Hugh J. O'Donnell

“What did the sage say we were sailing into?” The first mate asked.
“A Temporal Storm, whatever that is,” The pilot replied. The wooden ship creaked and groaned against the waves. “Alls I know is if it is a storm, the wind should’ve picked up by now.”
“He said it wasn’t a rainstorm, but a something about time.”
“Like, it’ll be lunchtime before breakfast?” The pilot checked the position of the sun with his instruments and frowned. “That’ll make navigation difficult.”
“I think it’s a bit bigger than that,” The first mate said, as they sailed past the giant robot.

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Duncan pulled on the end of the leash, just sharply enough to get Mittens’ attention. They had places to be, and if he let her, she’d spend hours sniffing at everything they came across.
The breeder, who had seemed a bit unusual, warned him that this breed had a particularly acute sense of smell, and was easily distracted.
Mittens scented a squirrel, and he pulled hard on the leash. She practically outweighed him, and most days, this contest was an even struggle. She swerved back and wound affectionately around his legs.
She was still best flying shark he’d ever owned.

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I found the book in a dusty secondhand bookshop. It was mine, the novel I’d always planned, but never wrote. That was my name in embossed letters on the cover, and the picture in the back could’ve been me, in another life.
I searched everywhere for the author, the publisher, anything I could find. Nothing.
So, I copied it out and sent it off to a publisher. I figured if another me wrote the book, it didn’t count as stealing.
Except today I got a letter from Shrodinger, Tyson, and Hawking, Multiversal Law. I’m being sued by me for plagiarism.

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They parked the wagon in a little clearing and let the horses rest.
He pulled the practice swords out of their place and handed one to his daughter. She handled it as he’d shown her, with care and reverence.
“Today we practice overstrike,” he said, and took up a guard position across from her. She raised her sword.
“Begin.”
As they practiced, the sky seemed to darken. A figure coalesced out of the gloom, huge and bat-winged. He nodded to her. This was the moment they’d trained for. He wished they’d had more time as he led the charge.

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As thanks for freeing him when he was transformed into a fish, the Dragon King gave the fisherman a net woven from moonlight.
The fisherman thought it was too fine for him, but minding his manners, accepted it and thanked his friend for his generosity.
He hung the magical net in his hut, and went back out to sea with his old equipment. The Dragon King was furious, and demanded to know why he wasn’t using his gift. The fisherman explained.
“I have seen many fish swimming in the moonlight, but this old rope net caught the Dragon King himself!”

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