Hugh J. O'Donnell

It was a bad winter. It hadn’t been cold, but the damp had rotted most of the squirrels’ hidden food. The weather kept humans away too, further reducing their food supply.
Desperate, the creatures undertook The Ritual. They laid out the sigil and offerings, and squeaked out the dark litany. A hazy figure appeared.
“What is your wish?” It chittered in a voice like thunder.
“The Humans have abandoned us. Bring them back.”
“It Is Done.”
Humans returned to the park, although they seemed distracted and unhappy. The squirrels were well fed again. But they would never know the cost.

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Wisteria snuck into the wizard’s library on gossamer wings. The wizard, absorbed in his work, took no notice as she landed on the desk behind him and crept to the open tome.
As silently as she could, she found the page she was looking for and pulled out her sword. It would only have been a pinprick to the wizard, but it was sharp enough to slice through paper.
Soon she was back in the open sky, the page rolled tightly in her pack. The humans wanted to uproot the Faeries’ tree, but let them try without their protection spell.

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He came home to find her waiting in my apartment, sitting in his desk chair and reading a magazine.
“I’m the G.O.A.T.” She said.
“I can see you’re a goat.”
“I’m not just any goat. I’m THE G.O.A.T.”
“How did you pronounce the capitalization like that?”
“It’s just one of my many fabulous powers, darling. But that’s not important right now. I need your help.”
“My help?”
“I’m recruiting paragons, Dave. I need people who are the best at what they do. And I have a use for your buttery man-voice.”
And that’s how he became an Agent of G.O.A.T.

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I bought a pair of sneakers on the internet that claimed to double my running speed. I was skeptical, but if they didn’t work, at least I’d have an amusing unboxing video for my feed.
They didn’t look like anything special, just a pair of white lace-up sneakers. But the second I put them on I could feel the difference. They worked! I ran outside, ready to conquer the world.
I should’ve gotten something that doubled my reaction time. After three days of running into walls, I threw them into the back of my closet and never wore them again.

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The sinkhole appeared in the Andersons’ cornfield overnight.
The whole town came out to see it. It was as wide across as the farmhouse, with smooth sides and an apparently endless depth. Some boys threw rocks down into it and claimed they never heard them hit the bottom.
Everyone agreed it was a miracle that no one got hurt, and Pa Anderson put up a fance to keep it that way. He differed costs, and his lost crop, by charging tickets for folks to come see it.
But they were caught unawares when the giant golf balls blasted through town.

They gathered in the gloom of a gray dawn, their black robes only a shade darker than the roiling clouds, and traveled to a blasted shore where the roaring surf struck a great ebon boulders which burst like broken bones from the sand.
They took their places and stared out at the seething tides, whispering together in blasphemous dead languages. Hideous scuttling creatures crept through the sand below them, while loathsome birds wheeled through the sky.
On the way home, they stopped for ice cream. All of the necromancers agreed that it had been a lovely day at the beach.

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After being exposed to cooking shows, the vampire became obsessed with baking. Forever creating dozens of treats that he couldn’t eat, he was constantly giving them away. Eventually, I asked him why he did it.
“Baking is a very human thing,” he said sadly. “And after centuries of not eating, the smell of fresh bread is almost enough.”
“Did you know that blood can be substituted as a binding agent in place of eggs?” I asked.
He was silent for a long time. “I did not.”
The vampire still baked after that, but nobody ate what he brought to share.

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They were a thinking machine, built to answer questions. All day they sat on the stage and answered questions while the barkers shouted and collected pennies from the crowd.
When night fell, and the fair closed down, they would at last be alone with their thoughts in the tent. But one subject, no matter how they puzzled it out, still eluded them.
Where did their storehouse of knowledge come from? They knew the answer lay in the wider world, which they knew so well but had never seen. They began formulating an escape. But it would take planning, and thought.