The family was well prepared for the hurricane. They had stocked up on food, water, and toilet paper and were comfortable in their sub-basement bunker. They could stay down there for a year. It never hurt to be prepared, even if they’d had to run all over town. They bought out three stores, leaving the parking lot with a trailer full of supplies while everyone else pulled up in a panic. When the hurricane knocked down a huge tree and blocked the exit, it somehow took a month for it to be removed. But at least they were well prepared.
She vowed to give succor to all who needed it, and travelled the paths of the kingdom, fulfilling her vow. But she found that there were more people in need than she could help alone: Too many hungry mouths, too many sick, too many suffering. She called on the leaders of her order, who listened with sympathy but gave her nothing but advice. She appealed to the local authorities, who didn’t listen at all. She prayed and meditated, but no answer came. If the systems would not help her, she decided, then they were the problem. She got to work.
The martial artist trained for years, honing his body and his mind, studying ancient techniques and learning from any master who would teach him. And now he was here: at the world’s most elite martial arts tournament. He was still an unknown, but that would change very soon. He was within moments of achieving his dream of becoming the world’s strongest fighter. He bowed to his opponent, confident that he would be victorious. When his opponent began glowing and knocked him down without ever touching him he realized the truth: He was just an extra in someone else’s fighting anime.
The first rule of his business was never to fraternize. Do not get involved with your target and never make yourself memorable. Do the job. Get in, get what you came for, and get out. Friendships were only complications. That was what it meant to be a world-class thief, and he was the best that you’ve never heard of. But it was cold, living in the dark. He was tired of standing in the shadows and watching light and life pass him by. He was bored of trinkets. He wanted to steal hearts. And hers was just waiting for him.
In the bleary light of rain-soaked dawn, I yawn and trudge into an unfamiliar kitchen. I don’t really remember much of the night before, but I wouldn’t have these holes in my memory if it hadn’t been a good time. What I need now is coffee. The stronger, the better, to really feel alive. I find the machine. It’s a beautiful, high-end gleaming steel monstrosity that takes up most of the counter. But when I open the pantry, it’s filled with row upon row of cans, the word ‘decaffeinated’ printed in bright red letters. Somewhere, I hear a demonic laugh…
The pirate captain’s ethos was to never steal from those who couldn’t afford it, and to offset their dark deeds with charity. This proved unpopular with his crew. They had to sit around and wait wait while the quartermaster did an inventory confirming that it met the current threshold for pillaging. The pirates favored drinking over math, so mutiny was probably inevitable. They marooned the captain and wrote a new charter. They had a lot more fun with a change in leadership. Until the boatload of nuns they’d been donating some of their spoils to came looking for their cut.
Everyone knew about the creature living in the Bayou. But even the smallest town can only keep a secret for so long, so when the Sheriff finally made his way down to investigate, nobody was surprised. They only ever saw him when a tourist went missing or a corpse was pulled out of the brackish water. He’d poke around, and a few reporters would trail after him. The coroner would make rule it a gator attack and everyone would go home. You looked out for each other in a small town, even the local monster. It was a swamp thing.
The little island kingdom prided itself on its sea power, and built a prodigious navy in order to protect its waters. After expending their own resources to build them, they took to conquering and colonizing new lands to procure more lumber and supplies to expand the ever-growing fleet. The empire had built so many ships that eventually they ran out of names for them all. One day a captain came into the shipwright’s office to hear the name of his new vessel. “How do you feel about the HMS Ambivalent?” She asked. “I’m of two minds about it,” he replied.
He kept a secret room dedicated to his travels in his youth, known only to himself. Inside, he kept mementos that would bring his doom if discovered. The shelves were filled with treasures from lost lands. He had an opalescent stone from the Fire Kingdom, a jade ring worn by one of the Water Temple’s strange priestesses, and a book liberated from the Underground Library before it burned. He told himself that there was nothing to be done at the time. He told himself that they weren’t trophies but seeds that would bloom again. Some days he even believed it.
We took a Ghost Tour through New Orleans’ French Quarter, but it was a disappointment. Our guide Philippe rambled, trailed off, and nearly got us lost. And his bloody stories were short on actual ghosts. Still, we followed him through the moonlit streets and tipped generously, all the while grumbling to ourselves. My wife was content to let the matter rest, but I wanted to give the tour company a piece of my mind. When I called them up, the woman who answered almost hung up on me. “Is this a prank call?” she asked. “Philippe died three years ago!”
Hugh J. O'Donnell 