Hugh J. O'Donnell

Mike awoke to sirens. He hurt all over, and his head pounded like a jackhammer. He tried to move, and found he was tied up. He finally opened his eyes and the world was barely visible through a white haze. He’d been rolled in a sheet and tossed in a dumpster.
He managed to climb out and tried to get his bearings. His memory was a mess, and he couldn’t piece together what happened.
The sirens were getting closer. He had a feeling he didn’t want to be here when they arrived.
That was when Mike realized he wasn’t breathing.

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The undead wizard planted flowers by starlight and pulled weeds by moonlight. Under the cover of darkness, he planned and constructed his garden, having procured his supplies through daylight minions.
He had loved gardening in life. He didn’t see why he should give up his hobby just because he could no long stand the sun.
He planted much of the garden with nightblooming flowers. Chocolate daisies and moonflowers were heavily favored. But he also kept his old favorites, out of nostalgia.
One evening, he awoke to discover his whole garden had been trampled. Adventurers were getting on his lawn again.

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There was some debate over whether the human had entered the Spirits’ Forest on accident, but there was no doubt among them that they did not care for his attitude. The spirits had him held fast inside a fallen tree while they debated what was to be done with him.
“This is my forest! Don’t you know who I am?” The human shouted. Attempting to point to the little metal hat on his head. “I’m the king!”
The spirits spent a long time discussing what that meant.
The human was noisy, but after a few hundred years, he calmed down.

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The found the first statue at the edge of the Elves’ territory. It was a figure carved of living wood, ten meters high, extending a hand in friendship. The ranger spoke as they walked.
“Elvish artists spend their whole long lives making these. Being chosen as a Treeshaper is a high honor.” More statues lined the paths, from great beasts and noble heroes to geometric patterns that fooled and delighted the eye.
They stopped short when they came to the grove of giant toilets.
“The arts community went through a, um, protest movement five hundred years ago,” the ranger explained.

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When she entered the dusty old general store, the man behind the counter welcomed her and asked what she was seeking.
“I want to buy a mirror,” she said. He placed three hand mirrors on the counter.
“These mirrors each show something different: Lost loves, your hearts desire, or the future. But each has a terrible cost.”
“Bob, I just need a regular, non-enchanted mirror. Do you have one?”
He looked embarrassed. “Ah, not really, no.”
She sighed. Now she’d have to drive the hundred miles to the big-box store. Someday she’d get out of this dying New England town.

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The old tunnel yawned wide and dark before us. From somewhere in its depths a sulfurous odor wafted up. This could certainly be the place, but I still had my doubts.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked.
“For the last time, yes!” My companion turned and seized me by the shoulders. “Consider it. One coin per person for hundreds of years? Thousands? And what does He have to spend them on?”
“But how are we going to actually do it?”
“Mate, I have a plan. You just have to find the river. Then, we’re going to rob Charon blind.”

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In a world of superheroes, she discovered she had the power to know the future. But despite her efforts, she couldn’t change it, or even tell another soul. Every time she tried, Fate would intervene.
She tried to write down what would happen, but the predictions all came out as nonsense. She couldn’t even keep a calendar.
Unable to become a prophet, she had to come up with a new plan. She studied crisis management, got her EMT certification, and memorized the fastest routes through the city.
If she couldn’t prevent the future, she decided to rise to meet it.

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When everyone went into quarantine, he started building little robots. He would spend his weekends clipping out the parts and fitting them together while listening to his favorite records and sipping tea. He found it a very relaxing way to spend his time when he couldn’t leave the house.
The finished products were only about six inches tall, but exquisitely detailed. He posted pictures of his results online to great acclaim.
“Where do you get your model kits,” one friend asked him in a private message.
“What’s a model kit?” He asked, puzzled, as he charged up another laser cannon.