Hugh J. O'Donnell

In his darkroom, the photographer stared down at the portrait developing in front of him. It was… wrong.
That was definitely the young Widow Dagmar posed in somber black with the requested symbolic elements. The skull on her lap, and the scales beside her, were all as he had set them. But where had the moth come from?
It was so bright it seemed to glow, hovering above her left hand. He was sure wasn’t there when he took the picture.
He brushed one gloved hand against the glossy paper, and his fingers came back dusty with moth wing powder.

She built her homestead in the high desert, under an abandoned satellite dish. She didn’t know what it had been for, probably some benevolent scientific venture that was forgotten as soon as everything went to hell. But the site was still in good shape, with plenty of building material, and she was miles from the nearest neighbor. It was perfect.
She wasn’t what you’d call a ‘people person,’ and society’s collapse hadn’t improved her outlook.
Which is why she was at a loss when the aliens landed and told her they’d received her signal, and wanted to open diplomatic relations.

He dedicated his life to small acts of kindness.
A hundred dollars discreetly dropped into a struggling musician’s violin case in a busy subway station.
An extra pair of hands in a soup kitchen on the night of an unexpected, and particularly devastating blizzard.
A shout to call the attention of a distracted parent as their child wandered away in a crowded store.
He used the time machine to make small changes.
His instructors had said that even the least significant act in the past could change the future. He hoped they were right. He hoped it would be enough.

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She made gardens in secret places. She planted flowers in forgotten alleyways, and trellised Ivy in the hidden courtyards of long-abandoned buildings. She loved hidden worlds, and wanted them to be beautiful.
She found a solemnity in beauty destined to have no observer. A garden meant for no eyes was still as lovely. Perhaps it was lovelier, a rose growing only for its own sake.
She imagined the sudden rush of joy, someone coming to a desolate, lonely place, and finding a garden instead. The idea gave her comfort.
Plus, it was a great way to hide the bodies.