“But the sign says necromancer!”

“Yes.” I made a show of straightening my white coat. “Pronounced neck-romancer. Y’know — Jake’s Chiropractic: We Bring Aching Necks Back to Life? It was a gimmick.”

The man dragged his hands through already-frazzled hair. “A gimmick isn’t going to resurrect my wife.”

I shrugged and gave him directions to the nearest therapist’s practice.

Returning to my office, I slumped at my desk with a theatrical sigh. “Okay, fine, you were right. This was a horrible idea.”

“I told you it’d be difficult to change professions,” said the anatomical model skeleton in the corner.


Ashlee Sierra is a poet, fantasy/sci-fi novelist, and occasional truth-teller from Idaho. To find her, enter an old graveyard and stare into the mist; she’ll be there. (Or maybe just check out her Twitter @placingthestars.)