The column hung above the middle of the pentacle, bubbling ever upward against the ceiling like the cloud of an erupting volcanoe. There was a barely perceptible pause. Then two yellow staring eyes materialized in the heart of the smoke. Hey, it was his first time. I wanted to scare him. And it did, too.

Ah, you coward! Look at you, running." "Actually, it's called improvising.

Oh, the boots were on the other eight feet now.

Burned and squashed to death in a silver vat of soup. There must be worst ways to go. But not many.

I rather think he knew anyway.

Check out that one at the end. He's taken the form of a footstool. Weird...but somehow I like his style." "That is a footstool.

When I was young, I kept a diary for about 10 years and I had to write in it every day. Even on days when nothing seemed to happen, I made myself think of something to put in it.