Hugh J. O'Donnell

The patched-together airship buzzed with unshielded magic. The forest shook where it passed overhead, barely clearing the treetops. Long-tailed birds scattered in the exhaust of the craft’s perpetual-motion engine.
The ship wobbled through the air, chugging, and stuttering, towards the heart of the forest. The guardians stood ready to turn back the invaders.
The commander gave the command. A barrier of Wind would be enough to destroy so feeble a craft. But one of the guardians paused and looked closer at the ship. They were not attackers, but refugees.
He lowered his staff. Mercy has a magic all its own.

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They stood on the platform and watched the transports taking off and leaving.
These days, it seemed like everyone was getting into space. The ads all said that a new life of adventure awaited in the off-world colonies. He’d thought about going with them and starting over.
He blew out a lungful of smoke and reached down with his other hand to pet his dog. They don’t allow pets on the transports.
There is a point where you have to choose between the bonds you love and the things you might do. He made his choice and never regretted it.

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The young fiend hung over the scroll, feeling the creative urge burning within. This spell would be their first great masterpiece. They set pen to paper, desperate to get the idea down.
Centuries later, they came across the forgotten scroll while searching their library. Curiously, they broke the seal and cringed at what they read. They recalled creating a spell of unimaginable power and destruction. But this incantation was clumsy and inefficient.
Yet the idea did have some merit. Perhaps they could polish it into something useful. They set the scroll aside on their desk, their abandoned dreams slowly rekindling.

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He hovered over the bodies at the crash site. The sea had already taken what the force of the impact had left behind. He cradled one of the victims, still in their spacesuit, delicately in his arms.
He was no forensic analyst. He couldn’t tell anyone what had gone wrong. If it hit the water at a bad angle or there was a problem with the hull materials.
But the giant octopus wondered who these people were, who had entered his deep and lightless domain. He pulled himself out of the cramped reentry capsule and swam off, savoring the mystery.

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The spirit took the form of a giant minotaur, taking its body from the water in the town’s well.
The centurion donned his armor and picked up his sword. The priestess put a forestalling hand on his arm. Instead, she put on her headdress and swung her silver chain, taking on the beast alone. He couldn’t slay the formless beast, and she couldn’t risk him fouling the settlement’s water supply.
She worked with patience and persistence. Slowly, the raging spirit calmed and finally disappeared.
She watched the centurion watching her work. She knew he would not be so easily appeased.

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The container was clamped to a shelf near the starboard observation window and had a bright yellow biohazard sticker. A brown liquid floated inside.
So far, the label had kept the other astronauts out of her stash, and it wasn’t entirely inaccurate, she thought as she unclipped the container.
It was the end of the space station day, the only blessedly unscheduled moment up here that cap com gave them.
She contentedly sipped her contraband whiskey and watched the sunset over the Earth far below. She had worked hard to get here, but moments like this made everything worth it.

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The shop sold the future.
It lived in the back corner of a tiny, fading mall, the sort of shopping center that was slowly converting itself into office space and DMV branches.
Every day, the proprietor would put out his sign and wait.
He was too off the beaten path for the mall walkers. But a few office drones would stop while exploring the ruins of American Commerce on their lunch breaks.
Everyone always asked what he sold, and he told them. Most kept walking, but a few came in, ready to pay for the future fate had denied them.

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The necromancer made the key to unlock secrets. He used it to raise and control his undead armies. Even those beyond the flow of life and death were not above blackmail. Not to someone willing to tug on the chains of their attachments.
She stole the key in hopes of finding buried treasure. She dreamed of the riches the dead took with them to the grave.
But more often than not, the key unlocked regrets instead of secrets. That was when she found the key’s unintended but best use.
Sometimes a ghost didn’t need an exorcist, just a good therapist.

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