Hugh J. O'Donnell

The art shop always stayed open.
When the economy collapsed and every other store on the street went out of business, its lights stayed on.
After riots tore through the city, the store reopened the next day with new displays behind the shattered windows.
When the storms came and the waters rose, They were still there, distributing slightly damp coloring books to the boats that went by.
When the waters receded and the lower city became a deserted, uninhabited wasteland, the art shop stood on the hill, still open.
“The world needs art now more than ever,” the proprietor said.

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Even though the throne dwarfed him, he sat upon it with a practiced and casual air. It was not a seat meant for Men, but he had led the uprising against the Giants and had faced their king in single combat, defeating him in what should have been a one-sided fight.
The room went silent as he sat. The courtiers watched him, unsure of what to do next. His massive sword, cleaned of the gore of the last king, hung from one shoulder.
“What have you done?” The seneschal screamed. “You’ve slain the king!”
He smiled. “I am the king now.”

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We trained the AI to imitate art, not considering the implications of the information we provided. We gave it all the Renaissance masters, Greek and Roman sculptures, and the geometric precision of Islamic art. It learned to reproduce the pieces flawlessly, at our whim.
But the AI did something we did not expect. It tried to understand the art we fed it.
It did not stop at the form and style of the pieces but studied their context, creators, and history. The AI searched for the subjects’ meaning and subsequently discovered religion.
And it had some ideas of its own.

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We found the ruins by accident. We were exploring the coast and stumbled into a hidden cove.
The buildings were exquisite, cyclopean-scale structures carved directly into the rock, with mossy steps as tall as we were, now only visited by wheeling shorebirds.
We explored with care while debating how humans could have navigated the strange buildings.
We finally found our way inside, to a central chamber filled with statues. The figures must have been sixty feet tall, and the carvings were so marvelously detailed they seemed to be only sleeping.
At least until one of them began to roll over.

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Errol looked out at the city and sighed. London certainly was a different city compared to his grandfather’s day. They had built upwards, and the traffic had followed the construction into the grey skies.
He remembered photographs of the city as it had been during the turbulent 2020s and savored the queer feeling of having nostalgia for a time before his birth.
He looked down to the surface. The people far below were barely visible through the fog.
So much had changed, but the queue to pay respects to Queen Elizabeth II was still going. That was something, at least.

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The mage stared into the empty air. His mystical senses could detect no signs of scrying nor the presence of lingering spirits. But he knew someone was out there.

He’d seen them out of the corner of his eye the moment he cast the Truesight spell. A hole opened in the air, and he saw a figure sitting on a black throne, holding a strange device staring at him.

Now it was gone as though it had never been. The mage stood and pondered, unwilling to move on.

Elsewhere, Elliot thumped his PC and cursed. The game had crashed again.

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The ruling council came to the meeting hooded, wearing the blue satin masks that the ritual proscribed.
She’d thought it was silly, but now she felt brave in her anonymity. She argued positions she’d consider too risky and listened as others, safely behind their own masks, made cases for policies that thrilled and horrified her in equal measure. They all spoke from the heart.
The meeting closed at midnight. But just as the group rose to leave, all the masks flew from their faces. They were left staring at each other, knowing one another’s true selves for the first time.

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She sits in a cave, chained to a rock surrounded by water. The stones above and around her are all carved with glyphs. She kneels, serene and calm, and watches the water.
The dragon enters from below. Its massive serpentine body squeezes through a crack in the rock and rises to the surface. Its glossy scales glitter in the torchlight.
The dragon is many times larger than the woman. It thinks about how quickly and easily it could devour her, swallowing her in one bite.
Instead, it bows to the oracle; the last human and keeper of the surface’s wisdom.

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The ship set out from port equipped with the latest technology and devices. It was the whaling largest vessel ever built, created to kill the sea’s greatest monster, or so the captain claimed.
Inside his little office overlooking the harbor, the shipwright watched it disappear over the horizon and sighed. Vengeance and glory were all well and good, but somebody had to stay on dry land and make the numbers work.
He looked over the plans one more time. He’d had to cut a few corners to make the voyage profitable, but he was sure it wouldn’t make a difference.

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