In the last few weeks I received ten rejections in a row. Okay, so they didn't come on the same day; no, the torture was spread over a few weeks, somewhat like Chinese water torture. Each rejection dripped on my head while I peeked at my submission sheet and wondered which one would be next.

I've been trying to write stories for over two years now. I've managed many, not managed many more. I know rejections are part of the game. I've heard all that they say. I've even said it to others: If you don't get rejections, it means you are not sending stuff out. Even the best of them get rejected. Didn't Asimov get a rejection? (or was that Stephen King?) Come on, be positive. The editor's not rejecting you, he/she's just not the right editor for your baby. Send it out again. A rejection is not a rejection of you, it is just a story that did not fit a publication. Likes and dislikes vary.

I ask you, Mr. Earth-Judge, traveling from years of light across the many worlds of the Rim to adjudicate my conviction, what do you know of my world, and the real of it, to apply your justice to my station? I am but a poor guide who used to escort Earth-tourists for a mere twenty credits per two-week trip, and now command but five credits for the same trip's work. The Earth-tours taking two hundred and fifty credits for the same tour guide, that being me, before the tourists even arrive.

I look like the third sister, though I am not.

We had flown in from Oslo at noon. Anna and Catrine had gone sightseeing and had called to say they had met some friends but would be home for dinner with Erik.

Mark bent over the sink and watched the blood drip from his nose into the pure white basin. A crimson circle slapped the porcelain. Another followed.

"God damn it," he growled, but God hadn't listened to Mark in a very long time. Not since he was Recruited.

He turned on the cold water and frowned at the blood as it swirled into the drain. He stuffed a wad of toilet paper up his nostril and returned to the bedroom, where Kelli was waiting.