Hugh J. O'Donnell

Every year, the islanders chose a maiden as the Seabride.
When I was chosen, I accepted the duty stoically. I didn’t want to be sacrificed, but it was a great honor. And had I refused, my family would have become outcasts. So I let them dress me in the veils and place me on the rock, and I waited for the inevitable.
A few hours later, a strange craft, round as a barrel, rose to the surface. A hatch opened, and I could see women inside. They all were the previous Seabrides.
“Get in loser,” one said. “We’re going home.”

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The fisherman rowed out to the little island, looking for a good place to cast his line. He was on vacation, and the little island, which he couldn’t find on the useless chart they’d given him at the tourist office, seemed perfect.
He left his boat on the shore and climbed up a verdant outcropping of round stone overlooking the bay. It was perfect.
When it started moving, he thought it was an earthquake. Then a massive head rose from the sand and looked at him. Before he could close his tackle box the giant turtle leaped into the sea.

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“Young lady, you will put your mask on this instant,” Mother said from the front seat. I could tell by her voice how angry she was.
Father turned around and looked at me.
“Honey, you know we need to wear them for protection, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” I sighed, and slipped the mask down over my face.
“That’s my girl. Now you stay here and keep the car running.”
My parents got out and went into the bank. I moved to the front seat and played with the radio. I always hated it when they brought me on their robberies.

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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