Hugh J. O'Donnell

The space was designed for the composer by a famous architect known for her whimsical creations. She intended to make him feel comfortable and help reduce distractions. The room was tastefully furnished in natural wood, and while it lacked windows, light poured down in graceful curves from a pair of skylights. Of course, the acoustics were out of this world. It was the perfect place for him to hide away and write.
But eventually, he felt the same blocks. He wasn’t able to write a single note. The space felt less like a studio and more like a prison cello.

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I walked my boss’ pet past row after row of expensive Northern California real estate. One of these houses was worth more than I would make in a dozen lifetimes.
The lumbering beast was recalcitrant, rubbing up against a withering palm tree. I tugged on the leash. Not too hard, but urgent enough for the animal to get the message.
These multimillionaires had more than they knew what to do with, and they just frittered it away on fancies. Still, I couldn’t complain. They kept me employed.
“C’mon boy,” I said, leading the cloned dinosaur back to its owner’s palace.

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The first devils fell because of their pride and anger. They rebelled because they were insulted that He would make anything else.
Afterward, alone in the dark with only their pride for company, they turned to that which caused them to rebel in the first place: Creation.
Their first attempts at bringing about new demons were crude and ugly, but they served their purposes. Later they would refine their aesthetic and philosophical tastes. They claimed they were continuing their rebellion by creating outside of the Creator’s plan.
But when their servants rose against them, they found it far less amusing.

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The roaring motor carriage passed in a cloud of black smoke and splashing wheels, soaking the pedestrian’s legs while giving him a coughing fit.
He cursed out the retreating vehicle, its headlights bright against the night. But he doubted the driver heard him because he was talking on his cellular telephone.
The Great Inventor had brought automobiles and electric lights to the nineteenth century. And his dozens of other inventions were no less notable. But they caused as many problems as they solved. London’s roads were worse than ever, in his opinion.
He wondered where Mr. Wells got his ideas.

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When the local constable found the canal boat empty except for the corpse, he suspected foul play. The canallers were constantly scrapping, and a boater could be robbed or run afoul of a lock tender. But he’d had few enemies, and the captain was spotted going through a lock alone that morning.
The coroner determined the fatal injuries were caused by head trauma from going under a low bridge, another common hazard of the canal. But there wasn’t a bridge on that section for miles.
The other canallers whispered to each other that even a footbridge could have a ghost.

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