Hugh J. O'Donnell

The contest is straightforward, if not simple. Take the dragon’s heart or die.
Many heroes thought the title was metaphorical. They came expecting to steal a jewel or some other trinket. They were the first to fall before my fiery breath. And weren’t they surprised?
Others took the challenge more literally. They came girded for battle, ready to cleave the heart from my chest. They were good exercise, if not good company.
No human has ever entered my cave and lived.
But this latest champion is different. He carries roses instead of steel.
And he may yet win my heart.

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“Beware, travelers,” the old man at the general store said. “A vicious tiger snake haunts these woods.”
The wandering mercenaries just laughed. After besting warlords and staring down gods, it took more than a snake to frighten them.
The travelers made camp in the jungle that night, and the monster appeared. It was nearly a dozen paces long, with thick, striped fur all along its serpentine body. It had a flat, snake-like head and fangs, but the four stumpy legs ended in tiger claws.
“This is the owl bear all over again,” the fighter complained.
“Bloody wizards,” the thief agreed.

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The phone booth was beautiful and ancient. It had stood in the sandy ruins of an abandoned city.
She’d spent the morning digging the machine out, and was thrilled to find that the sand had protected the machinery and wires from the elements.
She nearly jumped out of her protective suit when it started ringing. She scrambled for her recorder, trying to preserve the sound for the archives.
Then she reached out a shaky hand for the black plastic receiver and picked it up.
“Hello?” She asked.
“We’re been trying to reach you about your car’s warranty,” the caller said.

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“It’s not really a gifting holiday,” she said, looking down at the orange and black wrapped box.
“I know. I just wanted to get you something.” I smiled a bit too toothily. It was our third date. Time for our masks, so to speak, to slip.
She gave a tight smile and pulled one edge of the ribbon. Her face fell as she looked inside and quickly shut the box again.
“I gave you my heart,” I explained.
“That’s supposed to be a metaphor,” she said queasily. I asked for the check. It wasn’t going to work out after all.

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He found the first tooth sitting on his porch one chilly October morning. It was a sharp little thing about the size of his pinky nail.
The next day he found two more beneath the oak tree outside his window, yellow against fallen red leaves.
By the end of the week, teeth covered the yard. They carpeted the ground like fallen seeds and crunched under his boots. He heard the chitter of squirrels and looked up. They crowded the bare branches, staring at him with red eyes, their new fangs bared.
They leaped before he had the chance to scream.

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He was left behind and ordered to maintain the fire. He vowed to keep it lit and ready for his master’s return, so he gathered lumber and waited.
He sheltered the tiny circle of flame through wind and rain, day and night. But they did not return.
He continued to wait, building the blaze higher. Days turned to months, years, decades, and centuries, but he kept vigil. He has forgotten all else save his duty.
He still sits, feeding logs to the fire with skeletal fingers, waiting for the promised return. And he will burn any who try to interfere.

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He bought the abandoned farmhouse and the surrounding property to turn it into a winery but hadn’t anticipated that the house was haunted.
He’d planned for other expenses: Buying grapes to make his first vintage, new equipment, and remodeling the aging buildings were all budgeted. But the preparations were delayed by inexplicable accidents, and workers claimed the saw ghosts.
He considered taking the loss and abandoning the project but instead, he forged ahead and leaned into the strangeness, offering a ghost tour and midnight tasting.
“We’re not just a winery,” he explained to his investors. “We sell wine and spirits.”

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After countless wars, the tiny nations of the valley found themselves exhausted but still in conflict. They needed a new way to air their grievances and express their rivalries. They held a peace conference and tried to find something new.
Someone proposed a legal system, but that was too boring. The delegates considered adopting a sport but couldn’t agree on a game. During the tense closing gala, they stumbled upon the idea of a dance competition by accident.
Soon, the valley became legendary for its parties. But the outsiders who came to visit never understood the seriousness of the dance.

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The art shop always stayed open.
When the economy collapsed and every other store on the street went out of business, its lights stayed on.
After riots tore through the city, the store reopened the next day with new displays behind the shattered windows.
When the storms came and the waters rose, They were still there, distributing slightly damp coloring books to the boats that went by.
When the waters receded and the lower city became a deserted, uninhabited wasteland, the art shop stood on the hill, still open.
“The world needs art now more than ever,” the proprietor said.

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