Rak’khiel clapped the hand holding the bristling object over the wounded spot. She heard a snick, felt a gooey, slick sensation slipping against her fingertips.

The lozenge moved.

“Holy Forge!” Her fingertips scrabbled frantically to catch, to grip the slimy capsule. Found the tiny spikes retracted. 

The thing slid into the base of her skull, then into her brain. And settled.

Tendrils, like strands of ivy, or root systems of noxious weeds, branched through her mind. They explored the recesses of Kel’s skull, created connections and networks, became one with her.  

Nausea surged.

Rak’khiel retched. The bile held back for so long came up in a churning rush. She lifted her head and scrambled away from her hiding place. Lurched to one side just far enough to deposit the sparse remains of her supper in a nearby bush.

As with her foot, all pain disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

“Shalit,” she whispered. “Goddess forbid. What just happened to me?”

From "Survivors' Dreams" by Kaylan Doyle

Prince Helrazr, called to defend his planet from invading alien forces, prepares to launch his fighter from the starship:

Shoving aside hatred for the critical next step, he pressed fingers against his lips. One breath pulled deep, held tight, then Razr laid his head in the depression of his seatback. Waited for the gut-knotting nausea of mind-jack interface.

From "Levels Of Deception"by Susan Schreyer

Thea Campbell has figured out how to deal with the unexpected problems she's encountered while doing research in the university's museum when she overhears an unsettling conversation...

I hiked my bag more securely on my shoulder. Okay, then. I'd faced her once. I could face her again. As I rounded a turn in the corridor Dr. Fogel's voice echoed softly ahead, coming toward me but still some ways away. Hope I could avoid Mrs. Peabody again quickened the pat-pat of my sneakered feet until Scott's angry, strident pitch cut off Andrew Fogel's quiet tone, halting my rush.

"If you don't do something I'll --"

"You'll do nothing. I'm certain he already suspects me. If you're found out it will --"

Their voices were getting closer.

"I won't jeopardize our plan." Scott's tone was a sneer. "But I'm telling you we have to do something about her."

Her? Her who? Her me? What had I done? Crap.

 There was nowhere to hide.

From "What Lies Unseen" by Bonnie Taylor

Throughout history man has transcribed accounts of things that defy scientific explanation.  For ancient civilizations, interactions with magical beings were described as Earthly visitations by the Gods. Later, with the spread of Christianity, there was a shift in beliefs causing these once godly manifestations to be considered evil. Attempts to make contact with departed spirits through the employ of psychics and mediums may pre-date written history but books on the subject were written as early as 1706 and it is said that the Lincoln family held seances in the White House during Abraham’s presidency. The desire to make contact with spirits continues to show itself today in the recent popularity of ghost hunting and the acceptance of psychics as reality television.

Though verifiable proof of the existence of paranormal activity escapes us, one thing is clear; those who have experiences with the paranormal tend to become believers and while fear overcomes some, many crave more and I am one of them. I come from a family with a notable sensitivity to things other worldly. I grew up with a father who could foresee significant life events for those around him and more specifically, was profoundly aware of the passing of relatives at the exact moment of their death.