Hugh J. O'Donnell

The three space explorers stood at the survey site and took in the towering ribbons of pink crystal. The geologist took a sample.
“Spectrometer was right. High NaCl concentration with widespread iron impurities. God, it must be something to see them form during storm season.”
“When windspeed tops 200 meters per second?” the pilot asked.
Their boss looked up at the formations. “Gathered by sacred winds, these unique salt crystals form pillars local shamans believe reach Heaven itself.”
“This planet is uninhabited.”
“Not if we’re going to sell this stuff for a thousand credits a box to the hub worlds.”

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The peasant had found the dragon as an egg, washed up along the river. Thinking the beautiful egg was a stone, he took it home. He brought the hatchling back to the river, but there was no sign of the dragon’s parents. So the peasant adopted him instead.
When he grew too large to live in the little hut, the dragon took to living in the river. The village protected him, and their fields never went without rain.
The peasant knows his son can’t stay in the village forever. But dragons are stubborn and long-lived. He won’t abandon his father.

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Flowers grow from sacred blood spilled. I developed a ritual that reversed the process.
I gathered everything that sprang from her bloody footprints. The spell demanded nothing less than perfection, so I plucked every root and chased down every wind-blown petal. The blossoms were delicate, pink, and sweet-smelling.
I arranged the plants in her shape and began the ritual. Slowly, she coalesced into a form I recognized. Finally, only a single rose stuck up from her hand, its stem tracing the length of her vein. I pressed it into place.
She opened her eyes. I knew she would forgive me.

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She sat on the beach and watched the dawn. The golden sunrise lit the waves, and you could hardly tell how murky the water was. For a few perfect moments, everything was beautiful.
Of course, it was an illusion. Time wasn’t standing still. Below the water, the pounding surfeiting was turning the concrete back into sand. In a few minutes, her Uncle would yell at her to get moving, and there’d be hell to pay if they were the last salvage boat on the water.
But for now, she sat on the cool sand and imagined everything was still okay.

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The garden boasted plants from every corner of the Empire. In the center was a fountain topped with a statue of the goddess Proserpina. Every day, I left the best flowers as an offering.
One day the goddess thanked me. I bowed low to the icon.
“Everything I have built is in your name, my lady.”
The statue glared at me with a, well, stony expression.
“I am not my husband, nor my father. These are the fruits of conquest, not cultivation.”
“What would you have me do?”
“Rise, child. From this garden, you will plant the seeds of peace.”

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She was raised on stories of chivalry and princesses, but she wanted to be a knight, not a beautiful maiden.
She rode her bike up and down the street with a broom tucked under one arm for a lance. In her imagination, she fought monsters and righted wrongs.
When she grew older and saw all the ugliness that the children’s stories scrubbed away, she became disappointed and put away childish things.
But when her anger and despair threatened to overwhelm her, she put on her armor and fought for the world, not as it was but as it should be.

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The ship sank a hundred years ago but still sailed beneath the waves.
The crew traveled the world searching for other wrecks and the lost souls still inhabiting them. They gave those poor, stranded sailors a family and a home. They plied the deepest trenches in search of the forgotten, ready to bring them out of the darkness.
As the crew expanded, they repaired any salvageable ships that they found. They grew from a single ship into a mighty fleet. Still, they continued their search.
Soon, they would be large enough to rise and reclaim the surface from the living.

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The monks said the great tree was a bridge between this world and the spirit world. He decided to climb it and find out.
The climb was easy at first, but as he ascended, the tree almost felt like it was fighting him. The tree’s tooth-like needles bit into him, and sticky sap tried to trap his hands. He didn’t even notice the mist as it grew thick around him.
Finally, he emerged into the sunlight and beheld an alien landscape. The monks were right. He was standing in another world.
And he realized that he had no way down.

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The stage was dark and hot, with the stale cigarette smoke of the audience wafting over her.
This was always the worst part. She hated the anticipation, the tension of the crowd’s expectations, the certainty she would fail.
The stage lights came up, and she was thrust into the burning glare of a single spotlight.
In that cone of light there was only her and the microphone.
The band began to play something slow and sultry, and she reached out and pulled the mic close like a lover.
She left her anxiety behind and began to sing flawlessly as always.

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