Hugh J. O'Donnell

The Half-Orc burst through the tavern door with a huge guitar slung over one shoulder.
“You play that thing or hit people with it?” The bartender asked.
“I’ve only ever needed to hit someone with it once,” she said with a laugh. “I’m Harmony Brokenstaff, and I’m a wandering bard like my father.
“You’re old Brokenstaff’s daughter? I heard he had been lost in the steppes.”
“In a way. He got a chieftain’s daughter in trouble and settled down. My sister Mel and I were born nine months later.”
“And Mel as in…?”
“Me’lnikroth the Defiler. She takes after Mom.”

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One wall of the attic had been done up like the bridge of an airship. The plaster was painted with a towering cloudscape, and a ship’s wheel that really turned was installed beneath it.
Childless, the couple figured the room had been a nursery once, but the house had changed hands so often that it remained a mystery.
Regardless, they were drawn to that spot. She liked to stare out at the clouds when thinking through difficult problems. He found it the prefect spot to relax with a book.
It was perfect, until the day a dragon struck the window.

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They were probably the last city on Earth to still have phone booths, long after the payphones were removed. They kept them around for him. He said they were convenient to change in when the city was in danger.
So they kept them around, even after their hero disappeared. Some said he went back to his homeworld. Others insisted that he wouldn’t abandon them, and that he must have died fighting some implacable evil.
Over time, they became memorials, to who he was and what he’d been. And when disaster struck, people would go inside, and change, and save themselves.

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The Valkyrie surveyed the battlefield. All around her, frozen corpses lay in bloody snow, reaching for weapons they would never again hold in life. Her sisters went among them, choosing the worthy. She let them. That was not her job.
She bent down and examined a discarded longsword. The blade was pitted with rust and the edge was dulled with wear, but it was a good sword.
The night was lit by a heatless flame as she pull the sword’s spirit free and sent it to Odin. There were many Einherjar, and they all needed to be armed for Ragnarok.

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“Is this a cake?” I asked, staring at the object in front of me.
“Yes,” she said. “That is a genoese sponge with buttercream frosting and orange filling.
“Wow, that’s impressive. I’d never have been able to tell. Is that a cake?” I pointed across the room.
She nodded. “That one is Victoria sponge with a raspberry and double cream filling.”
“Amazing. What about those?” I pointed to the counter. She sighed.
“Those are cupcakes.”
“Why is everything a cake?” I asked, mania creeping into my voice.
That was when she politely, but firmly asked me to leave the bakery.

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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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