Hugh J. O'Donnell

The flower shop had stood on that block as long as anyone could remember, a hidden little place with windows always misted over with steam and water from the hothouse flowers. The sweet scent of the flowers wafted throughout the neighborhood.
Although if you pressed most residents, the shop was rarely, if ever, open. And none of them would be able to recall ever having met the florist. It was just one of those places that had always seemed to be there in the city.
Occasionally, a prospective customer would wander inside, and the flytrap would close tight behind them.

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“I really wish you wouldn’t do this,” she said, glaring over the table full of silver dishes. There was a pile of fugu sashimi and a still-squirming dish of sannakji. More deadly delicacies lined the spread, each on its own gleaming tray.
“It’s an eating challenge,” he replied. “Don’t be such a baby.”
“But it’s so dangerous. Over a hundred people die a year from-“
He held up a hand, cutting her off. “What’s a little risk to us?”
“Fine,” the one werewolf said to her partner. “But I wish you wouldn’t use silverware.”
“That’s the best part!” he complained.

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He hid the altar in his lumber room, cleverly setting the pieces inside a decorative neon bar sign. When he could be sure of safety, he rearranged it to create an image of his deity.
The authorities had banned his religion, calling it ‘no more than barbaric human sacrifice.’ He knew his history, the public perception of his faith, and the bigotry they’d suffered over the centuries. But he would continue his traditions in his own way, He would practice peacefully.
He knelt before the effigy and whispered, a moment of connection between himself and the almighty.
“Ia! Ia! Cthulhu!”

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The duchess sat in her feast hall, sipping a glass of wine.
Last night, the long table had been piled high with sought-after delicacies and rare vintages. It remained so this morning.
Not a single guest had arrived for her feast, and she did not know what that meant. She had long been a player in court politics and was no stranger to intrigue, but to be so utterly abandoned was an unexpected puzzle, and she feared what it meant.
She despaired until a servant entered and opened the grand windows, revealing a blizzard that had covered the kingdom overnight.

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The Krampus was tired.
He’d been doing his job for a long time. He didn’t mind that. Krampus had no problems with being the bad guy, and someone had to be the stick, so to speak, to Saint Nicholas’s carrot. But you can only play the monster for so long before you become one in truth.
One year Krampus hung up his birch rod and stayed home. Nicholas complained about it. He said that the children would run wild without him.
But the holiday passed as it always had.
Krampus breathed a sigh of relief, finally able to enjoy Christmas.

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Santa Claus was magic. It came with a cost: a mission to be completed once a year. Throughout history, he did as he was bid, bringing every good child a present in a single night.
Humanity grew and expanded, and Santa’s operation grew alongside them. He created flying reindeer and a team of magical toymakers to assist him in his work.
It was hard, but he managed.
But then humanity spread into space, colonizing the Moon and Mars. Santa could feel the tug of his mission pulling him out into the void. He knew he had to up his game.

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When the monsters came, every able-bodied townsperson went out to fight. The children and the elderly took shelter inside the cathedral, and the old monk was among them. He sat among what they could rescue from the monastery library and did his best to keep the urchins from touching the valuable books, grumbling all the while.
Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting roar, and the whole building shook. The monk smelled brimstone. The children wailed in terror.
He sighed. “Who wants to hear a story?”
The library was their history, but the children were their future, and he would protect both.

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The monk waited for me at the top of the temple steps. Built into the side of the canyon, they led to a viewing platform that overlooked the waterfall.
A pair of guardian statues flanked the top, patched with patina. They stood on masses of old pipes that seemed to write like serpents beneath their heels.
“There used to be a massive factory here,” he said. “It diverted the falls for power and dumped waste into the river below. We kept the pipes as a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?”
“That it is never too late to change one’s ways.”

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The Witch of Winter went about her work, chilling the forest and frosting the bare trees. She summoned icy wind and glittering snow. The Autumnal Fairies had done their work, and the blazing red leaves crunched under her feet as she walked, bringing their reign to a close.
Every year the work was more difficult. Winter was just a little farther away as the humans believed more in their hot, noisy machines and less in magic. The forest was more resistant to her touch.
But she continued, undaunted. Nature required balance, and she would demonstrate in brilliant silver and white.

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