Hugh J. O'Donnell

She maneuvered the horse carefully into the yard as the stablehands opened the gate. He was spirited after being cooped up, and she patted his flank affectionately.
He was an exceptional steed, and she was an experienced rider. But as she looked out beyond the fence, she felt a familiar stab of queasy panic she tried to ignore.
She tapped her heels gently against her flank. Pegasus burst into a full run, and leapt through the gate. He spread his wings and caught the air.
Her mind stopped screaming that horses were not meant to fly and her heart sang.

“Pegasus on Pont Alexandre, Paris” by Max London is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2026 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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She came to the graveyard every night, and simply sat.. The dead, rising like steam from their graves, regarded her with suspicion. No shade takes kindly to a necromancer’s presence.
But she did them no harm, only sat and listened. And she left offerings behind every morning. Slowly, like animals tamed by careful feeding, the dead accepted her presence. Eventually, they told her their stories.
The other necromancers mocked her for her gentle methods. The dead were to be commanded, not befriended.
She ignored their foolish criticism. She knew that there were some secrets you could never take by force.

“Lonely Graveyard, Grafton Ghost Town, UT 8-2007” by inkknife_2000 (11.5 million views) is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2026 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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The owl perched high in the trees, watching the forest below below. It struggled to focus, though.
The familiar was tasked with scouting for his wizard’s enemies, but its instincts screamed to hunt prey among the undergrowth. Powerful magic and ancient instincts warred within it’s mind.
The bird froze, sensing movement below. A squirrel scampered onto a fallen log. The owl watched, magic constraining muscles trying to tense for flight.
Suddenly, the squirrel spat a gout of flame into the trees. The owl dodged and dived, descending on the familiar of his wizard’s rival.
Sometimes, desires could be in concert.

“Great Horned Owl” by brendan.lally….away is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2026 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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The thief held his hand lightly over the shelf, feeling for the telltale tingle of magic trapped in ink and vellum.
Carefully, as to only bend the ward and not break it, he slid a scroll free and slipped it into his bag with the others.
He left the manor the way he’d come. He already had a buyer lined up for the scrolls, one who didn’t fear the Merchant Lords or Sorcerer Princes.
It had taken him a lifetime to learn the skills needed to steal the scrolls. Someday, he promised himself, he would learn how to read them.

“Frankfurt Book Fair Guest of Honour Scroll” by NZatFrankfurt is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2026 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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A popular rumor at the monastery was that of the ‘Flame Jab.’
They said the head abbot knew a secret martial arts technique so powerful it set the very air on fire, but he would only teach it to a worthy successor. The rumor had been around for as long as anyone could remember, and someone always told it to each new class of initiates.
Their instructors let this impropriety slip because even though it encouraged worldly desire and impure thought, it also encouraged correct actions and helped establish good habits.
Besides, one never knew if it might be true.

“Bhutan – Taktsang Monastery ‘Tiger´s nest’” by Göran Höglund (Kartläsarn) is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2026 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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After retiring, the adventurer cashed in some favors and moved to the Elven capital.
She fell in love with the beautiful city with its lush foliage and broad, curving streets that spiraled out like the petals of a flower. She relaxed into the languorous pace of the Elves, who viewed time much more slowly than humans. She adored her cozy little house, grown out of the side of a redwood.
But when her window broke, she was told not to worry and that her tree would grow a new one in a few years. Then she kicked up a fuss.

“Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park” by docentjoyce is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2026 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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The dragon lay basking in the moonlight when it heard the armored rider approach. It opened a single eye and watched with catlike disinterest as they dismounted and readied a huge spear.
In no mood to fight, the dragon lashed out with its tail, crushing the horse against a sheer cliff. But the knight leapt impossibly high, dodging the fatal blow.
The figure raised their visor, revealing a pale face with protruding fangs.
The dragon sat up with interest. It had heard vampires sought out dragon blood as a rare and powerful vintage. They would not find it easy prey.

“Upper part of a medieval knight bronze statuette” by Horia Varlan is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2026 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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Jack knelt before the king and wondered at the strange turn of events. The king called him a heroic giant killer, even though he only chopped the beanstalk down in self defense.
He’d had no idea that the giant was terrorizing the kingdom. He had been too busy trying to save his struggling farm.
He couldn’t explain why the beanstalk had sprouted from the seemingly dead soil, and none of the townsfolk remembered the cloaked stranger that had traded him the beans.
But he wondered why the king’s sorcerer, who he certainly had never met before, was avoiding his gaze.

“Jack and the beanstalk” by TheTurducken is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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At the Voice Navigator’s instruction, he turned off the main road and onto a gravel track.
He’d been following the voice all day as the app had rerouted him around backups, construction zones, and accidents. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but the promised job was too lucrative to ignore.
He nearly hit the fallen log. The GPS didn’t warn him.
When he got out of the truck, I took the shot.
The hack was simple, just a bogus email and a corrupted GPS app. I find assassinations go much smoother when the target brings themselves to the site.

“GPS Logs from Portland – 2008-2010 – Geoloqi.com” by aaronparecki is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.

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As the clock struck midnight, the old man sat in his parlor and whispered the words, just as he’d done every Christmas Eve for the last hundred years.
“Bah, Humbug.”
As the church bells tolled the hour, he saw a bright light/ His spirit lifted, hoping that this was the year the Ghosts would return and end his curse. But it was just a passing truck’s headlights. He sighed, defeated.
He was trapped for another year in the bargain that had been struck, leaving him adrift in the loneliness of time.
For he was Tiny Tim, Who Could Not Die.

“‘A Christmas Carol’ by Charles Dickens – This Edition Published by Macy’s; Illustrated by Daub’s Studio” by Jim, the Photographer is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Everyday Drabbles © 2025 by Hugh J. O’Donnell is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.

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