Hugh J. O'Donnell

The gods were leaving.
They’d left behind their texts, the sacred fires, and vials of healing water, and boarded a silver boat that sailed through the sky. The high priests averted their eyes, bowing in supplication until their vessel was out of sight. Then, they turned on each other. Nobody understood why they had been abandoned, but each was sure it was one of the others’ fault.
Aboard the rocket, Lexy watched the undeveloped alien planet shrink, sadness mixing with a warm feeling. She was sure it was better off than when she’d found it. Missionary work was so rewarding.

The mall was abandoned when the sea rose to claim it. The boardwalk closed down and eventually fell into the water as life on the coast became untenable. The stores became undersea coves, as fish nibbled on designer fabric and and coral grew on ultramodern benches.
The warmer water and new environments were too much for some species, but others thrived, and evolved to do even better.
The jellyfish grew, and developed new defense mechanisms. They found they could hide beneath the crumbling mannequins, using them as camouflage. But as the years went on they also became something else: Fashion.

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The critic hated everything about the new restaurant. The menu was too limited. The space was too small. The decor was too dark. The staff weren’t attentive enough.
And this was before he even got to the cuisine, which he destroyed in a scathing review. He even hated the restaurant’s name, denouncing it as a awful pun.
SNEAK House? He wrote. STAKE house would have been better. So you could put it through my heart and end my time in this terrible establishment!
In the kitchen, the chefs, a group of retired ninjas read the review, and plotted their revenge.

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They sat on the hill and watched the rocket launch in the glow before dawn.
They watched the rocket leapt into the air on a pillar of exhaust, watching it arc upwards through the perfect dawn until it was out of sight.
“So, that’s it. He’s gone,” She said.
“Yeah,” he replied.
“How long will your dad be gone?”
“Five years by his watch, Twenty by ours. Relativistic time scales are a bitch.”
“Are you going to talk on comms?”
“My mom will, but he left. I’m done.” But for the next twenty years, he never stopped watching the stars.

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The author stared at the typewriter in front of him in an act of pure concentration. Then, slowly at first, the flesh of his face began to twist away from his skull, flowing into a set of flailing tentacles above the mechanical device.
“Hard at work… Ah!” A woman entering the office froze in the doorway, nearly dropping her tray of coffee.
She quickly recovered.
“For God’s sake, Marcel! If you’re going to type in human form, use your fingers!”
The shapeshifter looked up, his face snapping hurriedly back into place.
“I never learned to touch type,” He admitted sheepishly.

“When did symptoms first develop?”
“Maybe about three days ago? I haven’t been sleeping well. Nightmares, and oversleeping, that sort of thing. I didn’t think anything of it until yesterday when I went to temple and I just couldn’t go inside. And that’s when my neck started hurting.”
The doctor examined the mark on her neck. It was clearly a vampire bite. He brushed his hand against it, and the mark disappeared.
“I don’t see anything. Stress can sometimes cause these symptoms. I’ll proscribe you something to help you sleep, and they should clear up.”
“Oh, thank you, Dr. Acula.”